*Disclaimer: This is purely fanfiction. Marvel/Disney owns everything. I only claim rights to my own original characters and ideas- everything else, not mine.
Author's Note: This is an alternate universe fanfiction, following events that take place in the MCU. Including Captain America: The Winter Soldier (possibly Captain America: The First Avenger). I'm making it up as I go along, so bear with me! Just an idea I had after watching the movies again.
Additional characters are Brock Rumlow, Pierce, other OCs and eventual Steve Rogers/Captain America.
Content warning: Violence. Strong language. Don't read if you can't handle the F-bombs. That is all. Enjoy!*
Melanie sat alone at her own little island of solitude; a table, tucked into the corner of the café beside the window. She clutched her cup of dark roast. She had yet to add the cream or sugar; she simply sat there, inhaling the rich aroma and gazing into the black depths. Memories of a regrettable past resurfaced from dark recesses to torment her. Dangling over a deep, abysmal pit seeming to lead down into the bowels of hell itself; suffocating guilt that felt as if she was being buried alive; an unearthly substance that oozed and writhed like concentrated evil before slithering in to corrupt her soul.
Tearing her blue eyes away from the memories in her cup, Melanie looked out the window to drink in the light. She squinted in the rays of the morning sun and watched the people of the small suburban town go about their day. A bitterness stirred in her, as she observed them. They had such simple lives. Simple, secure, safe; things she could never truly have. She sold her soul years ago; it was only a matter of time before the devil came to collect it. Figuratively speaking. Or literally; who really knew these days.
Caught up in her musings, it took her a moment to notice the strange glinting of light up on the roof of a building. The café sat on the corner, in perfect view of a relatively tall building a little farther down the street. Frowning, Melanie leaned forward a bit as she narrowed her eyes, trying to focus her vision on that roof. She saw it; sunlight, reflecting off something metal. No, it couldn't be-
Something shattered. Melanie dove to the floor and ducked underneath her table, covering her head. She felt her head, shoulders and chest, checking for bullet wounds. There was no blood, no pain; no sign she had been shot. When her panic died down enough for the ringing in her ears to subside, she looked up to see a stunned, mortified barista. At her feet were broken coffee mugs; no one had shot at her from the rooftop.
"Oh my, I'm so sorry darlin'," the barista apologized, distressed. "Are you alright?"
Melanie glanced around the café, noting all the people staring at her. Some looked concerned, others amused. Salvaging her dignity, she stood up and gathered her things. Without saying a word, she left the café and the witnesses of her panic attack behind.
The chill air was refreshing; it helped cool her down, after adrenaline heated her up. Out in the open, it felt like her white jacket had a target painted on the back.
Gripped by paranoia, she looked to the building where she saw what she thought was a sniper. There was nothing, not even the glinting of metal in the sun. Whatever she saw, it was gone. Or she had just imagined it. Sleep was a luxury often robbed from her. An entire year had passed since she tucked her sword away, leaving the business of murder to pursue an honest living as the manager of a hair salon. Cutting hair was a lot easier on her conscience than slicing off heads. As rewarding as the life of a hair stylist was, her sleep was often plagued by nightmares. Lately, she had been on edge, unable to shake the feeling she was living on borrowed time- or, the time she stole from the souls she reaped and delivered to death. Perhaps that arrangement had been her only protection. Perhaps death was waiting for the right moment to exact revenge on her for backing out of the deal.
Whether it was her day to die or not, Melanie refused to cower and wait for death. Pushing morbid thoughts into the vault in the dark corner of her mind, she walked the next couple of blocks to work. The whole time, she watched over her shoulders and eyed the rooftops. No one she passed by stood out as a threat, no one stalked her; no one eyed her too close for comfort. Nothing was out of place in the sweet little town; that in itself was unnerving.
Her shift was relatively uneventful. She had a few appointments; regulars who showed up for root touch-ups and fresh cuts. Nothing she couldn't handle on her own, with her boss out sick and her coworker on maternity-leave. Her last appointment for the day was an eighteen year old girl, Ashlyn, who decided to reinvent herself with a bold crimson dye-job. As Melanie rinsed the excess dye from her silky tresses, she stared at the red covering her hands. The gloves she wore protected her skin from being stained, but they were clear and memories assaulted her conscience. All the moments she spent at sinks, washing the blood away; as if cleansing her skin would rid the stain of guilt.
Her dark thoughts were interrupted when someone walked into the salon. The sun was setting and things were quieting down; it was an odd hour for a walk-in. Melanie looked up from the teen girl's blood red hair to greet the unexpected customer, only to see a man standing by the counter. Strange, considering there was a barber shop on the next corner; men didn't usually come into the salon, unless accompanied by a woman.
Regardlessly, Melanie smiled at him. "Hello sir. Here for a trim?" Even while she asked the question, she eyed his well-groomed hair skeptically.
The man was clad entirely in black, including a leather jacket. He appeared to be around forty, give or take a few years, but he was clearly in good shape. Everything about him was dark; his attire, his tanned skin, the neatly-trimmed sleek raven hair pushed back from his forehead, and his very presence. The alarms in Melanie's head were warning her this guy was not an ordinary, older gentleman. When he flashed a stunning white smile, he had a smug glint in his eyes. In a slight gruff voice that possessed a smooth quality, he replied, "Sure, why not."
An odd response. If he hadn't come in planning to get a trim, why did he come in at all? Unless he was being a smart ass. Melanie concealed her suspicions, either way. With an unwavering smile, she gestured to an empty chair. "Have a seat. I just have to finish up with my girl here," she told him, before returning her attention to the bored-looking Ashlyn.
Finished rinsing, Melanie carefully wrapped a towel around the girl's head and led her back to a chair. She went through the motions of towel-drying, combing, and applying leave-in conditioner before turning on the blow-dryer. While she worked, she was hyper aware of the man's eyes watching her every movement. Glancing discreetly from the corner of her eye, she glimpsed his reflection in the mirror he sat in front of. He was casually seated in his chair, looking completely at ease, and minding his own business, but she caught his gaze for a moment. She saw his expression change, becoming calm and indifferent, but she was no fool. She recognized the look of a predator eyeing prey; he was sizing her up, waiting.
Wetting her lips, she pretended to be oblivious and turned to smile at him. "What did you say your name was?" she asked, while drying Ashlyn's hair.
The man perked up, flashing a charming smile. "Brock. Brock Rumlow," he introduced himself.
"New in town, Brock?"
He chuckled softly to himself, before saying simply, "Just passing through."
"Ah." The conversation ended there. Melanie ran a hand through the girl's red hair, feeling only a slight dampness. Her hair was almost dry; soon, she would leave and Melanie would be alone with Rumlow.
Inevitably, Ashlyn's hair was dry enough not to make her catch a cold when she exposed herself to the chilly autumn night. Melanie calmly turned off the blow-dryer, set it down, and fluffed the girl's beautiful crimson hair. "It turned out lovely," she said with a touch of pride.
Ashlyn admired her work in the mirror, beaming. "Thanks. You're the best, Mel," she grinned, before scooping up her purse and heading over to the counter. Melanie followed and took her place behind the register. After accepting her payment and handing back the change, she remained professional.
"You're all set, Ash. Stay safe, alright? It's a crazy world we live in," she said, unable to resist the urge to glance toward Brock Rumlow. He was pretending to read the label on a bottle of hairspray, but she knew he was listening and watching in his peripheral vision.
Oblivious to the tension in the room, unaware she was in the presence of an ex-assassin and the man who had likely been sent to eliminate her, Ashlyn laughed at the warning. "Don't worry about me, Mel. Nothing ever happens in this place...and if it did, we have the Avengers. You know, world's mightiest heroes."
Brock Rumlow muffled a chuckle. Melanie wanted to glare at him, but she made eye-contact with Ashlyn instead. "Yeah, well. I don't see them around. Just be careful."
"Alright, fine, mom," Ashlyn teased, rolling her eyes but throwing in an appreciative smile. "Take your own advice, too. I'm gonna need you to do a touch up next month."
Melanie laughed, while thinking, Yeah, don't count on it...
Waving goodbye, Ashlyn pushed her way out of the salon and headed home. Melanie considered running out after her, but she knew that might just get the girl killed. Defenses up, she turned to Brock Rumlow, who was still lounging in the chair without a care in the world.
"So," she began, approaching him in a calm manner while she remained guarded. Standing behind him, scissors in hand, she studied his perfectly maintained hair knowing full well he didn't come in for that. "How do you want it done?"
His dark bronze eyes met hers in the mirror. With a smirk, he reached up to carefully smooth his sleek black hair. "Just clean it up a bit, Mel," he replied, the sarcasm clear in his tone.
Without breaking eye contact, Melanie tightened her grip on the scissors in her hand. "I'll see what I can do," she responded coolly. They stared one another down for a moment, before the tension became volatile. She caught sight of a knife reflecting in the mirror, which he had been concealing inside his jacket. Her breath hitched and she leapt back as Rumlow kicked his foot to spin the chair around. The blade of his knife slashed the air where Melanie had just been standing.
The assassin she had imprisoned for the last year broke free of her cage, possessing her body. The moment Rumlow was on his feet, she pounced. He fell back into the chair with a strangled cry of pain, his fingers wrapping around the fingerholds of the scissors she had plunged into his shoulder. Before he could pull the sharp object free, Melanie grabbed his shoulder and the back of the chair, pinning him to it while she spun him around to face the mirror again. Digging her fingers hard into his shoulder, she forced him to let go of the scissors so she could curl her fingers through the fingerholds.
"Who sent you?" she demanded, pushing the scissors deeper through the layers of his jacket, shirt, and the skin and flesh beneath. "Who are you working for!"
Clenching his teeth, he growled and endured the pain. His fierce bronze eyes glared at her in the mirror, defiant and unwilling to comply. He was strong, but she wasn't fucking around.
With the sharp flick of her wrist, she twisted the scissors, forcing another cry of pain from him. Hissing furiously in his ear, she commanded, "Tell me who you're working for!"
He refused to answer. He tolerated the pain, clearly willing to take whatever he knew to his grave.
"Are you with S.H.I.E.L.D.?" she asked, a little less harshly. The thought made her stomach clench. The last time they sent someone to take her out, he spared her life. It had been close to thirteen months since she had encountered the agent; thirteen months of laying low, abiding by the laws- well, as far as murder goes- and she thought they were no longer out for her blood. If S.H.I.E.L.D. wanted her dead...
A taunting laugh pulled her from her thoughts. Brock Rumlow turned his head to glance over his shoulder. "You want answers? You don't have that privilege. I expected a ruthless killer, not a pretty little blonde hair stylist. Prove you're worthy of that insight, then we'll talk."
His condescension made Melanie narrow her eyes, scowling. Her fingers tightened around the scissors again, and Rumlow braced himself for the torture with a disturbingly smug smirk. Realization struck her; he was provoking her on purpose. He wanted to see how cruel and ruthless she could be. Her gaze fell to the hand covered in his blood. Repulsed by the sight and her own actions, she let go and backed away.
Rumlow stole the opportunity to stand up. Prying the scissors from his shoulder with nothing but a grimace, he pressed his hand over the bleeding wound while he turned to face her. "Not bad, but you've gone soft. Weak. Hydra has no tolerance for the weak," he spoke coldly, menacing.
"Hydra?" she repeated. Where had she heard of that before? It sounded sinister, without a doubt, but she couldn't recall why.
Rumlow offered no further explanation. He lunged for her with his knife. She grabbed his arm to keep the deadly blade away from her throat, but she was forced back against a counter beside one of the chairs. Hair products were knocked over as she hit the counter. Stomping on the bridge of his foot as hard as she could, Melanie caused him to slightly falter enough for her to hop up to sit on the counter. She swung her leg, using the leverage to deliver a sweeping kick to the side of his head.
Knocked off-balance, he staggered aside and Melanie turned to snatch up a can of hairspray. Rumlow recovered swiftly and grabbed her by the shoulder, slamming her back against the mirror. His knife was at her throat, but her knee caught him hard in the ribs. She followed with a right hook to his jaw. The blow was only a distraction. When he caught her wrist and managed to press his blade to her throat, she grinned. His dark brows furrowed in confusion, before he fixed his eyes on the can of hairspray only a couple inches from his face.
"Not so smug now, huh bastard?" she sneered, before unleashing the power of extra-hold-and-body on him. It smelled like a rose garden and held style all day long, but it was the last thing anyone wanted in their eyes. Blinded, he staggered back and let out infuriated and pain stricken shouts. "Tell your friends!" Melanie taunted over her shoulder as she bolted for the door.
Whatever kind of organization Brock Rumlow worked for, they would have to send someone better than that if they wanted Melanie dead. She had no intention waiting around until they did. Heavy hearted, she headed back toward her apartment. Leaving town was the best option for everyone. Her presence put innocent people in danger; no one deserved to be injured or worse, because the devil had come at last to collect her debt.