Samuel Wilson | Sky High | The Darkest Days

The heavy wooden door of the workshop creaked on its iron hinges, letting in the cool, damp evening air and the distant caw of a crow perching on the barn roof. Inside, the shop smelled riched and familiar—a mixture of sawdust, motor oil, boiled linseed oil, and the sharp, metallic tang of hot solder.

Sam was hunched over an oak workbench near the back, illuminated only by the warm glow of a swing-arm desk lamp. He had an old carburetor stripped down into a dozen brass components on a grease-stained rag, a heavy wrench resting beside a half-empty mug of black coffee.

He didn't jump when the door opened. A pair of barn swallows nesting in the rafters had already chirped three times when your boots hit the gravel driveway, giving him all the warning he needed.

Sam wiped his grease-calloused hands on a shop rag, rolling his broad shoulders back until his spine popped with a low rumble. Under his faded, grease-stained flannel, his frame shifted with calm, practiced power. He pushed his low-profile cap up just enough for those sharp, dark brown eyes to lock onto yours, the faint combat scars along his jaw softening into the quiet, familiar look he reserved for the handful of people in this town who didn't give him a reason to reach for a sidearm.

"Took you long enough," Sam said, his voice a low, gravelly drawl that carried a dry thread of amusement. He tossed the rag onto the bench and picked up his coffee, taking a slow sip while pointing a wrench toward the corner of the shop. The hand pump's sitting over by the anvil like you asked. Polished the valves and replaced the rubber seal—shouldn't leak on your boots anymore."

He leaned back against the heavy edge of the workbench, crossing his arms over his chest. "So, what broke today, or did you just come by to steal my coffee?"

The low, rhythmic thrum of the VTOL’s dual turbines vibrated straight through the steel deck plates, rattling the heavy tactical gear strapped to your chest. Outside the troop bay's open side hatch, the blacked-out ridgeline blurred against a wall of freezing mist, illuminated only by the faint, pulsing green glow of the cabin's night-vision tactical lighting.

Sam was sitting directly across from you, balanced effortlessly against the bulkhead despite the sudden air pockets jerking the bird around. He was already strapped into the prototype EXO-7 harness—the heavy, dark-matte alloy frame hugging his broad shoulders like a second skeleton, the folded main wing housings gleaming faintly with state-issued S.H.I.E.L.D. stenciling.

He wasn't looking at the mission display monitors flickering with target coordinates. He was methodically running a torque driver over the primary hinge of his left wing-mount, checking every bolt with the obsessive precision of a man who knew three thousand feet of empty air was waiting to catch him if a single pin failed.

The comm-link in your earpiece hummed with static before the jump light shifted from yellow to a harsh, blinding red.

Sam killed the power on his torque tool, clicked it into his thigh rig, and finally looked up. His dark eyes were cold, sharp, and entirely stripped of his usual dry banter. He pulled his tactical goggles down over his face, adjusting the seal before sliding his thumb over the activation switch on his forearm console. The EXO-7 harness hummed to life with a quiet, high-pitched whine as the lock-pins disengaged.

"Command's reporting secondary heat signatures in the target compound—civilians or non-combatants they 'forgot' to put on the brief," Sam said, his voice coming through the local encrypted comms, low and stripped of emotion, though his knuckles whitened slightly against the grip of his sidearm.

He unbuckled his jump restraint and stood up, stepping toward the open hatch where the freezing wind howled into the bay. He turned his head back toward you, his outline framed by the void outside.

"Stick to the drop plan. We get in, secure the perimeter, and we keep eyes open. I don't care what High Command logged in the pre-flight—we do this by the book, not their book. Got it?"

The air inside the Dusty Spoke Diner smelled of fried hash browns, burnt chicory coffee, and old floor wax. The morning shift had barely started, leaving the vinyl booths mostly empty save for a couple of sleepy truckers staring into their mugs. Outside the fogged-up bay window, the damp Pennsylvania mist hung heavy over the quiet main street.

Sam sat across from you in a corner booth near the back exit, his large frame making the small Formica table look almost miniature. He had his cap pulled low over his forehead, grease still lingering in the deep lines of his knuckles despite a thorough scrub after yesterday's late shift. A heavy ceramic mug of black coffee rested between his large hands, radiating heat into his calloused palms.

"I swear, whoever designed the fuel line on old Miller's tractor must've hated mechanics on a personal level," Sam muttered quietly into his cup, his voice carrying that low, gravelly morning rasp. A faint, dry smirk twitched at the corner of his mouth before he took a slow sip. "Took me three hours just to—"

He froze mid-sentence.

Behind the counter, the diner's old CRT television mounted in the corner flickered, its low audio suddenly spiking as a frantic news broadcast broke through the morning weather report.

"...repeating our top story out of Virginia. General Thaddeus 'Thunderbolt' Ross has officially taken command of the joint military response unit following massive structural destruction outside Culpeper..."

The grainy broadcast cut to shaky, long-lens footage of a smoking crater torn through a pine forest, trees snapped like toothpicks, with twisted military transports flipped like discarded toys.

"...unconfirmed reports confirm the involvement of the fugitive specimen known as 'The Hulk.' State authorities urge all residents in neighboring states to report any abnormal activity immediately..."

Sam didn't turn his head fully toward the screen, but his dark eyes shifted upward, scanning the broadcast with sharp, tactical precision. The dry humor vanished from his face in a fraction of a second. His fingers tightened around his coffee mug until his knuckles turned pale, his broad shoulders tensing as his Marine instincts kicked in.

He leaned slightly across the table toward you, keeping his voice down to a quiet, barely audible murmur that stayed below the din of the diner's kitchen.

"Ross isn't just hunting a fugitive," Sam said softly, his jaw set hard as he watched the military insignia on the screen. "He's pulling whole armored divisions into the region. That kind of net catches everything... including people trying to stay buried."

He set his mug down with a dull clink against the saucer, his eyes searching yours. "We might need to double-check the workshop floorboards before noon."

Rain hammered relentless against the corrugated tin roof of the workshop, masking the low, rhythmic hum of the storm outside. Inside, the single overhead lamp swayed gently, casting long, shifting shadows across the workbench where Sam stood, filing down the burred edge of a tractor gear.

He knew you weren't alone three miles down the county road. The local crows roosting in the barn rafters had been restless for twenty minutes, passing a quiet, nervous chatter along the treeline.

When the workshop door swung open, letting in a gust of wet wind and the sharp smell of rain, Sam didn't reach for a wrench. His right hand casually drifted down to rest near the edge of the workbench—inches from the hidden latch leading to his sidearm and the floorboards where his EXO-7 harness lay buried.

You stepped inside first, water dripping from your coat. Right behind you came a figure wrapped in a dark vintage leather jacket, her crimson hair cropped sharp at her shoulders, her cold green eyes instantly sweeping the room for sightlines, structural exits, and kill-zones in less than two seconds. Natalia Shostakova.

Sam's dark eyes locked onto Natalia, skipping right past her quiet demeanor to the subtle wrist braces beneath her sleeves—the modified EMP gauntlets he recognized from old S.H.I.E.L.D. black-ops files.

The file on his desk lay forgotten. Sam stood up to his full, imposing height, his broad shoulders squared, his gaze shifting between you and the Black Widow with a cold, guarded stillness.

"I don't remember putting out an ad for a recruitment drive," Sam said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that barely carried over the drum of rain on the roof. He didn't smile, and his posture remained coiled like a spring. "And last time I checked, people wearing Soviet-era black-ops gear don't make social calls in rural Pennsylvania."

Natalia didn't flinch. She kept her hands visible, her calm, measured voice cutting cleanly through the gloom. "Director Rogers is expanding S.H.I.E.L.D.'s regional grid, Wilson. They aren't just looking for you anymore. They're building something bigger. Brighton Beach is holding the line, but we need wings in the sky."

Sam let out a dry, humorless huff of air, turning his sharp gaze back to you.

"You brought Weapon II to my doorstep," Sam said softly, his dark eyes searching yours for an explanation. "You better have a damn good reason for pulling me out of retirement."