He was alone in the room. There was a single table (metal, square, bolted to the floor) and a beat up wooden chair. The table was covered in color coded prep folders. Three orange, one yellow, one red, four blue. The orange and yellow folders were his team. Orange for those he had worked with before, yellow for someone new. Blue folders contained maps, time tables, logistics. The red folder was the target. He knew what the colors meant before he opened them. Missions always started this way.

It was a strange feeling, this knowing without recollection and he sat with it, his mismatched hands flat on the table, his back straight. Sometimes there is a green folder, he mused. Green for protection. But not this time. After a moment, he glanced up at the camera that watched him from high overhead and then back to the table. Time to work.

He flipped through all of the folders before he opened the red folder to study it.

The contents of the red folder had once been in an orange folder, he was sure. Some of the notes were in his handwriting. Like the notes in the orange folders, he had no memory of writing these words, of shaping the careless Cyrillic script that flowed from his hand. The letter Я was written backwards, occasionally swapped with a P for no apparent reason. There were words he recognized as misspelled but he had no idea of the correct lettering. The target had once had had a name, a name he had known, but the name had been removed from the notes, black rectangles scattered across the page.

From the notes, he learned that the target was slight, soft-spoken and obscenely fast – nearly as fast as he was himself. They had worked on hand-to-hand, garrote and knife fighting. He had trained him to succeed when his opponent was bigger, stronger, and faster. The target had gone rogue.

He spread out the orange and yellow folders, studying the faces of strangers that stared back at him.

Osip Alexandre, son of a senior KGB agent, a munitions expert, had been on the last four missions. He read over the notes he had left for himself, noting the places where mission specifics had been redacted. Still, it was enough and he could get an idea. "A good shot," he had written after one mission. "Level headed," he had noted after another. "A hard-ass, prickly about his lisp." Aside from the Winter Soldier himself, he was the senior member of the team.

Georges Strakinski and Mark Oslow had both been on three missions, but not the same three. Oslow was a medic, Strakinski was the communications specialist. What was left of his notes were sparse – much had been blacked from the pages, but there was enough for him to get a sense that he had trusted them. He stared at the picture of Oslow. There was something…something…A flash, someone shouting, a sense of terror…but it was gone. Whatever it was, he could not wrap his mind around the shape of it.

That left Alexei Karpov. He stared at the face paper-clipped to the yellow folder. Red, curly hair, a face that smiled readily. Friendly and easy going, his COs had reported. Most recently he had been in Afghanistan, a sniper with a dozen kills under his belt. He frowned. Karpov may be trouble. He reminded him of someone, but he could not place who.

He looked back at the red folder, staring at the face of the target. Nothing. There was no memory he could dredge up. He looked at the sheet with his orders. Capture, kill only if necessary.

Sitting back, he looked up at the ceiling. He laced his fingers behind his head and played out scenarios in his mind.

Alexei Karpov sat across the table from Osip Alexandre, his back erect. Alexandre was staring at him across the table. "You've read the briefing material?"

"Yes sir."

"Questions?"

Karpov frowned. The assignment was most unusual, but it seemed clear enough. "The Soldier. He really won't remember anything from his previous missions?"

"Not a thing."

"Then why...?"

"What have you heard of the Winter Soldier, Agent?"

"Before a week ago? Nothing."

"Ah. So why do we use him?"

"Yes. What's the point?"

Alexandre smiled tightly in a smile that did not reach his eyes. "Wait until you see him in action. You'll see."

"So, he's good?"

Alexandre's eyes widened. "You'll see."

"His rank?"

"That's complicated. For now, he outranks you. Whatever he says, you obey. Until I tell you otherwise."

Karpov nodded slowly. "Sir."

He had a map out as his team gathered around the table. They had sparred together that morning and then they had done the training course together. He had wondered if their physical presence, their voices, their faces, would shake anything loose from his head, but no. He could feel a familiarity with the three he had worked with before. They moved as a team. Karpov, in the wrong place at the wrong time, overeager and trying to do too much, stuck out. But that was it.

Looking at them, he wondered what it was like, to remember.

He studied them. Alexandre calm and confident, Karpov full of nervous energy, Oslow levelly meeting his gaze, appraising, and Strakinski, eyes on the map. There was the mission now. Work to be done.

"Our target," he said, dropping the picture from the red file on the table. "A rogue agent. He is fast, lethal. We are to capture, not kill."

The men around him nodded. "What do you need us to do?" asked Alexandre.

"Mostly, I need you to not engage. Stand back, let me handle this." He cocked his head as Oslow and Strakinski met each other's eyes. Alexandre gave them a tiny shake of his head. He frowned.

"You got something to say, Agents?" he demanded.

Oslow glanced at Alexandre and then looked at him as he answered. "You said something similar last time, sir."

Under his breath, Strakinski murmured to Karpov, "Word for word. Every time."

He frowned, digging for the memory, wondering if the words had felt familiar on his tongue, but there was nothing there. He looked back at the map, moving the picture of the target off to the side and resumed the briefing.

"Intel tells us he lives here," he pointed at the map, "and he goes out to buy a paper each morning here." He pointed again. "This alley, that will be the ambush." He spread out half a dozen pictures showing the alley from several angles. "Strakinski, you will drive the target's pickup van with Oslow. Oslow, since this is a capture not a kill, expect him to be hurting."

"What about you?" Oslow asked.

His eyes flicked to Alexandre and then back to Oslow. "I'll be fine," he said, his voice low and grim. "Just get the target back alive. I'll hand him off in cuffs, but you'll need to sedate him."

"Sure."

"Karpov," he looked at the kid. "You are our lookout, you got our backs. You will be here, on the fire escape. I don't expect him to have backup but just in case. Use a silencer. You need to be invisible, got that? Last thing I need is him taking you hostage. And, you don't touch him. He's mine."

Karpov frowned. "A silencer will reduce my accuracy."

He shook his head and a smile crept onto his face. It was not a memory of an event, but the emotion, the pleasure that came of making a difficult shot. "Our equipment is better than what you're used to," he explained. "The silencers we have will actually improve your accuracy. I'll show you when we are done here."

Karpov's eyes widened in surprise. "Really? Thank you."

He held Karpov's eyes a moment longer and then he turned to the munitions expert, the smile fading rapidly from his face. "Alexandre." He looked down at the map. "No bombs on this one."

"No."

"You are my pickup."

"Yes."

"Karpov will drive for you."

"Yes."

He let out a breath he had not noticed he was holding. "You'll need darts."

Alexandre looked at him. "I know."

It was an hour before their departure time and Karpov sat in the ready room, methodically cleaning his gun. He had worked with the Solider on the shooting range for over an hour and he had measurably improved, but he worried it would not be enough.

Alexandre came in and sat down across from him, watching him pull the soft cloth through the barrel of the gun, over and over. "You ready, kid?"

Karpov nodded. "Watch his back, be invisible. Does not sound too hard."

"There is nothing easy about it. You'll see."

Karpov looked back at his gun, reassembling the pieces with practiced ease.

"I wanted to talk to you about the end of the mission," Alexandre said.

Karpov looked up.

"Did you understand the briefing?"

"I am driving for you."

"Not that part."

"What then?"

"Once the mission is achieved, my job is to bring the Winter Soldier back in."

Karpov frowned, listening.

"Most of the time, he comes willingly."

"And when he doesn't?"

"We drug him. We use rifles loaded with the same crap they use to tranq elephants. Gives us about five minutes to get the restraints on him before he comes to."

"Oh."

"You will be carrying a dart gun in addition to your rifle. Once Oslow and Strakinski have the target, you take him down. For this one, don't wait to see if he comes willingly, just take him down. Got it?"

Karpov thought of the last hour, as the Soldier's hand's had gently repositioned his, adjusting his stance. The cool metal against his skin, the dexterity in his flesh fingers as he danced a bullet across his knuckles, a smile creasing the skin around his eyes as Karpov had improved, the soft words of encouragement. He thought about putting the Soldier, his comrade in arms, in his crosshairs. He thought about pulling the trigger and watching him go down. Then he looked up at Alexandre.

"Why not give him a chance to…to surrender?"

"Because on some level, he already knows he won't. The target? That's Dimitri Polzin. Polzin was his handler, his partner. They did some twenty missions together. I've read the reports. They were terrifying. They got results but they were much too difficult to control. I think the brass got a little afraid of them. Three years ago, Polzin was taken off the Winter Soldier project and two days later, he had gone to ground. Four agents have died trying to bring him in."

Karpov pressed his lips together. "Oh."

"The Winter Soldier can do it but given the history between them we are leaving nothing to chance. Understand?"

It made Karpov queasy. The way the Soldier had told Alexandre to use the darts. The look of cold understanding tinged with pity that Alexandre had returned. Looking down at the gun in his hands, dropping bullets into the magazine, he simply replied, "Yes sir."

The Soldier glanced up at the fire escape and down the road to the vehicles. His team was in place.

Leaning against the wall, his arms crossed, he waited. He was in uniform. The heavy tac jacket was buckled across his chest, the gun was on his back, there were more guns on his leg and knives were tucked away in sheaths. For this mission, there were handcuffs and four syringes filled with sedative on his belt. It had been a relief to get suited up, to settle the mask on his face, to put the goggles over his eyes. A mission he understood. Objectives to be met. He waited.

And there he was.

As he watched the target walk down the street, he felt some sort of memory stir, of the way the man moved, of the way he held his body when looping a garrote around his victim's neck, of the snake-like slide of his arm as he drew a knife across a throat. His hand itched to reach for the gun, but that would never do. Bring him in alive. Do it silently. He drew a knife and shifted his weight

Karpov watched from above, tucked into the corner of the fire escape, a shadow inside a shadow.

For a long time, he waited. And then the action started and he understood what Alexandre had not said before. The opening barrage was over before he realized what was going on and the Soldier was driving the target back, out of the street and deeper into the alley, with a flurry of attacks that the target managed to evade by millimeters, twisting away, stepping back.

Karpov remembered his job and scanned the alley and the place where it met the street. All was quiet.

He glanced back at the fight. The target had taken the knife from the Soldier and was crouched, coiled, ready to spring. The Soldier had taken a step back and was studying the target.

They exploded in motion again, the Soldier landing two solid punches to the target's stomach while the knife glanced harmlessly off the Soldier's armor. The target doubled over, wrapping his arms around his knees, protecting his middle. The Soldier bent down, clutching something in his hand.

Karpov noticed it first and he shouted a warning. "Sir!"

The target sprang from his coiled position into the air, grabbing the Soldier and somehow winding up on his back, clinging to him, his limbs wrapped around the Soldier's body. The Soldier clutched at his throat, gasping and in the struggle, his mask was knocked off.

Damn it. Damn it all. The target had something wrapped around the Soldier's throat. This was not good. He raised his gun and sighted along it. He hesitated, and then, sensing the clear shot, pulled the trigger.

The target screamed and fell from the Soldier's back and the Soldier looked up at Karpov in fury, blood running down his cheek. Grabbing at the wire still on his neck, the Soldier threw it to the side and turned on the target, a syringe in hand, but the target was gone.

Karpov scanned the alley, up and down. Where the fuck was the guy? He could not just disappear. And then he knew. He felt a blade on his throat. "Be still," the target ordered in his ear. "Drop the gun."

He dropped the rifle with a clatter. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the Soldier look up.

"I've got your man, James!" the target called out. "It's my life or his. I'm not going back."

Karpov felt his throat go dry and his hands were trembling. The only reason he did not piss himself was because he had not had anything to drink in hours. The knife dug into the skin of his throat and it felt like his whole existence was centered on that blade, that thin line of pressure. "Move," the target said, pressing him forward, down the steps that led to the ground. He moved, one step, and another, not seeing anything, focused on the line between life and death.

Suddenly, the target screamed and the blade was gone. Karpov dropped to his knees, drawing great, sobbing breaths. Behind him, the fight resumed.

He looked at the target holding Karpov between them as a shield. He looked at the ground. There, a rock. In one motion, he scooped it up with his left hand and threw it with all the force he could put behind it. It hit the wall, bounced off, and ricocheted into the target's head. The target screamed and he dropped the blade, dropped Karpov, and clutched his head.

Three swift steps closed the distance between them. He grabbed the target and crushed the smaller man against the wall. His metal hand gripped the back of the man's neck and he pressed the man's face against the concrete. Blood was pouring out of a wound on the target's skull and soon the metal hand was coated with blood. With his free hand, he pulled the last syringe from his belt and plunged it through the target's clothing into his thigh.

"Hands behind your back, Dima," he growled. Dima? Where did he get that? He dropped the syringe and pulled the cuffs from his belt.

"James," the target said. "You don't have to stay. We could…"

He tightened his grip on the target's neck as he wrestled the cuff onto the target's right hand. "Dimitri Polzin….shut…up"

The fight was going out of the target as the sedative took effect and the he was able to get the other cuff on his left wrist. "Jimmy," the target said in accented English, his words becoming increasing slurred. "We were unstoppable... we could have…"

And the target went limp. He let the target slide down to the ground. He stared at the target's face. Dima Polzin. Who are you?

There was a noise from down the alley and he looked up. He met eyes with Karpov. Karpov had more mettle in him than he had given him credit for because he had a gun leveled on him, held with rock-solid steady hands. The back of his head itched with the ghostly touch of another weapon. Alexandre.

The darts stung and he fell to his knees, wondering why the tranqs acted so much faster on him than they had on Dima.

Karpov stood over the Soldier with his gun pointed at the Soldier's head. Blood still seeped from the bullet graze on his cheek. He watched as Alexandre knelt to fasten the restraints around his arms - a full cylinder that encased both hands. Then, together, they dragged the unconscious body over to the waiting van and hauled him into the back. This van was equipped with two facing benches along either wall. One seat on the passenger side had been modified with heavy steel restraints and they wrestled the unconscious body into place.

Karpov went back to the alley and picked up the refuse that had been dropped in the fight: the Soldier's mask, the target's garrote, the knife, shell casings, darts. Oslow and Strakinsky were crouched beside the target. They had already cut off his shirt. Strakinsky was wrapping bandages around the target's shoulder while Oslow was attempting to staunch the bleeding from his skull. As Karpov was finishing, Strakinski helped Oslow get the target on a stretcher and they moved him into the other van. They drove off.

When he got back to the Soldier's van, Alexandre had just finished the restraints around his ankles and chest and they began systematically stripping him of his weapons.

The tranquilizer wore off almost as fast as it had taken effect.

The Soldier's eyes opened and he looked at Karpov with a frown. "You missed a blade, kid," he growled. "On my leg."

Karpov blanched and glanced at Alexandre, but Alexandre was focused on the Soldier. The Soldier glared back with seething intensity, a coiled spring contained by steel. Karpov trusted the restraints to hold, but even still, his hands shook as he knelt to remove the knife from the Soldier's leg and he could hear the Soldier moving his hands around in their tube.

Suddenly, the Soldier spat out, speaking in ugly, accented, incorrect Russian. "Who was he? Damn it, Alexandre! Who was Polzin?"

Karpov moved back, putting some distance between himself and the wall of anger. Alexandre did not take his eyes off the Soldier. "Drive, Karpov," he ordered. "Get us out of here."

"Yes sir," Karpov replied. His hands were almost under control again, the shaking subsiding. He climbed into the front seat and started the van, pulling it out into traffic.

Behind him, he heard Alexandre's pat reply. "You trained him, some five years ago. He went rogue."

The Soldier's reply was not in Russian, but Karpov was sure that it was a stream of obscenities.

"I am sorry, sir." Alexandre spat out the "sir" with contempt and the Soldier barked out a harsh laugh. "That's all I can tell you. Are you going to settle down or do I need to sedate you again?"

There was a thump. Karpov glanced back to see if everything was okay and the Soldier had his head tilted back, leaning against the side wall of the van, eyes open as he stared at the ceiling. "Fuck off," was his reply.

He sat on the edge of the gurney, watching Oslow run down his checklist. Karpov and Alexandre stood behind Oslow on either side, guns drawn but not pointed. His tac vest was open but still on him. His boots had been removed and his bare feet hung inches above the floor.

The dried blood on his face itched and his right hand was going numb in the restraint, but he waited. A monitor on his left counted his breathing and heart rates. He played a game with himself, trying to bring the numbers down.

"Sir?" Oslow said, putting his hand on his shoulder. He looked up, meeting the medic's eyes. "I am ready to take the restraints off. Are you….?"

He nodded, curtly. "I'm fine. You can dismiss…"

Oslow shook his head. "I am sorry, sir. I can't."

"Go ahead, then."

Oslow pressed a key on the terminal behind him and the tube released his hands with a snap that sent a jarring vibration up his left arm and blood rushing into his right. He withdrew his hands, moving slowly and he watched Alexandre tense. Oslow set the tube aside. He rubbed his right hand with his left. The cool metal felt good against his skin. The back of the left hand was still covered in Polzin's blood and he frowned at it.

"Okay, get your gear off and so I can clean you up. I don't think that wound on your cheek is going to need stitches, but the docs will have my hide if I hand you back to them dented. And I want to get a better look at your throat."

"I am fine," he said. "I've had worse in training."

Oslow looked up from the display he was studying. "Look, you know how this works. You can cooperate, or not. One way or another, it's going to get done. What's it going to be Soldier?"

He looked at Alexandre and Alexandre's finger tightened on the trigger. He looked back at Oslow. "I said I'm fine."

"Then get your armor off so I can work."

He stripped off his jacket and undershirt, dropping the sweaty, blood spattered clothes on the floor. He sat back on the gurney. "Go ahead."

Oslow rolled a tray next to him with a pile of gauze, a bowl of astringent smelling antiseptic and a few pairs of tweezers. He pulled a bright examination light over and switched it on. "Be quiet and don't move."

With a sigh, he let Oslow grab his chin and position his head. He held still as the medic started cleaning the wound on his face.

Karpov walked into the room, closing the door behind him. The Soldier looked up as he entered. He was sitting at a table and there were folders in front of him, orange and yellow. He was writing in them, making notes, in a cramped, messy script.

The Soldier was dressed only loose sweatpants. Bare feet stuck out from the cuffs of his pants; his torso was naked. Under the glaring white light that hung in cages overhead, the metal arm shone, liquid silver and inhuman. He could see the scarred ridge where the metal met the skin, the long gash the bullet had left across his cheek fading to a faint pink line, the barely mottled skin around his throat where the target had gotten the wire around his neck.

There was an IV taped to the back of his hand and an IV bag on a stand next to him. The tube followed his hand around, but he paid it no mind.

The Soldier sat back in his chair, looking at him. "What can I do for you, Agent Karpov?"

Karpov shook his head. "Nothing, sir." The Soldier's lips twitched slightly at the honorific. "I came to say thank you."

At that, the Soldier's eyes widened. "Thank you?" he asked.

"For saving my life."

The Soldier turned away, looking back at the papers in front of him. Karpov could see Oslow's photo on the inside cover of the open folder.

He shook his head, not looking at Karpov. "You were on my team."

"I disobeyed a direct order. Twice. I put the mission at risk."

The Soldier looked back at him and said it again. "You were on my team."

Karpov met his eyes, sinking into the quiet pools of despair he saw there. "I wish…"

The Soldier's eyes became guarded again. "What do you wish, Agent?"

He blurted it out before he could think about it. "To be like you. To be so fast, so strong, so…"

"Deadly?"

"Yes. Exactly."

The Soldier laughed softly, bitterly, shaking his head. "No. No, you do not." The Soldier looked at him for a moment, biting his lower lip and then he said, "Tell me, Karpov. Do you know who the target, who Dima Polzin, was?"

Karpov felt his heart pounding in his chest. He should never have come. He felt the Soldier's eyes on him and he could not say it. He could not get the lie out.

The Soldier interrupted the panic, saying softly, "Don't answer that." Karpov felt a wave of relief wash through him. It was as if his heart had sucked back all the blood in his body, and suddenly the blood was suddenly rushing back. Before he could say anything, the Soldier spoke again. "You are a good shot, kid. You head is in the right place. You'll grow into a good agent. Be content with that."

Karpov stared at him, stammering out a reply, "Uh…thank you, sir."

The Soldier turned back to his papers, "I need to finish these notes before they come for me."

"Sir?" Karpov asked, but then he realized he was being dismissed and he turned to go.

He was about to knock on the door to be let out, when the Soldier said, "Thank you, Karpov."

Karpov turned back and looked at him, confused. "What for?"

"Your instincts were good, taking that shot."

Karpov stared at him but the Soldier had looked back down and had started to write again, saying nothing more.

It was a year before Karpov saw him again. Of course, the Soldier did not remember.