A Brain in a Bottle: Part 1 of Who Knows How Many.
Black Widow gets Mr. Barnes to talk. There is a troubling discovery.
Steve watched from the threshold of the living area as she unloaded the contents of her bag onto the kitchen bar table and pulled up a chair.
"You two going to be alright?" he asked, eyes on his friend.
"I'm a certified babysitter, Steve, what would possibly go wrong?" she joked through a tight smile.
When Steve was gone, things went downhill rather quickly-although if the intent was to get some interaction out of the soldier, that was undeniably successful. With his hand around her throat and her back against the wall he snarled, "What did you do to Steve? What did you do to him?"
With a well aimed kick and a swift pulse to his chromed serratus, Widow had him on the floor. She righted her barstool and took a seat. "I would be delighted to discuss Steve. But I don't think I understand your question." She rubbed the ribbing of her throat.
"I don't play games, kid." He stood with a snarl on his face, right hand trying to force sensation back into the left.
"I am entirely serious, Mr. Barnes."
"What are you playing at?"
"Sit on the couch over there Mr. Barnes, and no harm will come to either of us. I would like to answer your questions."
He stared at the couch for a long moment, suspecting some trick, then sat. The plates on his arm recalibrated. "Where's Steve?" he finally asked.
"He's buying carrots. You think I have done something to Steve?"
"You gonna let them get Steve? They can't be far."
"They are dead, Mr. Barnes. You killed them."
His expression fluxed from accusation to incomprehension. "No I didn't."
When bodies of missing SHIELD/HYDRA agents started turning up, it was not apparent whether they were being eliminated as liabilities or if it was an outside job, an arm of the US government, or any number of the anarchist vigilantes that sprung up after the declassification. But as a trail formed over the weeks, a trail that encircled America's second favorite superhero, there were two possibilities. One, Captain America was a had an unsettling nightlife, or two, someone with highly questionable morality was trying to protect him.
"Mr. Barnes, can you trust your memory?"
He folded his arms and propped on foot up on the coffee table defiantly. "'Course."
Widow smiled wickedly. "Okay." She stood and slid a glossy photo off the table and displayed it at a tentative distance for him. "Remember this?"
His face darkened and he lowered his foot to the hardwood floor. "That's not me. Who- do you see this? This man, I had a - plan- And somebody else just-" He snatched the paper out of Widow's grip and held the figure in the light.
"Mr. Barnes, it's you."
"No you don't-"
"Barnes, who else would-"
"I never-"
"Barnes, your fingerprints match those at the crime scene."
He let the accusation slide and took a moment to form a sufficiently emphatic glare. "Miss Romanov, what you don't realize about me is that I remember each hit I made since they did this to me." His fists tightened against the image.
Widow pursed her lips. "Well check your logic mister. You don't remember the ones they made you forget."
