I shivered, tucking my chin into my scarf. "W-why exactly are we in Russia?" I asked, glancing around blearily at the snow that swirled around me and did its best to get into every crevice of clothing it could. "I've spent enough of my life here to never want to hear the word again," I muttered in Russian.

"What was that?" Coulson asked, glancing over at me.

"Nothing."

Someone bumped into me, almost sending me sprawling, and apologized in rapid-fire Russian, helping me up,before disappearing into the snow again. I turned back to Coulson, who hadn't seemed to notice the exchange at all.

"We're here because we have to be, not because we want to be," he reminded me. "The sooner we get what we get what we need, the sooner we can leave."

"S-sir, what exactly do we n-need?" I snapped, rubbing my gloved hands together and yanking my scarf up to cover my nose and mouth to keep my teeth from chattering. Even with my increased metabolism, I was still freezing.

"We've received news that a well-known assassin has popped up on the radar recently," he commented nonchalantly, turning in a slow circle as if examining the rooftops around us—something that might have been convincing had he been able to see more than three feet in front of his face. "They think he's holing up in this general area."

"R-really?" I asked, lifting an eyebrow and glancing around as well. "Why wasn't I m-made aware of this b-b-before we got out here?"

"Because I know what you would have been thinking," he shot back, turning to stare at me, daring me to contradict him again. I was never one to back down from a threat: I had grown up with Steve 'Pick-a-fight-with-everything-that-moves' Rogers, for crying out loud. "And I wanted you to keep your head on straight."

"Sir," I ground out, growing increasingly more frustrated and nervous. I didn't know for sure why we were here or what assassin we were here because of, but I knew from experience that assassins didn't just pop up on the radar. We either kept our heads down or jumped out of the shadows with the sole purpose of dragging someone back into them with us. I had managed to keep my head down for more than two decades before reappearing to try and save Tony, and I was rusty.

"Agent," he stepped closer, shielding me from a bit of the wind to speak to me. "This is not your call. This is mine."

"And I'm not your agent," I bit back, scowling. "I'm a ninety-year-old Russian-American assassin. I know how we think," I informed him, wincing slightly to put myself in the same category as all the other assassins in the world but knowing that I had no room to be all 'high and mighty,' not after what I'd done. "I also know that standing in the middle of the street is a stupid thing to do when an assassin's after you."

He gave me a strange look. "Why would you assume…" he shook his head. "We'll finish this discussion later. Come on."

He took off, leaving me no choice but to follow, albeit grudgingly. I popped my knuckles and shook out my hands, outwardly cursing the cold but inwardly relishing in it. I had spent two decades in Canada, so I wasn't quite as bitter about the cold as Coulson—and anyone listening in—was going to believe. I wasn't comfortable, per say, since I usually spent my days at home curled up in front of a fire, but I still wasn't as inept as I was leading Coulson to believe.

We ended up walking all the way to the safe house, something I intended to rag Coulson about later, and sat up until three in the morning waiting for our apparent contacts who—surprise, surprise—didn't show. Well, one of them showed: a shifty looking man who sounding half drunk when he walked through the door. The other did not. Coulson actually had the nerve to interrogate the man before us, as if he didn't know that our contact had either been killed or captured by the man we'd been sent to… what had we been sent to do with him?

"Coulson?" I asked suddenly, glancing up from a knot in the wood of the floor. Our safe house at least was nice, unlike other safe houses I could name.

"A little busy, Agent," he snapped.

I rolled my eyes and stood up, crossing my arms over my chest. "Oh, yeah, okay." I cocked my hip and rested my still-gloved hand against it, looking down at the man who was slumped against the wall, watching us with half-lidded eyes. I, with my enhanced hearing, could hear his heartbeat: it was strong and steady, beating much quicker than that of a half-conscious drunk should have been. I didn't mention this, though. I had a feeling this man was bugged, and if he was, I'd use it to my advantage. "What do you think he can give us, Sir?" I asked, lifting an eyebrow. "He's barely awake."

Coulson was about to blow a gasket. "Agent," he ground out, narrowing his eyes. "Stand down."

"Fine," I replied, reaching down and pulling on my discarded parka, pulling my hair back under the hood. "I'll be outside."

"Agent!" Coulson called angrily, but I ignored him, entering the hallway and shutting the door firmly behind me. My palms were sweating. I had learned a few things from listening to Coulson and the not-actually-drunk contact: the assassin we were after was something of a legend. No one really knew who he was or where he came from, but they had 'heard' that he was after someone, which is why they'd called in Shield. I'd be willing to bet most of what I'd ever owned that the assassin had set up the rumors himself.

I stepped out onto the street, biting back a curse when the wind cut through my multiple layers. Okay, so maybe I didn't like the cold. Sue me. I glanced back at the building I'd come out of, frowning. It was much too obvious that we'd been there—we'd walked there, for crying out loud—the assassin could easily have tracked us, and it wasn't as if we'd gone in multiple groups. He would have had only one group to follow…

I swore again, stiffening. Coulson wasn't stupid. He knew we were going to be followed, assuming as I did that the assassin knew we were coming. He also knew that I was easily the most brash of all his agents, including Skye. He brought me on purpose. He let me leave the room: he easily could have taken me out himself, put me in my place, but he hadn't. Why?

My answer came a moment later when a bullet hit me in the chest. The force sent me sprawling back into the snow, but the pain didn't start right away. I stared blankly at the overcast, orange tinted sky above me, my mind whirring wildly. Coulson was using me as bait because he thought that he was the target. He wanted the assassin to see me and then come after him.

He hadn't realized that Hydra was after me.

I tried to roll over, crying out as the pain started, spreading out from my chest and burning terribly. I screamed, biting down on my scarf as tears dropped down my cheeks and froze there.

It was them, wasn't it? In my state, I couldn't think of anyone else who would be after me.

I managed to roll onto my front, staring down at the icy carpet that was beginning to spin beneath me. I looked up, gasping for breath. A dark figure was walking towards me.

I began to pull myself forward, clawing at the snow and ice beneath me, biting down hard on my scarf; my breath created mist, which froze on the fabric and on my lips. I couldn't breathe. I could feel warmth spreading out from where I'd been shot: blood soaking through my jacket and sweater and staining my skin. Snowflakes landed on my lashes, making it harder to see. I regretted rolling over onto my stomach—the added pressure of my organs and bones from my back was making it much harder to breathe.

A foot on my back stopped me from moving and sent my face into the snow. I screamed, digging my fingers into the ice, crying out for him to please, stop it, please! He moved his foot, and a moment later he used it to roll me over onto my back again. I gasped, coughing up blood, choking on it. I couldn't breathe. My eyelids fluttered wildly, but through the snow and the blood I could make out two figures standing above me.

"Take her," the shorter commanded, his voice almost lost on the wind. I passed out before I could hear the taller's response.

~8~

I woke up tied to a chair. I had been stripped down to my pants and tank top, which now was stained crimson. I looked down, my head lolling. Bandages were wrapped around my chest, hiding the bullet wound from view.

My wrists were cuffed behind my back and to the chair, which wouldn't have been problem if there hadn't been at least a dozen sets of cuffs woven together to keep me from breaking free. My legs were also bound: each ankle was cuffed to the chair, which was bolted to the ground. Ropes wrapped around my middle, holding me in place, and I was gagged. Props to whoever had captured me that they hadn't used duct tape: people who used it were amateurs. I'd prefer them to the real thing, though—it was much easier to escape.

It took me a moment to figure out why I had woken up, but then my drowsy mind registered the dripping, and I realized that someone had thrown a bucket of water on me, jolting me awake and soaking me to the bone with freezing snowmelt.

Someone spoke from behind me. "Ah, you're awake. Good."

Another person, who had been steadily moving around my chair, struck me across the face with so much force that my head whipped to the side and I felt my neck crack. I grunted, breathing heavily, and glared up at the man above me. My lip had split from the force of the blow, and the knapsack material over my mouth rubbed painfully against the cut. My bullet wound throbbed, and fresh blood stained the bandage.

"You're a smart woman, Katherine Rogers," the man continued. My heart stuttered, and I choked, stiffening. The man laughed. "My dear, you really think that you could fool us by running around and playing soldier with some Shield agents?" Yes. "Secretary Pierce may have been tricked by your performance, but we were not. We trained you, after all."

My heart was pounding painfully in my chest, and I craned my neck to try and catch a glimpse of the man behind me. I couldn't make out the person in front of me because of the bright lights, but I assumed that he was just the muscle. Who was this person? Someone related to the Red Room? Someone else?

"You don't remember, do you?" The man asked, seeing my confusion. "Pity. Unfortunately, I do not have the time to indulge your desire to know your past. Another time, perhaps. Now, however, you will give me what I wish to know. You see…" the man started to move, and the soldier in front of me grabbed a fistful of my hair, jerking my head around to face the front. His shadowed companion—there were three men in the room total, two soldiers and their leader—watched silently from behind the blazing lights: I could faintly see his stoic outline in front of the wall. "Your position within Shield, though useless for you, has given us a distinct advantage. We need information, and you have it."

I glared at the figure holding me, unable to say anything through the moist gag.

"Take the gag off her."

The soldier complied, and I spat on the ground, ridding my mouth of blood.

"You really think I'd give you anything?" I chuckled, rolling my head back and feeling my neck pop.

"I do."

"Than you're stupider than you sound," I decided, crying out when the soldier slammed his fist into the side of my face, snapping my head around. I was pretty sure he'd cracked my cheekbone. I spat out another mouthful of blood and glared up at the man before me even though one of my eyes was rapidly swelling shut.

"My dear," the man began, sighing dramatically.

"Don't bother," I snarled, spitting on the floor again. "I know you don't need information. If you did, you would have captured my partner."

"Who is to say we don't have him already?" the man asked smugly.

I tensed for a second, listening as a man somewhere in the building cried out, but I shook my head a moment later. "I say," I shot back. "You don't want information, you want me. Why?"

"You're a malfunctioning weapon, Miss Rogers," the man replied, and his voice moved closer. "You're dangerous. And you've aligned yourself with Shield. However, you do have information we want." He paused for effect, and I flinched as he rested his hands on my shoulders. His lips brushed against the shell of my ear, and my throat closed up in fear. "How did you escape?" he whispered.

I froze, terrified. Did they really not know? Or was he playing me for a fool? I remembered someone letting me out of cryofreeze, unlocking the door—but he wasn't talking about that, because they would have assumed that I'd freed myself; besides, even if someone had let me out, they'd be long dead by now—time would have seen to that. No, they wanted to know how I'd broken free of their brainwashing, how I'd blocked them out.

His friend backhanded me, forcing my split lip to tear open further. I took a deep, shuddering breath, refusing to talk, and steeled myself for what was coming. If they found out how I'd broken out—my memories of James, the taunts I'd received from the guards that had triggered my memory and allowed for a crack in their defenses to appear—they'd change their methods. They wouldn't allow for slip-ups, which meant that I wouldn't be able to escape ever again.

"This is your final chance," the man said, sounding almost regretful. His thumb rubbed a circle across my skin, and I shuddered.

"Go to hell," I whispered, staring defiantly at the soldier in front of me and bracing myself for a beating.

"As you wish."

The man in front of me got to work, striking me repeatedly but avoiding my chest—why, I did not know. I refused to speak even when I felt my nose break, even when blood pooled around my feet. I wasn't going to become their slave again. I'd rather die than go back to what I'd been.

I struggled to breathe, choking on the blood that was pouring from my nose and the blood that rose up my throat. I was bleeding internally, I was sure. My body was shaking, and my chains were shivering like wind chimes.

"Tell me what I want to know and this can all end," the man said, speaking for the first time in what felt like hours and sounding just as relaxed as he had before. "My parter says that you begged for mercy when he first captured you. Is that true?"

If it was an attempt to rile me up, it was failing, but it was a good reminder of the wound that he had so far been avoiding. My stomach twisted, bile rose in my throat, burning its way towards my mouth.

"There is only so much we can do to you," the man continued, sounding almost regretful. "Considering all we've done before, that is."

My blood boiled at the reminded of all they'd taken from me, and I strained against my bonds, yearning to break free of them and tear the man's head off his shoulders.

"Wait a moment…" I felt the man touch my shoulder, and I jerked away from his light touch, fear encircling my heart. "Interesting."

He brushed my hair back from my shoulder—my heart was slamming against my chest, and fresh blood stained the bandages—his lips touched my skin, and I slammed the side my head into his, fully understanding what was on his mind. He fell back, swearing, and his companion struck me across the face again. I didn't have enough energy to react.

"Very well." The man abruptly switched to Russian. "Finish it."

The man hit me again, but this time he struck the bullet wound with all the force he possessed. I don't think I've screamed so loudly since I lost my wings, or since. I couldn't think, I couldn't see, I couldn't breathe—I was sobbing, trying in vain to shield myself from the next blow, shaking so horribly that the chains holding me rattled continuously. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me.

The words flew through my mind, but I didn't speak them aloud. I wouldn't. I knew that I was the only one who'd broken free of their mind control, the only one who'd escaped. If I told them how, then everyone else under their control would be lost forever. I wasn't going to be the one to enslave their minds.

"You think…" I gasped, letting my head loll back against the back of the chair as blood and spittle bubbled over my lips. "You think… it would—be… that easy?" I wheezed. My chest rose and fell at an alarming rate, and I could barely feel my own heartbeat, it was beating so fast. Blood by now had soaked through my bandages and was running down my body, streaming down my legs, mixing with the sweat that coated my skin and pooling in a puddle at my feet. "I left… because… anything would be—better… than—that hell."

The man sighed in disappointment, and the soldier before him tensed. "I see," he stated. "Well, I see we have no other choice. Soldier. Finish the job."

My torturer left, disappearing behind me, and the other man took a step forward. For the first time I caught a glint of metal from beneath his glove. At the same moment, I caught the distant sound of gunfire. I started laughing maniacally, shaking my head as tears started rolling down my swollen cheeks. Something surfaced—a memory of a soldier with a metal arm wrenching open the door that held me prisoner. He kissed me, then shoved me along ahead of him. "I'll be right behind you."

It was James. He was alive. Oh, God, he was alive— and they'd made him watch as they tortured me. I took a watery breath—they were going to have him kill me.

"You fool," I choked in Russian, coughing up blood as I leaned my head back to yell after the commander. "You think—Coulson let me—in here—by my—self?"

Gunfire sounded again, closer this time. The man swore and called something to the remaining soldier—to James—as he left the room with the other man, turning off the bright lights and leaving one dim one behind. The Winter Soldier—that was his name here, not James, but he would always be James to me—whom I could now see clearly, lifted his gun to point at my face. I wasn't laughing anymore. My blood had spattered across his shirt.

"It's okay, James," I whispered, nodding my head. I was shaking so badly that blood flew off my skin and speckled the ground around me. "It's okay. You don't have to perform for them anymore." My voice broke. "You can come home."

James blinked once, glancing down at the floor to his right, and then looked back at me. He walked behind me, and I felt the gun rest against my head. I closed my eyes, pressed my thumb against my ring, which hadn't been taken away.

He cocked the gun, and something hard struck me in the back of the head.

~8~8~8~

When I next tried to open my eyes, Coulson was right there beside me. "Hey, take it easy," he warned, and I felt a slight pressure on my good shoulder. "You went through hell."

"I know."

I opened my eyes. I was in a hospital bed, and Coulson and I were alone. I couldn't really see or move or breathe, so I settled for listening, focusing on Coulson as he spoke.

"I'm sorry, first of all," he started. "I thought I was the target, not you."

I know.

"By the time I realized it, it was too late; they had taken you. I was able to track you down, find you. You're safe now."

I shook my head, fighting down feelings of anger and betrayal. "What happened?"

"I don't know." Coulson shook his head. "It's the strangest thing. I made it into the room, but not before a few of the enemy soldiers had made it there first. By the time I got inside, you were unconscious, and the rest of the men were dead."

Dead. My heart leapt into my throat, and I gagged. "Dead?"

"Like something had torn them apart," Coulson agreed.

James. The Angel wouldn't hurt him… would she? "Was there—" I swallowed. "Was there a man with a metal arm?"

"What?"

"A metal arm. Wast here a man with a metal arm—among the men were were killed?"

"There were a couple men missing arms," Coulson shrugged, looking queasy, "but no metal arms among them. Why?"

I shook my head, both relieved and horrified. What had I done?

"What is it?"

"I want to go home," I whispered. My tongue felt like wood in my mouth.

Coulson nodded and handed me a glass of water, which I was almost too weak to accept. "I already spoke with Agent Barton: he'll be here soon to collect you."

"How soon?" I rasped, shifting slightly. My chest hurt less now that I had something else to focus on, and so I ignored the pain, focusing more on breathing and thinking about my family.

Coulson gave me a small smile. "He'll be here tonight to pick you up."

"There aren't any assignments that you need me for?" I asked curiously, turning my head to look at him.

"No," he answered. "Considering everything you've already been through… Most agents would be put on the sidelines for a few months until they healed. You've been out of it for almost a week, and most of your bones have already mended, but your mind hasn't."

"How badly was I hurt?" I whispered, recalling for the first time that though it had not been James who did this—James, he was alive, he was alive—he had been present, and that he had, for some reason, not killed me. He had disobeyed a direct order, choosing to knock me out rather than to execute me, and that although he had been forced to watch as I was tortured, it hadn't been his fault. He didn't know. But he was fighting.

"You were shot, as you know," Coulson stated, shrugging. "You had a fractured cheekbone and broken nose, along with more than a few broken ribs. You had numerous lacerations, a severe concussion, and a Class Four Hemorrhage."

"Meaning…"

"Meaning that you're incredibly lucky to be alive," he summed up. "You can thank all those serums and radiation you've been exposed to for saving your life. Your nose, ribs, and head are still healing, as is your gunshot wound, but most everything else has mended. Give it another week, and you should be completely healed."

He was silent for a few minutes, leaving me to my thoughts. I wanted to cry and laugh and scream and dance—James was alive, he's alive, he's alive!

"Did you see anyone you recognized?" Coulson interrupted my thoughts, frowning. "Did you see any faces? Of the people who attacked you, I mean."

My heart skipped a beat, and the motion was reflected on the monitor. I hoped Coulson attributed it to horror recalling the event instead of fear that he'd go after James. "I didn't see their faces."

"Katie—"

"The man stood behind me the whole time," I told him, clenching my hand into a fist. "They had a list shining in my face, and the other man who hit me would stand behind it. I didn't see anyone, Coulson."

"Katie. I need you to be honest with me." He looked me straight in the eye. "Did you see or hear or recognize anyone who was a part of kidnapping and torturing you?"

My stomach twisted as I looked him square in the eye.

"No." After a few seconds, Coulson nodded. I leaned back and closed my eyes. "Please don't tell anyone I'm going back," I murmured, feeling the pain of the wounds for the first time before it became numb once more as the drugs did their work.

"I'll see what I can do." I could feel myself slipping off to sleep again, falling back into unconsciousness. I was so tired. Even the effort of keeping my eyes open was draining. Coulson touched my shoulder. "Get some rest."

I nodded tiredly, letting my head drop to the side. I needed to rest. Soon I'd be home with my brother. We hadn't separated on the best note, but… hopefully we'd make up. We always did. Once I was healed, I'd go find James. He'd been stuck in Hydra long enough.