"Hail Hydra!" he shouted, just loudly enough for the civilians below to hear him. Some ignored him, others cocked their heads and wondered why a masked man was on a rooftop shouting about Hydra. Some probably wondered why there was a helicopter behind him. But none of them seemed particularly threatened by him. "New Yorkers," he muttered and he placed his rifle on a bipod.
His handler paid for thirty dead targets. They estimated it would take as many for the good Captain to make an appearance. Nobody told him why the Captain had to die, but money is money.
The suppressor did little to soften the gunshot. The bullet tore through some woman's neck and bore into the abdomen of the man standing behind her. The people around them frenzied as he painted the sidewalks red. Instead of firing wildly into the crowd like most snipers would do, the assassin focused his mind as adrenaline rushed through his veins. And before his very eyes, time appeared to slow down. He could see each individual movement, feel the wind on his face, and time each shot so that nothing missed.
Of course time didn't actually slow down, it just felt that way to him. But less than a minute later sirens were blaring and policemen were arriving, only to be cut down before they could do anything.
Thirteen casualties, and not a hero in sight. So he kept shooting. When the SWAT chopper arrived the police probably thought they had one. So he shot the pilot too.
The chopper fell to the ground, exploding in an inferno of gasoline and twisted steel. Twenty-four dead, six injured, no superheroes.
Three more cops had to die before any hero could be bothered to arrive. He just wasn't the hero that was supposed to show up. He knew he wasn't alone a second before there was a gob of web all over his rifle, binding it to the edge of the roof.
"So what do they call you?" the boy asked. He was wearing a red and blue suit with black webs splaying across it. If that wasn't obvious enough, the insignia on his chest revealed who he was. "I mean, they call me Spiderman because I'm spider themed. You're gun themed. That's pretty lame."
He was clinging to the wall of an adjacent building, close enough that they could speak without yelling but too far to shoot before he moved. "They call me Sharpshooter. It's a bit flamboyant for my taste, but I don't mind. Makes me feel like a super villain."
"I don't know if you've heard, but super villains don't do well in this town."
"Why don't you come down here and fight me like a man?" Sharpshooter asked as he drew a knife from his belt. It was a gift from his handler –one of many such gifts- a knife made of vibranium, the same material as Captain America's shield.
"I don't suppose I could convince you to come up here and fight like a spider," he replied. When he didn't get a response, he shot webs from his wrists at the sniper's chest and jumped down to kick him. To his surprise, the man was able to evade the web and the kick. As the spider landed, Sharpshooter drove his blade into the boy's back.
"Good talk, kid," he said as he looked over the balcony. The blade had dug fairly far, but it was nothing that wouldn't heal. Most people would die from it, but his healing factor would fix it in a few hours. In the meantime, however, he was too injured to move. "Now where's the other guy who dresses in an American flag?"
The other guy who dresses in an American flag was in fact on his way to help, although he didn't have time to put on his suit. Steve Rogers had only a leather jacket and his shield, but that would be enough to overcome one little terrorist. After all, Rogers had super strength. What could stop that?
Sharpshooter saw him coming two blocks away. The guy was fast, but a bullet later he had a limp and wasn't particularly fast after that. Still, there were only minutes to prepare. Soon the world's most sought after assassin would go toe-to-toe with the world's first superhero.
He returned to the chopper, stepping over a Spiderman still writhing in pain, and retrieved a crate of weapons. Now, these weren't particularly conventional weapons, and they had been acquired specifically for this mission. First and foremost was a pistol used by the Dark Elves who attacked London. It fired a red bolt on energy similar to Chitauri weapons. But perhaps more importantly were the grenades. These weren't typically grenades, they could collapse matter into a single point, leaving nothing at all. If S.H.I.E.L.D. hadn't been destroyed it would be impossible to find weapons like this.
"Last time I was in New York-"
"I don't care," Sharpshooter cut the Captain off. "Mr. Rogers it was quite a lot of work getting you here so I would just like to get down to brass tax."
Before the hero could utter some witty response, a bolt of red energy tore though his shoulder. Then another struck his already injured leg. When the third came at him, he managed to deflect it. Before he regained his senses, the assassin was on him with a knife. It slashed across his arm, leg, and chest before the shield caught it. Instead of switching weapons like Rogers thought he would, he drove the knife into the shield until it came out the other side.
Rogers stepped back, somewhat shocked. Sharpshooter twirled the knife in his hand, tauntingly. He threw the shield with enough force to knock down a Norse god. Only a handful of people could have caught it straight on.
Sharpshooter was not one of those people, so he turned as it came at him and grabbed it from the side. He was just strong enough to turn it so it flew back at its owner. Rogers was caught so off guard by the maneuver that he didn't notice the grenade at his feet.
Before he could even try to move, the lower half of his body was consumed in the explosion. The rooftop was slick with crimson blood. The poor man couldn't possibly live. "It's been an honor, meeting such an American hero," the sniper said as he boarded his chopper. "Such a shame we had to cut it short."
As the chopper took off, Spiderman stood up. For a moment he considered attacking sharpshooter, but he knew how that would go. Instead he wanted to comfort the Captain. He took off his mask as he knelt next to his idol.
"Spiderman?" Rogers coughed. "I'm a big fan. But God, you are too young for this. Are you still in high school?"
"I actually just graduated. Now come on, we need to get you to a hospital."
"Kid, I'm beat. There's nothing they can do for me. But you can do something," his voice was getting shakier. No amount of super-soldier serum could help him now.
"Anything." Of course he'd do anything. He still had vintage Captain America trading cards and an action figure in his room.
"Go to the tower. Find Stark. Make him help."
"Stark. You mean Iron Man. Well I'll try, but I don't think he'll listen to me."
"Take the shield. Show him the shield and he'll listen." His eyes were starting to roll back now. They both knew it was his time to go.
"I will," he said with tears in his eyes. This wasn't the first time he watched a friend die on a rooftop.
"Kid, you're gonna be the best of us. Go get 'em."