A/N: Here's chapter three! Hopefully, I can keep this updated, but school is like being an Avenger sometimes: you don't choose when it calls you to duty. Anyway, so I hope you enjoy this new chapter. Please review! ;)
»»WINTERSOLDIER««
CHAPTER THREE:
Eleven hours later, it's two o'clock in the afternoon, and I'd found no one. I made my to the top of a tall building that overlooked the area. As I gazed out over my surroundings, I could see that the entire city was in a dull state of panic, and smoke is still rising from the helicarriers crash site. Helicopters hovered overhead, taking in the scene and displaying it throughout the world. I could see rescue teams still working; ambulances pulling up and driving away, laden with the dead and injured; police and sniffer dogs scrounging the area for survivors and traitors.
The helicarrier crash left no one unaffected.
I stared for a while, looking on as the wreckage burned. My eyes played over the river, at the pieces of metal still visible under the Potomac, and found myself glaring at the spot that I had dragged my mission ashore. I stood still, trying not to think about him. But instead I kept thinking: was he alive? Did he die after I left? Was he rescued? Who is he? Why did he save me? Why did I save him? What is wrong with me?
Finally, I gave up and pulled out my sniper rifle and swung it up. I peered through the scope, and I could see, very clearly, the place where I had dragged him ashore and left him. There was an indent in the mud, and a set of footprints next to it that weren't mine. I deduced that someone had come down from a helicopter and picked him up.
Good.
I followed the path that I had taken away from him, and saw that many pairs of footprints followed my trail as well, out of the mud and into the woods.
I was being hunted.
I quickly slung my rifle on my back and ducked low, snaking to the edge of the building and leaping free, making my way to a lower level. I kept jumping from roof to roof, my feet landing with a thud on each building, until I reached ground level.
As soon as my booted feet hit asphalt, I bolted, racing through the open streets. I had gotten maybe two hundred yards when suddenly, I heard a voice yell: "Daddy! Look! A man with a metal arm!"
I whipped around, pulling out my pistol and aiming it at the speaker. It was little girl, clinging to her father's hand. I faltered, as I always felt queer about shooting children, but my aim never left the girl's head. People screamed and ran, but the father yanked his daughter behind him a pushing her behind a statue. My aim switched to his head, and he threw his hands up as if his arms could block my bullets.
An image flashed through my head; a half second of a scene: the fuzzy silhouette of two figures kicking at a smaller one. The smaller on was on the ground, his arms raised, trying to protect his face. I heard my voice shout out something, and the two other figures turned in surprise. Then they zoomed up in my vision as if I had rushed them.
I staggered backward, dropping my aim to the ground and blinking hard. Another image appeared: my mission, laying on the ground, small and thin, with blood trickling out the corner of his mouth and a defiant, grateful look on his was the one that the other figures had been beating. My hand reached out and he took it, and I helped him to his feet.
I rasped, staring at my hand that was still gripping the pistol, and I dropped it. It clattered to the ground and I raised my head. The father had taken my hesitation and ducked behind the statue with his daughter. People were still frantically scrambling away, glancing back at me and screaming.
I stood there, staring at my hand, running what I had just seen through my head. It was still there. I could feel it. But who was that boy I helped up? I couldn't remember. Who was it? It was there, so close I almost touch it!
I must've stood there for longer than I thought.
A pop. A sharp pain seared through my right arm. A bullet.
I started with a short yell, gripping my arm and turned toward my attackers. Three police cars had pulled up on either side of me, blocking the roadway. Twelve policemen scrambled out of their vehicles, weapons training on me. I couldn't tell if they planned to take me alive, or if they were ordered to kill.
I assumed they were going to take me alive, right up until I sneezed.
Then they'd shoot me.
I straightened up, letting go of my injured arm and staring at them, not batting an eyelash. On one hand, I wanted to gun them all down for daring to hurt me. What could they do against the Asset? On the other hand, something held me back. A strange sense that I couldn't place, like someone was holding my hands.
"Get down!" one of the policemen shouted. "Get on your knees and put your hands on your head!"
I stood still. I heard twelve guns click. And then I leaped in the air, landing five feet away from my original position and running toward the police cars to my left. I heard the pop-pop-pop of their weapons as they fired at me, but I dodged and ducked till I reached the first car. I pushed two policemen into their counterparts and jumped onto the hood of the car, vaulting over it and sprinting for my escape: a manhole.
The policemen behind yelled at each other, random orders that would do them no good. I flipped the manhole cover off with a flick of my metal wrist and dived into the blackness.
Immediately I tucked into a ball, rolling as I hit the ground and coming to my feet. I broke into a sprint and ran blindly through the dark. I reached into a pocket and pulled out a pair of night vision googles. I slipped them on, my eyes adjusting and my brain filtering through my surroundings.
Behind me I heard the policemen, still yelling for backup and helping each other down to try to catch me.
Despite it all – my sudden memory, my failure, and my current situation – I smirked grimly underneath my mask; a knowing, cruel smile.
They could chase me, but they couldn't catch me.
I was like a ghost.
What did people call me?
Ah, yes.
I was the Winter Soldier.
»»WINTERSOLDIER««
To be continued...