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Chapter 96: HYDRA in Action
Peggy Carter.
George recognized the name immediately, though she was much younger now, still training, barely sixteen. But the steel in her spine was already there, and that precision? Impossible to miss. She was smaller than the others, but she stood out the moment she lifted her sidearm. Ten shots, all center mass, no hesitation.
Mountbatten, watching the exercise unfold beside him, gave a slight nod toward the girl.
"Carter," he said. "Peggy Carter. She's top of her class."
George didn't respond. He just kept watching as she reloaded without looking down. Quiet hands. Focused eyes, very disciplined.
"She's good," George said finally. "Let me guess—Kingsman wants her in the field by seventeen."
"That's the hope," Mountbatten replied. "We don't train benchwarmers."
George gave a quiet laugh and turned his gaze back to the shooting range. "Well, you've got talent. But I'll say it again—I'm not joining this club."
Mountbatten smiled, but there was a tightness in it now. "You're not wrong, of course. Everyone knows Earl Swinton doesn't take orders. But funding—?"
"I don't mind donating," George said. "But don't ask for my time. I've got too many fires to watch already. You couldn't afford my salary anyway."
Mountbatten gave a knowing laugh but didn't press it. He didn't need to. The entire visit to the Kingsman facility had been less about persuasion and more about optics. George knew it. They just wanted to see if he'd bite—and, more importantly, whether they could trust him to stay neutral.
But George never stayed neutral. He simply didn't play on other people's boards.
The deeper truth was this: the British establishment wasn't courting him out of admiration. They were afraid.
After the U.S. started recovering from the Great Depression, it became obvious to the old money in London that something—or—someone had kept things from falling apart completely. Behind the scenes, George's empire had kept industry breathing, banks from total collapse, and most critically, the press from eating itself alive.
Britain's analysts had done the math. Between George's media holdings, his grip on oil and minerals, and his seat at the Federal Reserve, if he turned hostile to American interests, the U.S. economy could collapse again, harder this time. Some speculated it would set them back two decades.
So the British weren't offering him medals. They were offering leash options.
George turned them all down.
The next day, he got a more unexpected invitation—one from Prince Albert himself. The future king.
That kind of request you didn't ignore.
The destination was Prince Edward's private countryside estate. Mountains behind it, a forest stretching out front. The invitation said it was for a hunt, traditional and "informal." George already knew it wouldn't be.
He wasn't fond of hunting. Not out of morality—he just found it boring. After the life he'd lived, what excitement could come from stalking a deer with a bolt-action rifle?
Still, he showed up.
Prince Edward welcomed him personally, smiling and dressed in full hunting gear. There were other nobles there too—lesser titles, regional lords, some MPs—but it was clear George was the centerpiece.
At some point, Edward introduced a woman named Wallis Simpson.
American, well-dressed, sharp smile. She carried herself like someone used to controlling rooms, not just visiting them. George shook her hand, exchanged a few words, and almost moved on—until he saw the brooch.
Curled horns, eight limbs, stylized into something half-animal, half-myth. A twist on a familiar symbol. Not exactly HYDRA's crest—but close. Closer than chance.
George didn't react. He finished the conversation, nodded politely, and walked away. Later, when they handed him a rifle and suggested a fox hunt, he turned it down. He sat on the stone bench near the stables, lit a cigarette, and waited for the show to be over.
Three days later, back in London, George sent a bronze sculpture to Prince Albert—a gift of thanks. A simple gesture, but a message, too. No one else would read it that way. Albert would.
And then he summoned his intelligence team.
"Wallis Simpson," he said to the head analyst. "I want everything. Background, finances, travel records, and known associates. If she's tied to anyone who even looked at HYDRA, I want to know."
He gave the assignment a codename: Shadow. It wasn't urgent—yet. But if HYDRA had hands inside the British royal court, they needed watching.
His team got to work. Two days later, they delivered the report.
Wallis Simpson had connections. Loose ones, at first glance—distant family, charitable boards, travel companions. But the threads were there. One cousin had been seen with known HYDRA recruiters in Berlin. A former lover had purchased shipping contracts from a company linked to Schmidt. Thin connections—but real.
George filed it away. He didn't make a move. Not yet.
Some things only mattered when they were timed right.
Meanwhile, in Germany, HYDRA's actual face was preparing for war.
John Schmidt sat in his office, a thick leather-bound tome spread open before him. The book had no title on the spine—just a symbol burned into the cover: a hammer and a serpent, twisted into a circle.
He turned the pages slowly, eyes locked on the ancient runes.
Odin. The All-Father. Conqueror of the Nine Realms. Slayer of frost giants. Burier of weapons. The legends filled the pages—handwritten accounts of his conquests, and hidden among them, vague hints of something buried deep in Midgard.
A weapon.
Power without equal.
Outside, engines roared.
A prototype tank rumbled across the proving grounds—larger than anything standard-issue. A black box of steel and fire. Its gun snapped twice, sending explosions across the field.
Inside the observation room, Dr. Arnim Zola adjusted his glasses nervously.
"The targeting is still off," Zola muttered. "Barrel recoil compensator's too slow. It throws the second shot wide."
Schmidt didn't look at him.
"Fix it."
"I-I'll recalibrate the servos," Zola said.
Zola, brilliant but cowardly, had been exiled from academic circles years ago. His experiments on human genetics had gotten him removed from the Swiss university system, but HYDRA welcomed his work.
Behind them, aides ran back and forth. Soldiers prepared crates of blue-tinted gas. Schmidt said nothing, but Zola knew what it meant: biochemical field tests were coming.
"And Erskine?" Schmidt asked.
"He continues to hesitate," Zola replied. "His theories are sound, but he refuses to push forward."
Schmidt finally turned his head.
"Tell him to accelerate trials. If he won't… We'll find someone who will."
Zola nodded. And said nothing more.
In his way, Zola feared Schmidt more than the Nazis. HYDRA had different rules—and fewer limits.
Back in London, George reviewed the report one last time. Wallis Simpson's HYDRA link was confirmed but still inactive.
He picked up a pen, signed the final authorization on Project Shadow, and handed it off.
"Just watch for now, don't interfere."
As the agent turned to leave, George called after him.
"If she makes contact with anyone named Johann… I want to know before she hangs up the phone."
After finalizing the last set of overseas directives, George sat alone in the study of his London estate. The fireplace crackled low. The wind against the windows sounded distant, harmless.
He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes for a moment.
Then they came—uninvited, but not unwelcome.
Images of Hogwarts Island.
The stone halls were lit with warm lanterns. The smell of ink and dust and baking bread. Children arguing over chessboards. Wooden swords clattering on the courtyard floor. The rustle of robes, the burst of laughter echoing down the corridor.
And in the middle of it all—Yui.
She'd been meant to serve as a visiting instructor. A few weeks at most. Then the weeks had become months. The months, years. Her classes had structure, yes—but they always overflowed into stories, into shared meals, into long evenings helping children with their handwriting or settling playground feuds.
The children loved her, and so did the staff.
Truthfully, George preferred the chaos of that place to the quiet halls of this London villa. He'd built Hogwarts to be a haven, but she had turned it into a home.
He wouldn't call what they had a relationship. Not officially. But they'd long since crossed lines that only strangers cared about. He hadn't asked her to stay. She hadn't asked him for anything. And yet—somehow—she was always there.
And maybe that was enough.
For now.
With a quiet sigh, George reached for the leather-bound notepad near his desk. He flipped it open to a blank page.
Packing list – return to the island.
He began scribbling, slowly.
For the kids — enchanted chalk, new wand holsters, mechanical puzzle boxes from Gotham. Maybe one of those flying paper dragons he saw in the Tokyo bazaar?
For the cooks — spices from the Peninsula, a fresh crate of Jerusalem dates, and a few cases of imported cream from France. That chef down in the cellar could make miracles with butter alone.
For the grounds crew and maids, thick coats for winter, proper boots, and new gloves are required. Simple things they'd never ask for but always made do without.
For Ryan, a new overcoat. One with armor weave hidden inside. He'd grumble, but wear it anyway.
Then his pen hovered for a moment.
For Yui —
He stopped and thought.
Hairpin? Too fragile. Journal? She had three. A new wand? She barely used the one she had. Perfume? No. Maybe a scarf?
Or maybe—
He scratched the page, frowned, and muttered under his breath.
"Bloody hell. I'll just get one of everything."
He leaned back, chuckling to himself.
For a man who could manipulate global markets and make ministers sweat with a phone call, he still hadn't figured out what kind of present could surprise a woman who already knew him better than most out there.
But then again, maybe that was the point.
He looked toward the tall windows. Outside, fog rolled low across the Thames. War was coming. He felt it in the movements of currencies, the tightening of shipping lanes, and the sudden drop in certain steel exports.
But tonight, he decided not to think of war, just thinking of home and family.
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