A/N: Hey! If you've read my other stories, this one is kind of an alternate idea of what Bucky, Natasha, and Steve might have done immediately after the movie. I hope you all enjoy their adventures :)

1. Borderline Dead Inside

The van came to a halt abruptly. He tightened his grip on the seat beneath him and watched with some concern as the bound man on the floor slid forward on the rough floor. There was a groan emanating from the bag on the man's head, but he did not seem to have been further injured. The driver came around and opened the back doors. Though they had just arrived, there were already nearly a half dozen men standing outside, fully armed and shifting uncomfortably. He glanced at the other guy in the back of the van with him, who nodded. They both got to their feet, then bent down to lift the prisoner by his arms and drag him out the back.

They were surrounded as they repositioned themselves to drag the man, upright, inside the bunker. The prisoner was near consciousness, but his feet did not help them, just hanging listlessly. His head lolled back and forth with the rhythm of their steps. He began to worry again. The boss considered this guy to be very valuable. If anything happened to him… Things wouldn't look good for the three men who'd gone to fetch him. He wondered if the driver had taken advantage of the situation to make himself scarce. The mission had not exactly gone according to plan.

The crowd of mercenaries made its way down a cold concrete hallway, the occasional light hanging unadorned from the ceiling to harshly light their path. The ground sloped downward sharply and it became difficult to keep the prisoner from sliding ahead of them. Many of the other men were beginning to hang back, securing the van and the doors, rather than continue with them to their destination. He wished he was able to do the same. His skin began to crawl as they entered the room where prisoners were always brought. There was a metal chair in the center, and they headed toward it. With some effort, they dragged the prisoner into it and secured his ankles and wrists. There wasn't a sound except a distant dripping of water somewhere. The sounds of the others had faded and the two men glanced at each other nervously.

The door at the other side of the room opened silently and a man stepped out. The boss. Both men started; he made for an intimidated figure. He didn't know if it was because of the man's height, or his build, or the sinister mask covering his face, or maybe it was just the atmosphere of the room where he chose to meet his men. But he couldn't wait to be dismissed.

"Report."

He cleared his throat and glanced at his fellow, whose eyes were wide and afraid. "They knew we were coming, sir. We managed to get this one, but the rest escaped." He looked away when those unfeeling eyes turned from the prisoner to meet his. "I'm sorry, sir," he added nervously, looking at his feet.

The silence stretched and he wondered if the boss would kill him. The stories about him were legendary and terrifying. He hadn't seen him in action, but definitely didn't want to if he was on the opposite side. He glanced at his friend again, and wondered if his own face looked as obviously petrified. He was aware of the boss looking between them, and at the prisoner, considering something.

"Leave."

They did not need to be told twice, exiting the room as quickly as they could without seeming too much like they were fleeing. They climbed the sloping floor back up to where the others were.

"You lived!" one of them, Edwards, cried, laughing and handing them a flask. They were quickly surrounded, hands patting them on the back. He found himself smiling in relief.

"How'd he take it?" another man, Pacheco, asked.

"I don't know. He just told us to go."

"Well, consider yourselves lucky. I've heard some pretty nasty stories."

"Like what?"

They all turned to face the new guy, Jones. He seemed to immediately regret his question, making a face. "Do you know what you signed up for, my friend?" Edwards asked, clapping his arm around the shoulders of the newest recruit.

"I… To get paid," Jones guessed.

They all laughed. "To do what?" Edwards pressed.

"Um, take down the enemies of whoever is paying us," he tried again.

"Oh, yeah, we destroy cartels, put down rebellions, take down governments, all that fun stuff. But why do you think the boss recruited us?" Edwards asked.

Jones looked confused. "For man power," he said matter-of-factly.

His frown deepened as the men around him laughed grimly. "There's never more than a dozen of us. No, my friend, we are here to gather intel for him. To pick up prisoners for him to interrogate. He can't take prisoners himself. Do you know why?" Edwards leaned forward conspiratorially.

"No," Jones replied slowly, eyes widening.

"Because he just leaves a wake of destruction where ever he goes. I've been on a mission with him. If you're ever lucky enough to go, just remember, stay out of his way." The new recruit looked around nervously, and the others nodded at him, confirming the statement. "He doesn't need us. We just come in handy, doing the leg work on finding the next target or client. So, try not to be like these two and let him down," he added, patting them on the shoulders. "They are lucky to still be breathing."

"Yeah, I've never been so terrified in my life," his friend admitted, laughing awkwardly.

The men laughed with him, not callously. There were many ghost stories about the man they served, and killing a whole team because a couple of guys screwed up was not out of the realm of possibility. So they were all relieved that there did not seem to be any repercussions. The group of mercenaries began to dissipate, cleaning weapons, eating, sleeping. There was always something that needed doing, and there was a growing tension as everyone tried not to listen for whatever was happening to the prisoner, down that cold, dark hallway.

It was hot here. Much hotter than where he was used to being. His usual mission gear stifled, even down here underground. Still, he wore it whenever he was going to be seen. It was very effective, despite the discomfort. He stood over the man in the chair: Luis Armendariz, five foot eight, one hundred forty pounds, known HYDRA agent. Armendariz had been travelling between bases, fleeing the one he had recently destroyed. He'd wanted his men to find the next base, or at least bring him back a few men who could be turned against each other. But they had failed. He was considering what to do about that.

Armendariz was unconscious, and likely to remain so for a while. He turned away and walked back into his quarters. They were fairly bare; he never stayed in one place for long, and it was not as though he had anything sentimental to carry around with him. The intel he had gathered on the locations of remaining HYDRA cells was all contained on a laptop that sat on a makeshift desk. He sat down to review it and consider how best to discover what he needed to know. A small part of him vaguely recalled that information for his missions had once been on paper, then computer screen, then holographic projections. Very little time seemed to have passed between these changes, though he'd been made aware that his perceptions were off. He pushed the thoughts away. They weren't relevant to his current mission and he knew what could happen if he mused too long on the past.

He was aware that, after the war, Nazis had fled to South America. It came as no surprise that HYDRA had done the same, both then and more recently. They were attempting to consolidate, to regroup, to return to their former glory while SHIELD was barely limping along and the world reacted to their continued existence with disbelief. He was not going to allow their success. He needed to work fast. He needed Armendariz to talk. Interrogation was messy, inefficient. It was not a skill he had possessed, perhaps at any point. He rubbed his face with his hand, passing it through his hair and sighing heavily. Then he rose from his seat and returned to the interview room.

Down the hallway, the mercenaries all froze where they were. A few slowly turned their heads toward the sloping hallway, staring into the darkness. Most looked anywhere else. After an agonizing pause of close to a minute, they all began to chat loudly and insistently with anyone nearby, the words they spoke irrelevant. The only thing that mattered was to drown out the noise, the terrible noise, that echoed against the concrete and sounded as loud as if they were all in that room with the prisoner. The three who had gone to fetch him looked positively sick.

After only a few minutes, though it felt much longer, the sounds were cut off abruptly. They fell silent again, listening hard against their better judgment. "Edwards," a voice called quietly. It was not loud or harsh or commanding, but more effective than any other boss they had heard. Edwards immediately rushed down the hall, leaving the remaining men glancing at each other and smiling weakly in relief. No man wanted to hear his name spoken by that voice.

He stood in front of the chair containing the prisoner. Armendariz had lost consciousness again. He waited patiently as footsteps approached and stopped at the doorway. Edwards had probably been with him the longest, but that kind of thing was continuing to be difficult for him to keep track of. He glanced up, aware of the effect his masked face had on his men. It was not the same mask as before, that was long gone, but he wanted to keep his face covered. Facial recognition software was nothing new, and he did not want to be found. Not yet, anyway.

"Take him to a cell."

"Yes, sir," Edwards replied, moving from where he had been standing almost at attention just outside. He stepped back and watched the other man unfasten the restraints and pull Armendariz from the chair and drag him away. He waited until they were some ways down the hallway before approaching the door and pulling it shut. Then he gritted his teeth and walked up to the chair. It was unpleasant, having it here, bringing back dozens of terrible memories. Having it so close to where he slept was worse still. It's not like mine, he repeated to himself, often as a mantra. It would not have done any permanent damage to Armendariz, only painful while attached and running. When he woke up, his mind would merely remember some discomfort, but otherwise be unaffected.

He went over to the console beside the chair and pressed a few of the controls. The results were confusing, and close to gibberish, but he perused them carefully, searching. Three locations presented themselves as the most significant in Armendariz's thoughts: one in Brazil, one in the Dominican Republic, and one in the Ukraine. There was no way to further isolate the information and narrow it down further. The intel he had on Armendariz did not indicate that any of these were significant for another reason, so they would have to search them all.

He returned to his quarters and uploaded the information onto his laptop. He gazed at the map it provided thoughtfully, a brief image flashing before his eyes of a similar map laid out on a table before him, covered with small physical representations of troops and bases. He shook it away, focusing on the digital one instead. Then he walked out of the room, across interrogation and opened the door to the corridor.

"Prepare to move. We leave at dawn."