This is the sequel to The Price. Yes, it would be beneficial to read that before this.
The Sacrifice
Chapter One
"It is not the strongest or the most intelligent who will survive, but those who can best manage change."
Charles Darwin
The 21st century is a digital book, one full of cameras and cell phones and the internet. Everything can be accessed, everything can be filtered through to form a picture out of tiny, miniscule details.
The details for this story are simple;
Fact: Tony Stark left for Europe in an Iron Man suit to make sure the new equipment he ordered was what he had asked for according to a file in the SHIELD databanks.
Fact: No one had seen what was in the truck except for Tony Stark. The driver was not given a key, and the loaders only knew that the package was in a wooden crate and it was heavy.
Fact: There was no money transaction from any of the twenty Stark bank accounts the billionaire had. It was unknown if he had paid in cash (which seemed highly unlikely anyway).
Fact: A month after the delivery, a Steven G. Rogers went to go get his driver's license. His social security number had never existed until a day before—even though the hacking was done so well that if one hadn't been actively scanning for a Steven G. Rogers in New York every week it would have been missed completely.
Fact: Steven G. Rogers arrived with one Pepper Potts and Agent Natasha Romanoff.
Fact: There are no coincidences, not where the Avengers are involved.
Fact: Agent Jasper Sitwell at SHIELD looked over the information at one in the morning and headed straight up to the top of the Triskelion to speak to Alexander Pierce.
The rest, as they say, is history.
Dog hair was stuck to just about everything on the second day that Steve moved in to his new studio apartment. Books took its place on the day after, and Tuesday seemed like it was the shopping bags and boxes turn.
And then Ikea.
Tony laughed at him for getting a purple furniture set from Ikea and, yeah, it didn't really match the rusty red colour of the brick walls but sue him. He could get goddamn purple furniture if he goddamn wanted to. The soldier painted a few pictures for the hell of it, got a few red and purple lamps, and made it so that the room was an awe inspiring master piece of who gives a fuck.
Okay, in all seriousness he was an artist and it did have a colour scheme. The smooth violet, rustic red, a bit of cream here and there to lighten the mood.
Black dog fur.
That dog got fur over everything except the couch and the counters. Cause Treasa was a good dog. Or a better dog than Tony at any rate who had lounged about on the newly built sofa as Steve trucked numerous boxes up the spiral, iron staircase (full of books and movies that Tony had bought, by the way) to the loft above where Pepper was organizing the shelves.
By title, author, or goddamn library codes, he didn't know. She was just there and he was a gentleman and decided to just be grateful for it—if he found a new way to organize them later, fine. Right now, though, the CEO was taking time out of her normally very busy work schedule to help. In the kitchen area, Natasha unpacked his cooking supplies while Bruce helped Clint (who was standing on a very unsteady ladder but seemed to be having no problems) put up the curtains in front of the large windows. The very, very large windows that stretched up higher than even Steve could reach. They didn't reach up to the loft or the ceiling, which was something, but they weren't too far beneath them either.
Those windows were the reason he bought the apartment; so he could look over the city skyline and see the towering buildings of Manhattan and Brooklyn crisscross into one being. They also opened up onto an overhang that could either be sat on when he was bored or wanted to draw or paint, or just watch time pass.
"Clothes," Natasha tossed a large, plastic bag to him and he fumbled for a second before he caught it, grabbing a few more that were just sitting around and bounded up the stairs two at a time. The empty book/movie boxes were all stacked up nice and neat in a corner and he kind of felt bad having to move them to get into the wardrobe (oh well).
The clothes the soldier was wearing were a set that JARVIS had picked out for him (and man did it take him a few days to get used to that modern technology), everything else came from a spur of the moment shopping trip with Natasha and Pepper. The ladies had laid claim to Tony Stark's credit cards and had dragged Steve to every store imaginable having him try on jeans, shirts, slacks, and even exercise wear. Whoever said shopping wasn't exhausting had never tried it with a CEO and a spy—both who had separate mindsets on what he looked good in and what he needed.
"Are you even doing anything?" Clint yelled from where he was perched on the swaying ladder (and now it looked even more dangerous, Jesus), Bruce below looking a little green around the gills each time one of the legs left the floor.
"I set up the internet connection, ordered him a computer and a television, and installed the security," Tony grinned back and cursed at his phone as the bird he was trying to keep flying suddenly plummeted to the ground. "So I did more than you, Merida."
Steve shook his head and ripped open a package of hangers, putting up the jackets and dress shirts first.
There was a clatter from the kitchen and Natasha shouted up at him, "Where do you want these?"
Art supplies. Lots and lots of art supplies. A new sketch book, paints, brushes, pencils, pens. "Anywhere for right now," Steve waved lazily with his hand, more focused on whether or not jeans should be hanging up or folded and put in a drawer. "Table's fine."
The curtains fully set up, Clint jumped from the top of the ladder and landed on the floor in a crouch, digging through a bag like an obnoxious cat for something else to do. Treasa looked up from her large dog bed—that looked more like a giant pillow than anything (Tony had offered to buy some that looked something like a human bed or couch and Steve had firmly refused)—as he landed, her tail wagging, and the archer reached over without looking, scratching behind her ears. "You got a hammock!" The archer sang, holding up the plastic bag. "That's so cool! Where do ya want it?"
Steve blinked and stared at the small package before glancing around the apartment. To be honest, he had grabbed it on instinct—his last apartment hadn't even had a mattress in it. "You can hang it in front of the windows," he pointed at the open area between the kitchen and where Bruce was standing. The light, during a sunny day, would be bright enough that he could read there if he wanted to.
Grinning broadly, the archer tugged Bruce along with him, forcing the scientist hold onto the ladder again as he scrambled up the rungs so he could screw hooks into the wall. Treasa stared up at him, mouth closed with the expression on her face—as only a dog could have—like she was expecting him to fall.
By the way Bruce was grimly holding onto the ladder, he thought the same.
"Your silverware's done," Natasha pushed a knife rack back against the wall, next to his stove. "Anything else I can help with?"
"Steve's laptop is ready for pickup," Tony grinned, holding up his phone and Natasha levelled a look at him that would make even Thor back away.
"I wasn't asking you," The redhead sniped and looked back up at the soldier. "Steve?"
He looked around at the bags and boxes still on the floor. Some held who knew what (because Tony Stark could not help himself with buying many expensive things). "Do you mind looking through all that?" The soldier motioned vaguely.
"That's what I'm here for," She responded dryly and dodged one end of a hammock that came tumbling down from where Clint was tying it to the hook.
It only took a few more hours until everything was set up, boxes put out for recycling, and Steve was hanging his shield up on the wall across from his bed.
"We figured we'd go out for a bite," Clint called up to him. "You in?"
Steve traced the silver star with a finger. "I think I'll stay in," He said. "Get used to the place."
Shrugging, the archer nodded. "Sure thing, Cap." The rest of the Avengers shouted their good wishes as they filed out the door, leaving the soldier to sit on the edge of his bed and stare at the shield as it was lit up by the soft, orange light of the apartment. The noise was suddenly gone, leaving him with the silence of his new home and the sounds of laughter drifting through the windows.
Treasa padded up the staircase and sat close to his leg, her muzzle resting on his knee.
"Hey, girl," he murmured, running his fingers over her head, scratching the back of her ears, and cupping her cheeks. "Look at this brand new world, huh?"
Treasa snuffled, resting her paws on his thighs and pressed her nose against his neck. His arms wrapped across her ribs, fingers tangling with the long fur on her back. They stayed like that for a long moment, sitting there, and then Steve pulled back.
"That's enough wallowing for one day, yeah?" Her tail wagged, tongue lolling from her mouth, and Treasa dropped to the floor as he stood up, following at his heels while he headed down the stairs. "I think a nice, long walk is in order."
She barked in agreement.
Steve remembered a time when there was a point where Brooklyn fell quiet. It didn't always happen, not in the more bustling areas, but sometimes, in the neighbourhoods, everything fell still and silent and the early morning hours felt like a ghost town.
There was still movement, now. People on the streets, lights turned on, the sound of televisions through open windows. Someone was watching a baseball game, another had a movie playing. The captain shoved his hands deep in his pockets and breathed in the crisp, summer air. Treasa padded along beside him, no leash in sight. She kept to his right, footsteps matching his own as the lamps hovering above made her eyes glow like molten gold. Looking more wolf than dog, the Bohemian Shepherd's head stayed low, her movements like smooth silk as Steve picked up the pace.
There used to be a barbershop on that corner. A bar on that one. The alley he had gotten beat up in was blocked off by a fence and trash bins.
Steve started with a brisk walk and, by the time they rounded three blocks, a jog, seeing everything that had changed like it was an overlapping picture. Each time the soldier rounded a street he expected to find something familiar, something old, and felt a brief pang in his chest when the world reminded him that this wasn't the area he grew up in.
Treasa kept pace with him, picking up speed when he did until they were running down the street. His shoes echoed against brick buildings, sounding like gunshots in the dark they seemed so loud.
The movie theatre was a parking lot and, turning down an alley, Steve braced himself up against a wall, gasping, eyes wide as his heart hammered in his chest. Everything was gone—everything... Wiping one hand roughly across his eyes, the captain got his breathing under control and straightened up, spine almost cracking under the force of him demanding it to stay straight.
He was a soldier, damn it. He was Steve Rogers.
He could—all of his thoughts were cut off as Stevefacedthe inside of an alleyway and found himself in a familiar maze of twists and turns, dead ends and openings. He started running as if that would leave his thoughts behind, letting them get lost on the back streets of Brooklyn. It was easy to find where to go—if you had lived there all your life. Seventy years hadn't changed the alleys of Brooklyn one bit and Steve Rogers traced them all out again at a sprint, Treasa at his side.
If the captain ran a little bit faster when they passed his old apartment (remodelled, new with a fresh paint job and hardly looking anything like the ancient, rag-tag building he had once known), well, there was no one around to say anything.
Treasa started to lag after the third mile and he slowed down for her sake, going back to the brisk walk so he didn't lose that single-mindedness that came with running away from his problems. She kept pace with him still and he knew that she would be able to, one day, make a whole run with him. Her breed was used to long work days and a fast paced schedule. Rigorous tasks and activities.
Steve couldn't wait for the day when they could just leave the apartment and run.
Run and run without stopping until they left the city and the future behind them.
For now, though, he turned back around and started jogging back home, knowing that she would follow.
The neighbourhood went silent—the type of silence that came with snowfall and ice, the type of silence that came at night or in a forest in Germany when the opposing forces were just over the hill, waiting for them.
This was the silence of crickets and cats in alleyways, of dogs barking and papers blowing in gentle breezes. This was a silence Steve had heard before and, without registering what he was doing, he ducked into a side alley, stopped, and listened.
There were no sound of insects, no night time birds. He breathed out shallowly through his mouth, kneeling beside Treasa and looked up, scanning rooftops, scanning the sky for any dark figure blocking out the dim light of the stars.
Steve turned and scooped up his dog into his arms and he ran.
He ran through the alleyways, feet sliding across asphalt, jumped over fences, and ducked behind garbage bins and dumpsters. There was no path to follow because the one he left didn't make sense; circle after circle where only someone who had lived here just as he had would know.
(Seventy years hadn't changed a damn thing.)
Treasa was released on a fire escape and they climbed like ghosts, keeping silent in the stillness even as they reached the roof. They stayed there, immobile and quiet, laying flat and waiting.
Half of survival was waiting and hiding. There was a small wall—up to Steve's knees—that they pressed down behind. Treasa laid close to him, their ribs touching with every breath and he reached around her neck, unlatching the collar and shoving it into his pocket so the name tag wouldn't clink when they moved.
Smart dog, he wanted to whisper to her, good dog. But the night was too still for that.
Too quiet.
A bit of shame welled up in Steve's gut, clenching his stomach and gripping his heart because look at him, a soldier lying on a rooftop because the night was too silent. He told that part of himself to shut the hell up because he may be a bit out of time, but instincts never changed.
Hunters never changed.
And whatever was in this neighbourhood was a hunter.
But the crickets started up again, the birds called out, and he started to move—slowly at first, and then faster, army crawling across the rooftop. They stayed up high—jumping from building to building and only climbed down when they were close to home. Still, Steve kept to the alleys, staying off the streets and was grateful for the door at the back of his apartment building. The lock was rusted a bit, but—with a few rough tugs—it clicked open.
His apartment was still locked, no sign of forced entry, and he pushed it open, breathing out slowly at the sight of the moon rising above the city. It was beautiful and clear—all those angles highlighted against that bright, white circle.
He wanted to paint it—all smooth strokes. Oil would be best, or maybe watercolour. There was a little bit of yellow from lit up buildings and they looked like mock copies of stars against the night sky.
Steve didn't turn the lights on and put his keys on the counter, the metal clinking against granite. The painting could wait. He took Treasa's new bowl and placed it on the table, reaching for the dog food. "You hungry, girl?"
She didn't answer and he looked back at her—that dark, shadowed creature standing in the middle of the room, her eyes shining, pupils flashing silver, red, and green with the reflected moonlight. Her ears were forward, pointed, staring at something out the window.
The very tips of her canines were bared—two dots of white against her black fur and she had never looked so animalistic, never so wild than in that moment.
Steve listened.
And heard nothing.
Shit—turning on his heel to face the window, to see what she saw, he felt it—burning, slicing through his side, just under his arm and over his ribs. The serum made him move quickly—faster than any other human—and Steve knew that it was only that speed that saved him from a bullet to the heart or through his lungs.
Brick crumbled and crunched while the soldier crashed to the floor, instinct taking over as he let his head loll to the side, eyes staring blankly out at the moon. One hand gripped Treasa's ruff and forced her down behind his body while still making it look like he was splayed, limp, across the ground.
Dead, dead, dead, became the mantra in Steve's mind, pounding along with his heart beat that seemed like thunder to his ears as he held his breath. Dead, dead, dead. His ribcage felt like it would burst open and something warm was spreading out along the side of his body. It smelled like copper, it felt wet and sticky.
Blood. That knowledge seemed to make his heart pound even louder, thundering in his skull and chest. He could feel each beat as if he was holding the muscle in his hand.
The clock on the wall read 11:32—just barely visibly out of the corner of his eye, glowing green in the dark, and the small dots between the numbers flashed on and off, on and off as the seconds ticked past, one by one by one.
11:34; he saw movement. A flash of metal—silver or something close—from the rooftop across the street. A black figure was standing up, features hidden by the moon that silhouetted him. For a moment, the person stood there and Steve could feel the eyes upon him, watching for signs of life but he stayed oh, so still (be dead, be dead, they won't shoot again if you're dead)...
The man turned around and vanished across the dark rooftops. There was no a second shot and no sign of the assassin coming back, but Steve waited another minute, still holding his breath—
Treasa whined, breaking the silence and the thundering in his head and Steve let her go, scrambling up to his feet and ignored the dog food scattered across the floor. The moon was bright and he needed it, scuttling up the stairs and grabbing a duffle bag that Tony Stark (gracious, money spending Tony Stark) had bought for him. He had spent ten minutes arguing the fact with the man and now the soldier knew he would owe the billionaire a favour.
Many, many favours.
Three sets of clothes were thrown in, a few water bottles, portable food and water carriers for Treasa. He grabbed a wide, circular bag that had been folded up in the wardrobe and shoved that in there too before he shed his hooded sweatshirt, his now bloodied shirt, and snatched up new ones even as his side ached from each frantic motion.
It was nothing he hadn't dealt with before—the first wound he had gotten in this new body was across the same side from rocks on the streets of Brooklyn when a yellow taxi had crashed and rolled across the ground.
Criss-crossing leather was clipped on over his clothes and, with only a second of hesitation where he stared at the shield, Steve pulled it off the wall, threw it over his back, and sprinted back down the steps. There was a drawstring backpack Clint had left earlier and, sending a silent apology to the archer, he picked it up and filled it with his wallet, an umbrella, and his sketchbook.
The soldier didn't bother locking the apartment this time—whoever was after him would break in anyway if they were actually looking for something. Treasa followed him every step of the way, watching him with those big, brown eyes of hers as they strode back into the alley, the summer night air growing cold around them.
Each of her footsteps lagged just a bit and he knew she was tired—God, he was tired—but she followed him doggedly, step for step.
Steve looked back at the apartment—what he had hoped would become his new home in this brave new world—and turned around, hoisted the sweatshirt's hood over his head, and walked off into the night.
A man and his dog, disappearing into the shadows of the world until even the light of the moon couldn't make the shield shine.
Avengers Tower blared red and white, the alarm startling most of them because, well, everyone except for Clint was a horrible insomniac (seriously, the guy could sleep on anything) and it wasn't late enough for any of them to be heading off to bed anyway.
"Jarvis!" Tony Stark yelled, hands over his ears as the alarm continued to blare, pieces of a new suit strewn out around him. "Jarvis! Turn it off and just tell me what's wrong!"
The red, flashing lights stuttered to a stop. "Sir, I think it might be better if you and the rest of the team were to hear all of this together in the lounge area." Opening automatically, the door to the laboratory beckoned Tony to follow the AI's instructions.
Sighing, the billionaire set down his tools and stood up. "Fine," he grumbled. "But it better be something stellar for all those bells and whistles."
"I think you might find that it was, sir."
The elevator took Tony immediately to the top floor where the rest of the Avengers waited, either looking as if they were lounging about (but he could see the stiffness in their limbs) or tensed up like springs. Natasha and Clint were both seated on the sofa, leaning together and whispering, Bruce looked a bit wild—his hair sticking up in all directions—and Pepper seemed to be wiping at a wet stain on the abdomen of her shirt, mug of tea sitting off to the side.
"Okay, Jarvis. We're all here." Flopping down on the couch between the two spies, he grinned at their dirty looks.
"At precisely 11:32 pm this evening, Captain Rogers' window alarm reported that something had broken the glass." A holographic image of the alarm system came up, showing them the interior of the captain's apartment. The windows, highlighted in red, were turned towards them.
Clint yawned. "So the guy broke a window, big deal—"
"That would indeed be amusing, Agent Barton, had it not been the fact that what had gone through the window came from the outside and it didn't shatter the window." The image zoomed in and they saw it—the hole in the glass. "According to the pressure sensors on the floor, Captain Rogers was standing here—" the hologram shifted so they could see the footprints glowing on the ground, a figure of the man growing out of them. "—when the window was pierced and this," they watched the footprints jerk and, suddenly, a whole body image appeared on the sensors, "came next."
"Fuck," the archer breathed—and that did, pretty much, cover it. "Fuck!" Clint shot to his feet, running his fingers through his hair so roughly it looked as if he wanted to rip every strand out. "We left him alone for, what, a day and the guy is already being targeted?"
There was a moment of silence and then.
"Fuck!" The archer threw his hands up and paced across the floor, everyone's eyes on him.
"Would anyone else like to share their opinion?" Tony asked, crossing his arms over his chest, staring down the others sitting on his couch.
"No," Natasha shook her head.
Bruce grinned ruefully, hands tightening into fists and relaxing again at his sides. "I think Clint covered it."
"Well," The billionaire calmly pushed the archer back onto the couch. "Now that that's covered, Widow, Hawkeye, you two will be in charge of going through his apartment, Jarvis and Bruce will scan through the video feeds."
"And you?" the redhead stood up, her eyes dark and glinting against the light of the hologram as she traced the line of the bullet with a finger.
Tony gave her a pained smile. "I'm going to take him to the hospital."
The Avengers scattered, Natasha and Clint going back to their rooms to gather their supplies and gear while Tony climbed into his suit. Fire rumbled beneath him as he took off, shooting across Manhattan and heading towards Brooklyn.
Please don't be dead, Tony thought as the lights of the city turned into a blur—and then everything became black for a second except for the reflection of his armour in the river as he left the island behind. A rooftop wasn't the ideal place to land (just look at his house in Malibu—it certainly remembered his first time in the actual armour), but seeing that it was the only flat stretch of ground that wasn't the street, Tony gently lowered himself until he landed with a slight thump. The suit wasn't made for running, exactly, but the billionaire tried his best (he also tried his best not to crash down the stairs and made it alive—but just barely).
The door was unlocked and swung open at his touch. Dog food crunched underneath the boots of the suit and Tony Stark stepped free of the metal, dodging around the kibbles spread across the ground from a bag that had been dropped by the counter. A silver, metallic bowl rolled off to the side when his foot hit it, sending it clanging up against the stairs.
There wasn't a body. No limp form lying still upon the ground. There wasn't even too much blood that he could see—but the lights were off and the light of the moon could only reach so far.
"He's not here," Tony breathed and reached over, fumbling for the light and finally clicking on a lamp.
There was blood on the floor—spread out in a long line where it was straight on one side and curved on the other. Some parts had been smeared across the wood like someone had taken their fingers and dragged them through half dried paint.
"Barton, Romanoff," he pressed one finger to his ear and heard a light buzz for a moment.
"What?" Came the archer's voice, the sound of a radio hastily being turned down in the background. "We're almost there, Stark, give us a minute—"
Tony swept away the kibbles on the floor with his hand. "He's gone. Both him and Treasa. There's blood, but not enough for a kill wound." Stepping back into the suit, the billionaire had JARVIS pull up the holographic imagery that had been shown at the tower. "The shot missed."
As though reading his thoughts, the screen in the headpiece of the suit lit up, highlighting the trajectory of the bullet, where Steve had been standing, calculating where it would have hit according to the sensors in the floor.
"Remind me to put pressure sensors in the walls when I'm done," Tony said to Clint and Natasha as they came through the door. "I can't measure the speed of the bullet without knowing when it hit the wall."
"What are you trying to find?" The archer moved forward, crouching beside the small puddle of rapidly drying blood.
Natasha hovered by the brick wall, running her fingers over the grooves. She glanced back at the window, measuring it, looking past to the roof, and slowly crouched down. "Tony," the redhead murmured and pulled a knife out of her boot. Metal dug through the brick, cutting away stone until a lead bullet hit the ground with a small thunk. Soviet slug, no rifling. "I found your bullet," holding it up between two fingers, the redhead frowned, eyes flashing. "There's some blood on it."
"Good to know we've got the right one," the billionaire grumbled. "So we've got an injured super soldier out there being hunted by who knows what—"
Natasha tuned him out, rolling the bullet in her palm. She started towards the stairs without really realizing what she was doing and headed up. The lofted bedroom they had helped put together earlier wasn't a mess, but the wardrobe had been flung open, some clothes scattered across the ground.
The shield was missing.
"We need to find him," she said.
"What do you think Bruce and Jarvis are doing?" Tony called up and, despite the emotionless face of the Iron Man suit, she knew he was rolling his eyes. "They're not just sitting there with thumbs up their asses."
Natasha ignored him, coming back down the stairs. "We need to keep SHIELD out of this," she told Clint who looked up from brushing dog food out of his way.
"What?"
"Someone knew about him. Someone with connections. We can't trust anyone," she held out the bullet to him and Tony leaned forward to get a look.
Clint took the lead between his thumb and index finger. His eyes looked over every detail, missing nothing, before they turned up to her—sharp and piercing like the bird of prey he was named after. "Is it him?"
"Yes," Natasha murmured.
"Is it who?" Tony looked back and forth between the two of them—the whole thing made even more comical by the metal suit he was wearing.
The two spies kept their eyes locked before the redhead turned to the billionaire. "This place is being watched," Natasha told him. "We'll tell you back at the tower."
For a long moment, the blank stare of the Iron Man suit watched her, and then Tony nodded. "Fair. Jarvis, did you and Banner pick up anything on the cameras?"
"Nothing so far, sir," The AI reported dryly. "So far the only movement is 1993 white Honda Civic driving past." They saw the headlights out of the window, lighting up the street before the car sped out of sight.
"Thank you, Jarvis," Tony ground out. "What about the rooftops?"
If a computer could sigh, JARVIS would have; loudly and as if he was in exasperated pain. "There are no cameras pointed at the rooftops, sir."
"I should fix that."
"If you say so, sir."
The billionaire paused. "Are you being sassy with me?"
"Of course not, sir," came the dry response. "However, there is something that you might want to see." An image appeared on the screen in the suit of a man with dark hair wearing all black. What the billionaire could see of his skin was pasty white, but the part that was the most interesting was the silver, metallic arm.
"Where was that taken?"
The two spies looked up from the blood on the floor, watching him and Tony shook his head ever so slightly. He'd show them later—like they said; eyes and ears everywhere.
"Three blocks south of Captain Rogers' apartment and five minutes after the shot took place."
"Bingo," the faceplate went up so the billionaire could look at both agents in the eye. "We've got a hit. I'll meet you back at the tower."
He left before he could see their faces. Their drawn in, hard, cold faces.
"We're so fucked, aren't we?" Clint muttered in the still apartment.
Natasha snorted. "You have no idea."
Sometimes being the director of SHIELD meant being contacted at weird ass times in the middle of the night.
Sometimes being the director of SHIELD meant that you gotta separate the people who can do stuff on their own from the people who needed you to wipe their ass every five goddamn minutes.
Unfortunately for Nick Fury, the person Agent Hill had sent up with 'urgent information' was one of the 'I need my butt wiped' category. He pressed two fingers against his forehead and glared at the agent babbling in front of him before holding out his hand for the file. It was quickly pressed against his palm before the young man was almost sprinting out of his office.
Flipping open the folder, he looked over the first page, saw the picture paper clipped to the side, and pressed the intercom button on his desk. "What the hell is this?"
Hill sounded amused and he thought, for a moment, about sending her off to New York to keep an eye on Stark. That would cure up that nonsense. "We received Intel about a figure that looked like the Winter Soldier being spotted in Brooklyn, New York."
"And you didn't bring it up to me yourself because?" He tapped his index finger over the muzzle-like mask on the assassin's face.
"I thought you wanted to meet the new interns, sir." Definitely amused.
Fury leaned back in his leather desk chair, fighting the urge to fire someone. "Agent Hill."
"Yes, sir?"
"Get your ass up here."
"Yes, sir."
She took her goddamn time, too. He drummed his fingers on his desk, watching the elevator and leaning forward in his chair until she arrived—with another folder. "What the hell is that?"
"Iron Man was spotted in the same area as the Winter Soldier," Hill said, sitting down in the chair across from him without a by-your-leave. Handing over the second folder, she crossed her hands over her lap and sat up like her spine was made from steel. "We're tracking Stark now, but it appears that he went to this address and hasn't left yet."
Fury looked over the numbers before his single eye turned up to stare at her. "And?"
"That's where it gets interesting."
He was getting too damn old for this shit. Fighting the urge to groan, the director flipped over the page to look at the, apparently, new owner of the apartment. It had been bought only a week before by one... "Steven G. Rogers." Fury looked at the driver's license photo. The blonde hair and wide, blue eyes that stared out at them as if the picture itself was trying to figure out just what was going on. The man oozed military but, more than that—"He's dead."
"Or looking pretty spry for a ninety year old," Hill crossed her arms over her chest. "Except for the new haircut, either this man is Captain Steve Rogers or a very, very close relation."
"Cloning?"
"SHIELD ran out of Rogers' DNA in the 1950's when the serum research went bust," Hill stared at him, her dark eyes unblinking and glinting like sharp blades in the dim lighting of his office. "If anyone else had, somehow, gotten a hold of his DNA, they'd never shared."
Fury put down the file. "And this is who the Winter Soldier was sent to kill."
"We think so."
"Did he succeed?"
"Unknown."
Rubbing a hand over his forehead, the director sighed.
He really was getting to old for this shit.
This will be longer than the other one by about two chapters (whoops). So enjoy and review as I write during the pauses in my life.
Gospel