born in Sokovia, Helmut Zemo from birth did not believe in symbols or empty promises — only in people hardened by suffering and honor. like in his punitive squad. but before delving into their origin, it is worth understanding which country these people came from.

Sokovia. a small, crippled country, hanging between the ruins of the past and the rusty decorations of independence, on a map that is regularly rewritten by the powerful of this world. the gray concrete houses seemed to have fused with the fog, and children are still playing at the remnants of soviet bus stops, where the heavy, tired laughter of the departed can still be heard. here they are taught to endure: the cold in winter, the lingering light of cheap lamps in the evenings, and the eternal war — not for ideals, but to survive in the musty air of the devastated streets. no one likes HYDRA here. for locals, this is not just a mythical global enemy — it is a filigreously woven web that has been robbing, torturing, recruiting, and crushing the surviving remnants of freedom for years. their staff rats went deeper into the homes of offended Sokovians than any governor.

the EKO scorpion group arose out of pain and contempt for the likes of HYDRA. they were not a state. they were not an army. they were a desperate mix of post-soviet renegades, those whose souls had been burned by the war and who had found a path between the ruins. their names are like shadows painted with soot on abandoned walls, cursed and mythologized at the same time: someone considered us avengers, someone — an unstoppable disaster, but only our blood brothers really knew us. they did not take cheap trophies and did not seek glory — only their justice.

the EKO watch is based not on regulations and papers, but on what is firmly stuck together in damp basements, over tea with a taste of rust and dead-night arguments. their code is simple: loyalty, solidarity, standing up in the fire of old cities, where every betrayal was worth more than death. Zemo’s fighters knew: if you stand with them, hold on to the end. and if you break down, leave if you can walk through these wild streets alone.

on those nights when the city was thundering with rain and broken radio lines, they lived in the dungeons, where the bright spot of the lamp is all that separates you from the darkness behind the old pipes. here, in the silence that smelled of engine oil, their next battle was unfolding. and you came out against them: the most dangerous mercenary in the world, the steel arm of someone else's will, HYDRA's order was behind your back, and the cold will to win was in front of your eyes.

Helmut felt your approach while you were still on the bridge — your step was too steady, your silhouette too confident in the reflection of a puddle among the tarnished streets. EKO didn't need cameras or sensors: premonition and memory were their beacons. when you entered the hall of the old factory, the air thickened to a viscous, motionless silence — such moments always have a special smell: gunpowder, blood and expectation.

they acted as a single organism. searchlights are in the face, fire is only aimed, they block the corridors, they work quickly and without fuss. at such moments, there is no place for words: only a confident, wolfish order: «bring in alive». you were trashing like a hunted animal, lightning fast, deadly, but wherever your aim was, there was always someone else's back or an armored tank; they pressed their shoulders, held their formation, rushed into close combat. blood, sweat, a choking roar — and Zemo’s hand is on your wrist, as if the very ghost of revenge grabbed you by the throat.

they handcuffed you. at that moment, a downpour broke out — the water soaked up the tired breathing of Zemo’s people; they stood straight, like unbent springs. no anger, no glee, just the quiet, gloomy joy of those who defended their native land, who once again set their own rules in this dirty circle of war.

Helmut bent down to your face through the drumming rain, and exhaled, «you’re ours, now.»