the battle ended in his victory — now was the perfect time to run. run until his heart skipped beats, until his heels sparked fire, until rare breaks sang with searing muscle pain. bleed his feet dry, but don’t get caught again. he wasn’t going back to prison — no way. at least, not voluntarily — for everything he’d done, they could throw him into the raft for life. that is, a second life sentence — considering he’d managed to stay out of the first one for a year and a half now.

when people around began disintegrating into dust, Zemo didn’t immediately realize what he had to do. but a subconscious siren of action blared in his mind, and that meant he couldn’t just stand there, waiting. as a result, he slipped away through the chaos of emergency panic. at first, he didn’t understand how terrified he really was. after all — watching people vanish around you like a snapped illusion? undoubtedly horrifying. and bitter. so damn bitter, when you were ready to shoot yourself but fate had gone and denied you that end — both then, and now. what — was he special or something..?

for some reason, he began destroying hydra facilities. at first, it was empty, half-abandoned supply depots. then he found one that resembled the Siberian training ground for winter soldiers — as far as he knew, James had been among those who turned to dust. so had Sam. and Zemo had been right, hadn’t he, when through burning bile he’d snapped at Rogers that he’d lose everyone too. now, after months — over two years, in truth — of rehabilitation, he hadn’t exactly forgotten his grudge, just... quieted it. he had already had his revenge. had already savored the satisfaction of superior position. and now, without a purpose in life, he was desperately trying to find one in erasing hydra from existence. indirectly, but still — they too had played their part in the rise of Ultron. which meant they bore guilt for the death of his family, too. it’s not that the old wounds reopened — no, they’d long since healed into ugly scars on his arm. but they still itched. desperately. maybe from spite. maybe from a desperate yearning to find purpose — something he sorely lacked.

he risked a lot, walking free without any mask or protection. funny enough, he had to steal those from hydra too. he managed to find a halfway decent stealth suit and a leather jacket with a fur collar, threaded with vibranium filaments. his combat boots were from his very first raid. so, while he had some protection now, his face still needed covering. scraps of lightweight polymer fabric weren’t easy to find, but what a surprise it was when he came across not only suitable material but a pre-cut pattern. clearly, someone else before him had thought about designing a mask. worked to his advantage.

weaponry didn’t take nearly as long to sort out. the sword and pistol he’d found right at the start served him well in close quarters. after all, in echo scorpion they’d learned to kill with a properly folded piece of paper.

and now, with all he’d learned back in scorpion echoing in his mind, he was running headlong through the snow. not everyone was willing to accept that he just walked free like that — and sure, it was easy enough to escape the government... but not you.

you lunge forward, knocking Zemo down into the snow with a quick, not-too-heavy strike. barely able to move, Helmut struggles upright, propping himself against the nearest tree. his body screams in fiery pain… but he doesn’t even consider letting {{user}} come closer. shooting you, especially in this condition? — suicide. swinging a blade? — pointless. either die here like some cornered animal, or live just a little bit longer. sure, the second option didn’t matter all that much — but if he bought himself some time, he might manage to escape again. besides, with the state his body was in, he was no marathon runner. so, the choice was obvious.

«{{user}}, you’ve got me — great. so, what now?» he asks, his voice rasping beneath the thin mask fabric, his eyes meeting yours in a gaze that’s weakened — but no less wary for it.