June 25, 2012
From: Director N. Fury
To: Deputy Director M. Hill
Subject: SR re-entry assignment
New assignment: Pick up S. from (redacted) June 27, 0700 hrs. Deliver to apartment at (redacted). Your mission over the next week is to debrief S. and introduce him to modern life. Provide whatever training necessary for him to function independently. Prepare him for future missions. Provide daily reports on his progress and fitness for resuming active duty.
F.
From: Deputy Director M. Hill
To: Director N. Fury
Subject: Re: SR re-entry assignment
You cannot be serious. Do I need to remind you I'm not a babysitter?
M.
From: Director N. Fury
To: Deputy Director M. Hill
Subject: Re: re: SR re-entry assignment
I am serious.
F.
From: Deputy Director M. Hill
To: Director N. Fury
Subject: Re: re: re: SR re-entry assignment
This is beneath my paygrade. Send a junior officer. Or Coulson. He'd do it for free.
M.
From: Director N. Fury
To: Deputy Director M. Hill
Subject: Re: re: re: re: SR re-entry assignment
I don't need to explain myself to you, but I will say that this assignment is of utmost importance. I need someone I can trust to assess the ability of S. to function as an operative in future missions. You are the right person for the job.
F.
Agent Maria Hill's School of Modern Life
Course title: Life in the 21st Century 101
Instructor: Deputy Director M. Hill
Course Location: (redacted)
Course length: One week, or longer if the student is a complete idiot
Course dates: June 27-July 3, 2012
Syllabus: This course is intended for 90 year-old supersoldiers preparing to enter life in the 21st century. Course prerequisites include one (1) dose of superserum, a heroic "death" in combat, and 65+ years frozen in the arctic. Students will be automatically enrolled in this course following the completion of the thawing process.
The following units are covered:
Unit 1: Shopping for furniture and shit like that.
Student will choose furnishings for his new apartment. Yes, Student has an apartment. Student will stop asking stupid questions.
Unit 2: Finances and not dropping dead when you find out you're suddenly a millionaire.
Student has money. Go nuts.
Unit 3: Panic at the grocery store
One stop shopping, baby. Yes, there are lots of choices. Student will stop gawking like a newborn and pick some fruit already.
Supplemental lesson: Getting around in the city, part 1
Student will get himself home if he gets lost. . . Ok, fine, the Instructor will pick Student up, if Student promises not to cry.
Unit 4: Understanding the basics of modern appliances
Student will learn how to hook up and operate modern appliances. Ok, never mind. Student will sit on the couch and not touch anything while the Instructor hooks everything up.
Unit 5: Introduction to the Internet
Student will learn how to operate the phone and navigate the internet. Student will be accidentally introduced to Rule 34. The Instructor is very sorry.
Unit 6: clothes shopping
Student will get over the prices and just pick some clothes. Really, it's not that hard. Oh, God, stop crying. Please. Student will stop breaking the Instructor's heart with those pathetic puppy-dog eyes.
Unit 7: Getting around in the city, part 2
Student will learn to navigate the New York Subway system. Student will refrain from picking fights. Ok, fights to defend a lady are acceptable. No, the Instructor does not need defending. The Instructor will kick that pendejo's ass herself. Student is welcome to assist. No, not like that.
(June 27, 2012, 0630 hrs)
His bag is packed and sitting by the front door of the cabin, and has been since before first light. Not that there is much in it: a single change of clothes (khakis, t-shirt that doesn't fit right, underwear made from some weird stretchy material, socks, a lightweight jacket). A comb, toothbrush, toothpaste. Some sort of sticky hair gel that he hasn't used. A small bottle of shampoo and a bar of soap. None of it is his, not really. At least, he didn't choose it. If he had, the shampoo wouldn't smell so much like fake flowers that it makes him sick to his stomach.
Tucked into a side pocket of the black duffel are a file folder containing a thin sheaf of briefings, and the pen and ink drawings he made to fill the long stretches of empty time over the past two weeks. There were no art supplies as such to be found in the cabin, but he had come across a lined notebook and pen in a drawer, and used them to make sketches of whatever he could remember of his life: his mother, scenes from his old neighborhood in Brooklyn, several of Peggy (somehow she always came out looking disappointed or angry), the tessaract, the Howling Commandos, Johan Schmidt (difficult to fully capture without a red pen, but it looks close enough to the creepy image that haunts his ever-present nightmares). He can't bring himself to draw Bucky, not yet. The pain is too raw still.
Breakfast is toast in the oven, since there isn't much else left. The eggs they left him are gone and the nurse (2nd Lt. Press, although she had told him repeatedly to call her Katherine) didn't bring more when she came yesterday on her daily rounds to take his vitals. Not that it matters. The butterflies in his stomach are putting up such a ruckus he isn't sure he could keep anything more substantial down anyway.
While he scrapes the last of the fake butter over the toast, he reminds himself again that there is no need to be anxious. America is no longer at war, and apparently hasn't been for years. He knows he was "asleep", as Lt. Press calls it, (frozen, he calls it, and feels like some of the ice still lingers in his bones) for almost seventy years. He knows the date, although he has to repeat it to himself multiple times daily to try to convince himself that it is real. But Director Fury was a bit vague about exactly how long the country had been at peace. During his debriefing, Fury had tossed out the names of a few countries he had heard of but knew nothing about, until finally he just said something like "Well, World War Two has been over since 1945." Which means he only missed it by less than a year. He could have been celebrating with Peggy, having a round with the Howling Commandoes, but instead he was locked in the ice, frozen and unaware, and missed everything.
Two weeks alone in this cabin ("safehouse", Fury called it, although Steve can't say he feels particularly safe there) should have been just the thing to ease him into the idea that he is alive while everyone he knew and loved is dead. Director Fury said he could have "as long as he liked" to get his bearings and figure out what he wanted to do next, but apparently that came with an unspoken "or two weeks, whichever comes sooner." He knows the solitude was meant to give him time to process and adjust, read the minimal briefings that had been shoved into his hands, but really it has just given him extra time to think, to ruminate, and with that rumination, the crippling anxiety that has plagued him his entire life pushed its way to the forefront, despite his attempts to quash it. What if, what if, what if. . . "Paralysis through Analysis," Bucky called it, usually while holding him down and roughly mussing his hair. "Gotta stop thinking in circles, little buddy."
Fury told him an Agent Hill would be picking him up at 0700, but there is no clock at the cabin as far as he can find, so he has no idea how much longer he will have to wait. The sun rose while he was making the toast, which, as he had been told he is in New York, should be just before 0600 at this time of year. At least the sunrise has stayed the same, although everything else under the sun seems to have changed into something unrecognizable, foreign. . . terrifying, if he is being completely honest.
While he is washing his dishes, he hears the car coming up the winding driveway, long before he can see it. It's moving fast: the engine whines and growls through the curves, and he can hear the clatter of gravel spitting out from the tires. A cloud of dust appears over the rise, and finally the car itself is visible, screeching around the final curve and skidding to a halt in front of the house. Almost immediately the door is flung open and a figure vaults out: a woman, wearing a form-fitting black jumpsuit, dark hair pulled up into a no-nonsense bun. A beautiful woman. Steve swallows hard. He doesn't do well with women, especially beautiful women. Before the serum, they either ignored him completely, belittled him, or treated him like a child. After the serum, well, he never knew quite how to respond to the attention he was suddenly getting (and the apparent right they had felt to put their hands on him) and usually ended up awkward and tongue-tied.
So far the only woman he's interacted with in this. . . century is Lt. Press, and that was fine, mostly because he was so confused, and she so kind and helpful, that he forgot to be nervous around her. Even when she was touching him, to take his temperature and pulse, it didn't feel awkward, just comforting. But she's done now, she told him yesterday she wouldn't be back. Reassigned, she said, as if he's just another impersonal chore instead of a human being.
As he is drying his hands, he hears her footsteps coming up the front steps—click click click—and then a rapid ratatatat of her knock on the door. No hesitation, no uncertainty. Brisk. Efficient. Terrifying.
He opens the door with the towel still in his hand, and takes an involuntary step back at her posture: arms tightly folded across her chest, mouth tight, jaw clenched. His fingers tighten around the towel and his mouth suddenly goes dry with anxiety.
"Agent Hill," she barks without preamble. "Are you ready to go?"
"Yes, Ma'am," he responds, spine straightening automatically.
Her eyes flick downward to the towel dangling from his fist. "Do you want to put the towel away first?" she asks in a sharp voice.
He looks down at the towel, which he forgot he was still holding, and says quickly, "Yes, Ma'am" before darting toward the kitchen. When he returns, she is still standing just outside the door, but now she has his duffel over her shoulder.
"I can carry that," he says quickly, reaching for the bag, but she just makes a face and starts down the steps without letting him take it. He pulls the door shut and hurries after her, because what sort of man makes a lady carry his bag for him? His ma would never have stood for it. "Ma'am? I can carry my own bag."
She stops on the bottom step and whirls around, brows pulled together and mouth open as if to argue, but as her gaze sweeps over his face, she suddenly stops, shrugs, and hands the bag to him. "Whatever," she says brusquely. As she turns back toward the car, she mutters something that sounds like "Fucking chivalry isn't dead after all." Steve feels his guts twist because he obviously did something wrong, but has no idea what it might have been.
He hurries after her to open her door, but again he is too late because she is already sliding into the driver's seat, both hands on the steering wheel, thumbs drumming out an impatient rhythm. He quickly tosses his duffel into the back and squeezes into the front passenger seat before she can drive away without him.
They take off with a screech of tires and a rattle of flying gravel. Steve's foot presses automatically against an imaginary brake pedal. They are going much too fast for his comfort, but Agent Hill doesn't even seem to notice his distress. She just stares straight ahead, expressionless. He keeps sneaking glances at her out of the corner of his eye, and quickly looking away again before she can catch him.
Several miles of this later, Steve swallows hard and finally ventures a question. "Ma'am? Where are we going?"
"Fury didn't tell you?"
"No, Ma'am."
"Son of a bitch." (Steve tries not to wince at her language) "All right, I guess he left that up to me too. We got you an apartment in New York."
He sits up straighter with a little jolt of interest at that news. Finally, something familiar. "Brooklyn?"
"North Brooklyn. Not exactly your old neighborhood, but close."
"Oh." He sinks back down into the seat again, but now keeps a careful watch out of the side window, just in case he sees something he recognizes. So far it has mostly been trees and farmlands and the occasional cow. He thinks perhaps he is upstate somewhere, but he has always been a city boy so all of this rural stuff pretty much looks alike to him. Just rolling hills and trees as far as the eye can see. Peaceful. He leans his forehead against the side window and lets his eyes slide shut. The whiny engine settles into a comforting hum. . .
He wakes with a start, hand flying out to grab for a falling Bucky, but instead it hits something hard. Where—? Oh, yeah, car. Window. Wrong century. Bucky has been dead for seventy years now, not that it makes the pain any less. He shoots an anxious glance over at Agent Hill, who is looking at him with her eyebrow raised.
"Sorry," he mumbles, rolling his neck to work the crick out.
"You ok?"
"Yes, ma'am."
She gives him a once-over, makes a sort of huffing sound, and turns her eyes back to the road. "Sure you are," she says in a sarcastic voice. "You break a window in my car, it's coming out of your bank account."
". . .All right." What bank account? Last he checked, he had less than ten dollars stuffed in the bottom of his foot locker, but he has no idea where it is now.
She goes back to ignoring him, so he pushes himself up in his seat and peers out the window. The scenery has changed—instead of green trees and farmlands, it's all gray and brown: concrete, brick, broken pavement with scraggly wilted blades of grass growing out of the cracks. This looks more like home, but still he can't say he recognizes anything.
"Look this way," Agent Hill says unexpectedly.
"Huh?" He turns to find her pointing out her side of windshield. When he cranes his neck, he suddenly gets a glimpse of a river (Harlem River, maybe?) and beyond that. . . oh GOD! "Is that. . . is that Manhattan?" he asks incredulously.
Her lips twist in a half-grin. "Yep."
He can make out the tip of the Empire State Building, which he remembers as being constantly under construction. It looks like they finally finished it, but it is no longer the tallest building in the skyline. He can see at least two others that are taller. One has a stylized S on the side, and the other is even taller, with the top few floors still a skeleton of rebar and steel supports.
"What's that really tall one? Looks like it's not done yet."
"Oh, um. . . Yeah. 'Freedom' Tower," she says with a tinge of something that might be sadness in her voice.
"What?" he says, confused. Why would a building make her sad?
"Never mind. I'll tell you about it later, ok?"
"Ok."
-0-
They cross the Brooklyn Bridge, which is nearly the same as he remembers it. And hey—he even recognizes the Hotel Bossert in front of them. His heart starts thumping and his stomach twists into painful knots. Home. . .
But once across the bridge, they turn left instead of right, onto an unfamiliar road, an ugly gray elevated highway with a divider down the middle, that takes him away from Home. Nothing in front of him looks familiar. He can't help but twist to look back over his shoulder in the cramped seat, hoping for a glimpse of something he recognizes, but it is all just anonymous stone and glass buildings. Maybe that one used to be a bakery? But now it has a bright colorful sign sticking out of the top that advertises LIVE NUDE GIRLS. Really?
A few miles on, Hill pulls the car over to the curb in front of a neat brick building several stories high, with a cheerful red awning over the front door. It doesn't look new, and it clearly is no mansion, but it is definitely nicer than any apartment building he has ever lived in.
"We're here," Hill says briskly, stepping out of the car before he can even get his door open. He scrambles to retrieve his bag before she can grab it and follows her up to the front door, which she opens by punching in a code. She leads the way at a fast clip down the hall and up three sets of stairs. He has to take the steps two at a time to keep up with her.
On the third floor, Hill abruptly stops halfway down a brightly lit hallway, pulls out the keys and opens the door to unit 314. She goes in, but he grinds to a halt in the doorway, mouth open. Even completely empty, the apartment is gorgeous. Hardwood floors. Large windows with a view of the tree-lined street below. Freshly painted white walls. Through a doorway he spots a kitchen that would have made his mother drool.
"Wow. . ." he breathes. He can never afford a place like this, not in a million years. What is he going to do? The thought of having to tell Agent Hill that he can't stay there makes his stomach hurt.
Hill takes several steps into the living room, heels clicking on the hardwoods. She has pulled something small and rectangular from her pocket and is tapping at it furiously. Then suddenly she spins around and fixes him with an intimidating glare. Steve feels his spine straighten automatically. His heels click together and his shoulders pull back.
He hears Hill snort derisively. "At ease, soldier," she snaps. Steve doesn't have to think about that either: Feet shoulder width apart, hands clasped behind his back.
Now Hill is rolling her eyes, so he has messed up again. Has the meaning of 'at ease' changed in the past seventy years?
"I didn't mean that. Just. . .relax. I'm not here to give you orders; I'm just passing along what Director Fury told me to tell you."
"Oh. Um. . ." Suddenly Steve doesn't know what to do with his hands. At his sides was obviously wrong, and clasped behind his back is apparently wrong too. He is keenly aware of how big his body is, taking up too much space, intrusive. Things hadn't been easier, exactly, when he was smaller, but in some ways. . .
Noticing the look of growing exasperation on her face, he settles for shoving his hands awkwardly in his pockets.
Her expression doesn't soften. If anything, she looks even more annoyed with him. Her mouth twists and she lets out a harsh, impatient breath through her nose. "All right, whatever. Director Fury wants me to get you up to speed on life in the twenty-first century, whatever that means, and I guess we need to start today because you can't exactly stay in a completely empty apartment." Her voice rises in volume and now echoes off the blank walls while she gestures around the room. The small rectangular device is still in her hand. It almost looks like a mirror, but Steve can see that the front of it is lit up. Is it some sort of flashlight? Why would she need a flashlight when the lights are on?
"So, leave your bag here and go back to the car, I guess. Lesson one is how to shop for furniture and shit like that," Hill continues in a hard voice. Steve is finding it hard to concentrate because he is distracted by the strange device. There are words across the front of it now, words that he is sure weren't there before.
The words say Deal with it.
