"Off the Grid-Part II"
"The summer soldier and the sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of their country;"- Thomas Paine, The American Crisis, December 1776.
"I believe he meant that, the summer soldiers are only patriots when it's easy to be, but the winter soldier is a true soldier for the cause." – Ed Brubaker.
Hydra Base
Tuesday
1700 hours
Time pending: 14 hours
The Winter Soldier lay on his bed, eyes to the ceiling as his mind roamed over the events from yesterday.
A knock on the door drew him out of his illusion, and he turned his gaze towards the door.
Another knock, this time more urgent, caused the soldier to get up from the mattress, his form automatically reverting to a defensive stance. A product of conditioning.
"Dude...its Roj"
The soft voice...almost a whisper emanating from the other side, broke his stance. He moved quickly towards the door, opening it and letting the Blond man enter. Checking to make sure there were no visible threats, he closed the door, locking it.
Roj made his way towards the bed, dropping a large duffel bag onto the soldier's mattress.
"Christmas came early," the Blond man quipped, sarcasm hanging onto his tone.
The soldier simply made his way to the bag, opening it and shuffling through the contents inside. Ammunition, Kevlar, leather, the works.
"Got you a couple of the pistols on your list...fully loaded, with a few packs of ammo to spare. You're welcome," then, "I couldn't find the HK assault rifle. But I did find something better" Roj nodded, as he saw the Winter Soldier reach in and pull out the armament in reference.
"AK-74," Roj said almost proudly, "Kalashnikov...Soviet born-and-bred; one of your kind, right?"
The soldier ran his fingers over the weapon, examining the magazine, checking the barrel jacket. Familiar terrain. Checking the safety mechanism, he hauled the rifle upwards, the butt of the instrument meeting his right shoulder. He simulated a defensive stance as his feet shifted apart to secure his balance.
Satisfied, he resumed ease, placing the rifle on the bed. Following this, he reached in and found an extra magazine in the bag. This specific model was capable of holding one 30 cartridge magazine at any given time. With only one additional magazine on hand, he would have 60 rounds, counting down. He hoped he wouldn't have to exhaust the entire lot.
Roj reached into his own backpack and retrieved two radios.
"From 'Storage'," he conveyed, handing one over to the soldier, "Brand new, unconnected to any existing line. I'm on number 6" he said, throwing one of the devices towards the soldier, who caught it mid-air.
"Mic check," Roj said into the radio, half jokingly, "Testing"
The soldier flipped the switch on his device, changing to line 6 as per Roj's instruction.
"Roger" came the reply in kind.
"Got some good news with the beacon, by the way," Roj began, sitting on the edge of the mattress, "I managed to sway one of remaining guards on duty at Security for a short while. Radio'd him to get his ass outside and check up on the surrounding vicinity; Rumlow's orders. The fool didn't even place a substitute to cover him. Told you they were getting slack." Roj grinned.
"He was still logged in, so I played my trump card. Leeched my way into the system and de-activated my room cell. It'll now show up as 'Unoccupied' on any digital map of the building".
"Got you this too," he continued, handing over a pack of mini-disks and USBs, "'Web of Operations'; every person, every politician, scientist, every corporation affiliated with them. Hydra's blueprint".
"Sounds good," was the prompt answer, then, "There's a tracker in my arm...or so I suspect. Rumlow mentioned it in passing two nights ago. I need to have it examined"
Roj peered inquisitively at the soldier's arm—the artificial limb looking even more diabolical on closer inspection. He narrowed his eyes in thought, contemplating upon the soldier's words.
"I...I don't know anything about robotics," Roj began dejectedly.
He found himself being grabbed by the strap of his armoured vest, as his back met the hard concrete wall.
"I wasn't asking", cold eyes bore into pensive ones, "Find a way, Roj".
"You need me," Roj replied, almost tauntingly.
"Do I?" the soldier growled, pulling the smaller man forward then using the momentum to slam him forcefully against the wall.
"I've got the ammo," the soldier reached down to lightly tug at Roj's Security Card pinned at the waist, "And now I have your pass. I could get out, go invisible for a while. But they'll track me down. Just as how they'll kill you here, if I leave you. You think you can rely on Shield? Hydra may get to you, an hour before Shield does. What then?", he threatened, "You need me more than I need you, Roj. Find a way".
"Ok...Okay...hey...listen... I...I may know someone in this facility who may be of help", Roj began, his back still pressed against the wall, "This...techie, brilliant guy, mostly oversees Intel and Coding, but if it's a tracker...it's probably extractable...right? He's a night owl...leaves late. I ...we can go...meet him".
The soldier glared at the broken man before him. His eyes evinced neutrality...unconvincing and weak. Roj was scared. The Winter Soldier knew this. Wrapping his metal arm around the man's neck, he pressed slightly...the intricate pattern on the artificial limb burning into the skin on the Blond man's neck.
"Are you lying to me, Roj?"
"N...no...no, I'm not", Roj replied through, "His name...his name is Neo, well, not really, but we call him...Look he works on Level 3 okay. He'll be alone. I'll meet him right now. Confirm it for you. Please...you gotta believe me"
The soldier held his position for a few minutes, then released the injured man.
"10 minutes, Roj" he ordered, "I want confirmation in 10 minutes".
A few moments after Roj had settled himself, he reached up to rub his bruised neck. Shaking his head in annoyance he walked towards the elevator, making his way to Level 3.
8 minutes later, the soldier's radio crackled abruptly.
"He's working the night-shift, Level 3. Get him when its dark." the voice was marred by static, but it distinctively belonged to Roj.
Hydra Base
Tuesday
2300 hours
Time Pending: 8 hours
Rumlow paced in his room as he waited on a call from one of the support technicians stationed at a lower level of the building. Mild frustration became full-blown annoyance as the agent glanced at his phone for what felt like the hundredth time. He was hoping for an early leave for the night, but the issue at hand was of apparent importance.
Like water quenching thirst, the phone began to ring, cutting through the silence of the space. Quickly reaching for the device, Rumlow answered it, anticipating the worst as was in his nature.
"Status update," he mechanically relayed into the device.
"Sir, we found the source of the abnormality. It's been tied to an agent Roj...one of our own Sir", the voice on the phone relayed.
Roj, Rumlow thought, racking his brains.
Roj...he didn't recognize the name.
"Any more info?"
"Yes Sir," the technician replied, "Uhh...here...Agent Roj, initiated around two weeks prior, ex-military, clearance check came back clean...apparently. Lost his photo ID so we—"
"...Wait...hold on," Rumlow backtracked, agitated, "He lost his photo ID and you issued him with a replacement without running it through me first?!"
"Sir...I didn't..."
"We just had an incident of someone using Sanders' ID card to log into our systems. You remember Sanders don't you? K.I.A during Pasadena? There's a mole and you didn't think to run his ID through me first?!" the agent's voice berated the technician.
"Sir—".
"Alert Security," Rumlow said firmly, "Roj isn't one of ours. Do it now and do it quietly"
Shield, Hill Residence
0100 hours, 'D-Day'
Time Pending: 6 hours
Natasha strapped the pair of stingers around her wrists, attaching her signature dual-Ruger LCPs on each side of her waist. She had already suited up an hour ago and was currently pacing in one of Hill's guest rooms. The bizarre circumstances of her surroundings made her smirk somewhat. She was preparing for war in the sombre comfort of a vintage styled room, complete with fully furnished 50s decor.
Walking towards the mahogany vanity table, she examined her reflection briefly. Her bruises from the hellicarrier incident had almost healed.
A small knock on the partially opened door, turned her gaze sideways. She smiled genuinely, seeing her comrade perched against the frame, fully suited up.
"Come in, Steve", Natasha smiled.
The man they called Captain America, made his way towards the bed behind the vanity, sitting down on the edge.
"You ready for this, Natasha?" the voice gently questioned.
The question made her heart skip a beat. Natasha turned around, looking her comrade straight in the eye. She breathed in dramatically, as her head tilted sideways in contemplation.
"No, Rogers," came the dry, dead-panned reply, evoking a soft laugh from her friend.
"There's a good chance you're going to see him...Barnes...Bucky...again," she continued, trying to take heat off of her, "Are you ready?"
"I'll soon find out," came the sombre reply, followed by a well-meaning smile. Steve Rogers was charming even during the calm before the storm.
"Whatever happens Rogers," Natasha began, "You're a good person. And I have your back," she continued, surprised at her apparent sense of ethic. Then again, Steve could bring that out in a person, regardless of their past.
She reached into her backpack and pulled out a balaclava, then tied up her striking red hair into a small bun.
"First time I've seen you do that," Steve quipped, nodding towards the balaclava.
"Someone from Hydra may recognize me, Steve," she replied, attaching the cloth mask to her waist, "I had a life before Shield".
Only Natasha knew the real reason however.
The latter nodded in kind, hesitant to probe further. A few moments of silence passed when he alerted his comrade to Fury's stipulated time of 'roll-call'.
Making his way to the lounge, Steve left, leaving Natasha alone.
Hydra Base
0430 hours, 'D-Day'
Time Pending: 2 hours, 30 mins.
Blue eyes wide open, the Winter Soldier lifted himself from his mattress, thwarting the leftovers of his brief slumber. He made his way to the desk holding the duffle, reaching inside to retrieve the Kevlar vest left there by Roj. Removing his hoodie, he strapped the vest to his sturdy form, then covered it with the dark leather jacket he had worn two nights before to The Box. Retrieving a pair of fingerless leather gloves from within the bag, he strapped them on, then made his way towards the bed.
He'd laid out all of his armaments on the other side of the mattress a few hours ago. Now, he leant down to convey a final inspection.
Slipping the assault rifle into the duffel bag, he strapped two fully-loaded handguns to either side of his waist, then tucked a few clips of ammo into his back pockets. Gripping his duffel, he retrieved the radio then made his way to the door, his hand steady on the lock. The soldier waited for Roj to radio through.
Moments passed, then minutes with nothing but static on Line 6. Roj had said 5 AM. The man had been specific, even ardent about it. The soldier glanced at the simple analogue clock on the wall facing his bed, lagging behind by about 5 mins. It showed 5:10.
Shit.
Dropping his duffel, he unlocked the door to his room then stepping out into the empty hallway. Re-securing it, he made his way to the elevator, pressing for Level 5—the floor that housed Roj's room.
Once the elevator came to a stop, the soldier retreated to a corner, behind the opening doors. He waited, holding his breath for any liability that lay ahead. Satisfied after a moment's passing, he straightened his demeanour and stepped out onto the floor.
The area was dimly lit, an eerie silence hanging in the air.
Slowly, the soldier began to walk down the hallway, passing room after room, incognito to its residents. Then...he saw it.
Roj's quarters.
The lights were turned off, apparently. No one was home.
A lone guard was perched outside, rifle in hand, neutral stare covering a hard-looking mug.
Shit.
What now, the soldier wondered, as he made his way nonchalantly towards the room. The guard noticed the on-coming figure, his gaze eyeing the approaching soldier. His grip on the rifle tightened and his form stiffened.
"Morning," the Winter Soldier said, nodding at the guard who returned the greeting. Neither of them evinced a genuine offering.
"I need to speak to Roj. He has something of mine," the soldier said, eyeing the guard.
"No can do, Sir", was the firm reply, "I've got orders to deny entry to Roj's quarters. Sorry".
The soldier nodded, his otherwise neutral face almost betraying a hint of disappointment.
Before he left, the guard called out to him.
"Sir...", the man began, looking around hastily, "Between you and me...word is, Roj is under suspicion for being a mole...for Shield, Sir. Can you believe it?"
The soldier simply remained silent, as a tense sense of apprehension began to seep through his form. He maintained his stiff disposition.
"Yeah...they've taken him for interrogation, Rumlow and his men. Personally, its less of an interrogation than it is a reading of his last right, know what I mean?" the guard smirked coldly.
"Good riddance," was the stoic reply as the man with the metal arm turned on his heel, wading through the darkness once again.
He leapt up the stairs, two...three steps at a time, heart pounding deliriously, adrenalin forcefully being released into his bloodstream...fusing with his blueprint, fuelling his essence. Momentarily, he closed his eyes, as the familiarity of reckless abandon that had often embraced him during missions, returned to greet him.
The soldier carried on, breathing heavily though his nostrils, as his chest began to tighten. The sinews in his arms and legs started to constrict as his body got used to the physicality of the situation.
Roj was dead to rights. The soldier had almost felt a pang of pity, but only momentarily, as his form reverted back to stealth mode. The price of freedom was high, and at times, the price was death. It was common in his dealings, he understood. The possibility of Death.
The relative hush-hush of the situation led him to deduce that Roj's apparent betrayal was still kept on the down-low. The plan, the original one, hadn't worked. As such, he would have to improvise. The Winter Soldier would soon live up to his namesake.
He hadn't taken the elevator. The rush he got from the stairs was his warm-up. Time to leave this place.
At his floor, the soldier quietly opened the door leading from the stairs—the alternative route in an emergency. He made his way to his room, slipping in silently.
Once inside, he retreated to the sink area, lifting the ceramic lid from the tank. Grabbing the package, he tore through the plastic and retrieved the security pass. It would no doubt be of use to him in his on-going plan to escape.
Adjusting the pistols by his side, he made his way to the mattress, lifting up the pillow he usually rested his head on. The newspaper clipping of Captain Rogers was covered slightly by the page he'd stolen from his file—the one with her picture. Hastily folding both sheets and tucking them into the inside of his jacket, he made his way towards the door.
Grabbing the duffel bag, he turned one final time to survey the room that had doubled as a prison cell. He wouldn't be missing this place.
He left the poster of the 'Woman in red' behind.
A slight smirk drew across his face, as he realised he would be taking his final bow. It was overshadowed however, by one other thing playing on his mind. The soldier had one more lap left to run.
Shutting the door, he made his way to the emergency escape and down the stair towards Level 3.
The technician, the man they called Neo, would not be expecting a visitor any time soon.
All the better.
Shield Surveillance
0530 hours, 'D-Day'
Time Pending: 1 hour, 30 minutes
In an unassuming van, approximately one and a half kilometres east from Hydra's base, an agent relayed his final update to Fury.
"We got eyes on point, Sir", the man spoke into the radio, "We roll out in one hour".
Hydra Base
Time Pending: 45 minutes
On Level 3 of the base, the lone flicker of a single monitor glowered in the otherwise dimly lit space. The technician, jokingly referred to as 'Neo', sat across his keyboard, hunched over as his eyes roamed over the text before him.
Pierce had tasked him with decoding some of the files on the folder retrieved by Rumlow and Barnes two nights ago—the one effecting evidence of genetic manipulation under Project Genesis 2.0.
He had been made to sign a disclosure agreement before being assigned to the task, yet Pierce's imposing gaze was more than enough to put the fear of God...no...the fear of Pierce himself, into the young technician.
He continued to tap at his keypad, eyes glazing over as his ears picked up the distinct creak of a door being opened.
"You were supposed to come in with the pizza, 20 minutes ago," Neo said dryly and without looking up from the screen before him.
He got no reply.
Instead, he felt fingers at the back of his neck, grabbing a fistful of hair, pulling his head back then slamming it harshly against the edge of the wooden desk. The techie stumbled against his chair, as the force of the blow began to evince heavy discomfort—nerves rushing to convey signals of pain to his brain. He saw stars for a while.
"Pizza will have to wait," he heard a low voice growl, as he was dragged across the floor and shoved against the chair opposite to his own. A loaded pistol was drawn, the open barrel meeting his sweaty forehead.
"I need you to disable the tracker in my arm. Now".
The Winter Soldier cocked his gun to make his point clear.
"What...Barnes?...It's me..." the tech stumbled his words, reaching up to feel the now bleeding gash above his eyebrow and cringing at the touch, "What...what the fuck did you hit me for, asshole?!" he continued.
"There's a tracker in my arm. I need you to disable it. Remove it", the soldier repeated, "I'm not fucking around," he continued, grabbing the technician by the throat, watching his own metal fingers wrap around his victim's throat.
"Ok...okay...hold" Neo coughed out, a mixture of phlegm and blood spilling onto his white shirt, "Wait...please...I'll try..."
The soldier held his over-whelming grip for a few moments more, intent on conveying the seriousness of the situation to his victim. He looked on, as the man's eyes began to bulge slightly, the blood leaving his face. Then...he loosened his grip, shoving the man backwards.
Neo struggled to regain his sense of self, raising himself up to the chair and slumping haphazardly into it. He heaved hoarsely for a few moments, before being met with the barrel of a pistol trained on his form.
"I'll...do what you want...just don't kill me...please".
Shield Surveillance
Time Pending: 24 minutes
On the opposite end of where their fellow comrades were stationed, the Black Widow stood on a small hill overlooking the South side of Hydra's base. Retrieving one of the hand-guns strapped to her waist, she attached a scope and pinned on a laser-pointer, testing its bright red flare against the ground. Satisfied, she pulled out the balaclava from under her belt and pulled it over her cold face.
"This is the Black Widow. On call in 20"
Hydra, Level 3
Time Pending: 13 minutes
Neo narrowed his eyes letting them dance over the pattern on the soldier's arm. The gash on his head had ceased to bleed, yet it still stung.
He lifted the soldier's arm, peering closer to examine its elaborate design. It truly towed the line between functioning as a weapon of destruction, and evincing an artistic temperament. After a few moments of inspection, his hand stopped at a spot on the metallic tricep, fingers patting down on a specific spot.
"Here...see this? There's a slight gap from the bond between the arm and the forearm. It's here...the tag...the tracker," Neo said.
"Then remove it" was the prompt reply.
"I'll...I'll need some equipment...It's...I can remotely disconnect it from my monitor..."
"Disconnect it first, then extract it" the soldier ordered.
"I'll need my computer..."
Loosening his grip on the technician, he let the man go to this desktop.
A few minutes passed as Neo continued to type hastily across the keypad. The pistol was still trained on his form.
"Okay...looks like its an RFID—a Radio Frequency Identification chip. I've isolated its signal...disconnected it temporarily. You have to—"
The sound of gunshots tore through the silence of the room, as the soldier ducked underneath one of the desks, pulling the technician to his level. The sounds were loud...close, he realised, as reached to his waist to retrieve a replacement clip of ammunition. Tucking it into his pistol, he cocked the weapon and tilted his head slightly above the desk, peering towards the door.
He waited.
The door opened, and the sound of footsteps filled the air. The soldier closed his eyes...concentrating upon their movements and the frequency of their steps; two pairs, he deduced, two hostiles.
Peering slightly, he sussed out the figures.
Two men.
He'd been right.
Both Hydra.
One finger to his lips, he ordered the technician to lay low. Then, he nonchalantly stood up, gun tucked behind his back. Invisible.
The men stopped abruptly, their grip stifled on the rifles they carried.
Still, their faces bore a sense of relief upon seeing his face. A familiar. It was only temporary, however. Taking his chance, the Winter Soldier reached behind, swiftly drawing his pistol and firing two prompt shots—both close range projectiles, both point blank. Their lifeless bodies fell to the floor as the soldier grabbed his duffel and placed it on the desk, holding the technician's collar with his good hand. Opening the bag, he tucked his pistol at his waist then reached for the assault rifle. Clicking the safety off, he walked towards the door dragging the technician along.
The intensity of the gunshots increased, and the soldier could now hear muffled voices—strained and painful under the recurring chaos. Shield, he realised, as he reached the door. It was Shield. They had decided to ambush the place after all, despite Roj's current predicament.
He opened the door, clutching the rifle in his arm steadily whilst leading the technician down the hallway. The air was hazy—the result of a couple of smoke bombs going off—and the soldier narrowed his eyes, struggling somewhat to decipher his surroundings. He could hear the distinct sound of on-coming footsteps and he readied his rifle as such, barrel pointed towards the echo.
One figure...male...around the corner.
That, he could make out.
He raised the weapon, finger on the trigger when...
No...
NO...his mind screamed at him.
The uniform...it was different.
Not Hydra.
The figure wasn't affiliated with Hydra, he realised a little too late.
The soldier faltered slightly, unsure whether to shoot; an unprecedented move for him. They—Shield—weren't his enemy, yet he wasn't significant to them per se.
His brief hesitation had cost him.
The figure raised a pistol, firing a few shots at his form. On instinct, the soldier ducked, then rolled across the floor towards one of the adjacent spaces, taking cover under the smoky haze. In the chaos, he had lost Neo.
The soldier cursed under his breath, as he readied his weapon. His tracker had been disconnected, yet he'd feel better upon the complete extraction of the RFID. Still, beggars couldn't be choosers and right now, he was in no real position to command the fortune of choice.
He waited in the shadows until the figure that had shot at him, walked past his space. When he found himself alone, he darted towards the stairs, security pass in hand.
Running down the stairs, he came upon a few more Hydra agents—all relieved to see his armoured form, all wrong in their assessment of his intent. They had been on the receiving end of his gunfire, as he'd emptied a few rounds into them...deep red blood tainting the white of the walls. He continued downward towards the underground garage.
An emergency beacon had been tipped off now, and the building had been shrouded in darkness—the only visible light available, emanated from the flashing orange bulbs erected on the side walls of the stairwell.
Descending the few flights of stairs, the soldier finally found himself facing a huge concrete wall—the only thing separating him from captivity and relative freedom. He held up the security pass and tapped the barcode against the scanner on the kiosk to his right.
"Welcome, Mr. Sanders," a mechanical voice relayed pleasantly over the speakers.
He waited for an entrance then made his way towards the key-rack. Most of the vehicles were coded, not according to their licence plates but by a numerical sequence, only privy to the actual owner.
Annoyed, his eyes lowered towards the 3 sets of keys in the bottom-left-hand section—those that keyed into motorcycles. He took all three sets then made his way to the holding bay.
The soldier was successful on his second try, as he flung the rifle over his right shoulder and waited for the metal door to reel up and over the Bay. Revving the bike in anticipation, he rode it across the dividing line separating the inside of the garage and the outside vicinity.
Cold air greeted him, and he reached for his pistol, cocking the trigger and firing without remorse at any hostiles in the immediate area.
The base was still shrouded in darkness, he noticed as he turned his head to assess the damage. A fire had broken out on one of the upper levels, and the sound of gunshots continued to prevail, challenged only by screams of agony and pleas for back-up. He turned back, eyes following the road and the path that lay ahead.
In the distance, a lone humvee veered towards him. Hydra, he knew, pulling the trigger of his pistol and firing a few rounds at its tires. He revved the bike and chucked the pistol aside, twisting the handle bar to take him off-road and up a small hill, away from the approaching humvee.
From his far left, he could hear the continuous shots of an assault rifle in his direction. Sweat dripping down the side of his head, he manoeuvred his bike under the heat of fire, just barely managing to evade the on-coming bullets.
The humvee had resumed its intended course, making its way further into the Base.
Slowing down, he abruptly twisted the handle and re-angled the bike towards the road he had just left, halting the vehicle, leaving the engine running. He reached behind his back and retrieved his assault rifle, popping a new magazine in the groove and locking it in place. Re-attaching it to his shoulder, he reached for the helmet strapped to the left-rear end of the bike, pulling it over his head and flipping the visor down.
The soldier looked on towards the road, waiting momentarily in anticipation for any visible threat. Most of the action was centre-field—at the Base itself. He thought he heard the distinct sound of sirens blaring in the distance.
Reaching a gloved fist towards the hand clutch, he held the brake down briefly as he revved up the machine. Smoke and the smell of burning rubber affected the cool, morning air.
Then...he left the brake, as the motorcycle lunged forward, the momentum of pent-up torque pushing him forward...faster...down the dirt path and onto the main road again, as he twisted the hand clutch...wide eyes trained on the digital speedometer, pupils dilating as the number of the dial rose...taking him faster...faster and farther away into the light of the early dawn.
He did not look back this time.
Hydra
0745 hours
'D-Day'
Neo—the technician hired by Pierce to decode Project Genesis 2.0—found himself headlining the worst day of his life thus far.
The young man had come to consciousness—the gash on his forehead enacted prior, still evincing a harsh sting. His hands, he discovered, had been bound behind the chair that held him and he'd tilted his neck upwards, coming face-to-face with...
He hadn't recognized the figure that stood before him—a black balaclava was used as a mask. He'd been too disoriented to decipher anything else.
Behind the figure, stood the man he'd identified as Captain America—the all-encompassing smile frequently displayed on posters and memorabilia, being replaced by a mean looking glare.
They had questioned him...hurt him. They had forced him to relay any knowledge on the whereabouts of Barnes. He was not a soldier moulded for combat; merely a technician who stayed to the side-lines. As such, he had broken down eventually; told them about Barnes...about the tracker that was still implanted in the soldier's metal limb. About how he could help them track down the man known as the Winter Soldier.
"It's not extracted yet," he'd told them, "I severed the signal, only temporarily though. As long as it's still in his arm...I...I can track him. I can find him...for you. Just...please...don't kill me" the technician pleaded.
"You're coming with us".
'D-Day'
0930 hours
DreamStart Homes Construction site
The darkness of the early dawn had passed and the sun was a quarter way to its highest point in the sky. Chirping birds and the distant sound of an ice-cream truck tune broke the otherwise sombre silence of the surroundings. A few rays of light broke through the dusty windows in the partially finished home. Planks of wood, nails—new and used and various tools were strewn carelessly around the lounge area of the house—leftover from the previous day no doubt.
Coming up to the dusty, half-completed kitchen counter, the Winter Soldier propped the black duffel bag on its surface, unzipping it. He looked inside checking to make sure every item was in place. Satisfied, he reached into his back pocket to retrieve a snack bar—the last of what he had stolen from the mess hall a few hours ago.
After his breach from Hydra, he had kept riding, trying to suss out potential cool spots to lay low in. He'd found the current place, a little over 20 miles from Hydra's Base—not very far, but inconspicuous nonetheless. Not even the technician knew that he'd been successful in his escape.
Two things had gone against plan; one, he'd failed to gun down Pierce; two, he'd failed to make contact with Steve Rogers. Still, both were capable of being tasked to succession in the future.
Eyeing the assault rifle he'd placed onto the counter, he reached for its handle, gripping it and examining the extent of its use. Popping out the magazine, he counted the remaining cartridges—not enough ammunition. His pistols were almost out; his steel blade was the only inexhaustible weapon in his possession.
Placing the rifle on its back, the soldier pulled up the trigger guard, popping open the mechanism. A few moments went by, as he concentrated on disassembling the rifle, brows furrowed with intensity as a layer of sweat formed across his forehead.
The silence was damning and a soft sound made him freeze—one he wasn't sure was real or a result of his damning exhaustion.
The soldier quietly let down the rifle, pausing to listen through the eerie silence.
Nothing.
His eyes wandered over the place, ears on call—trained to spot the slightest break in sound. His heart pounded against his chest, increasing...faltering slightly when he held his breath too long.
There!
Another light tap...then another...soft, undetectable to a normal person but there, nonetheless.
He steadied himself, as his hand reached for the pistol strapped to his back.
There! Another tap...slightly heavier this time...unbalanced almost.
His eyes raised upwards, a pang of realization dawning on him as he sourced the sound to the rooftop. Someone was on the roof!
Cursing under his breath, he made for his bag when—
Something broke the glass widows to his far left.
Smoke bombs, he realized; the non-lethal kind.
They—whoever was on the roof—intended to smoke-out the place, draw him out like a rat.
Grabbing his duffel, he darted through the house, almost stepping on an exposed nail. He left the disassembled rifle on the counter, making his way to what he deduced was the bathroom area—sink, partially in place, pipping—unfinished.
Shattering the window with his elbow, he drew out his gun and hauled himself over the pane, making his way down the dusty path towards his motorcycle.
Still running, he winced in agony as he felt a sharp pain dart through his right leg. He looked down, eyes widening at what he saw. He hadn't pulled a muscle; instead, a small device emanating a blue-ish hue, stuck to his limb...tightening his hamstring, sending a painful sting through his whole body.
Current!
It was a surge of electric current.
Reaching down, he pulled out the device through gritted teeth, chucking it to the side. He carried on, half-running, half-limping, palms closed tight around his pistol, eyes darting *everywhere*...sussing out any potential threat.
He failed to look behind fast enough, as a kick threw him slightly off-guard, duffel bag dropping to the side. Gripping his pistol, he fired a few shots towards his attacker, as thick white smoke poured out of the windows.
He saw a haze of black...briefly, as he felt a pair of arms grip his shoulders...legs swinging swiftly around his waist.
Wait...
No...
He knew this move. He'd been subjected to it previously. The sleek way his attacker once commanded the use of form and stealth to catch him off guard...to choke him.
He knew what was coming...anticipated the next move.
Before his attacker hauled their form over his shoulders, he forcefully slammed backwards into the adjacent wall. Then again.
His attacker—slightly frazzled by this unexpected retaliation, pressed on.
But he knew the game was up.
His attacker was definitely injured, the force of his slam—hard and thorough.
His metal arm reached upwards, gripping a pair of shoulders, hauling the hostile figure to the ground in front of him. The figure was covered in black, he noticed. He couldn't make out a face, as he dragged the struggling body away from the smoke.
Once again, he was caught off-guard, as a series of kicks and punches were administered by his attacker. He ducked, blocked, punched back, finally gaining the upper hand as he tripped the figure to the hard ground, then pinned them down, metal arm pressing firmly against a pair of shoulders...
Somewhat smaller than he was used to, he noticed in the ensuing chaos. In fact, the form of his attacker had been small...tough, yet slender.
A woman, the solider concluded, as his metal arm continued to etch into her skin. This was definitely a woman.
She was trying unsuccessfully to reach one of the bracelets on her wrist and he realised then, that she'd been the one who had employed the device...the stinger, on him.
Strenuously, he held her down. Her frame was small yet she wielded a great deal of command over her form, employing the best of her traits to numb his scope for victory. She kneed him swiftly in his gut, but his weight on her body greatly decreased the momentum of the blow.
He was stronger. Faster.
The soldier countered her attack by pinning down her right arm, holding the delicate wrist at an awkward angle... then twisting it swiftly, fracturing the bone.
She screamed in pain, voice hoarse with strain as her small body contorted violently under his large frame. He held her down.
Only here and now, could he make out the green of her eyes outlined by the thick cloth of the black balaclava.
Her deep green eyes, familiar in every way yet strange all the same, bore hard into his own; evincing resentment...seething rage, together with pain—physical, as well as...something else. Her ego had been bruised, he realised; she did not like the feeling of dominance. Not like this, anyway. Her eyes forcefully commanded his equally firm gaze.
She started to contort and kick, suddenly becoming aware of their closeness. He growled in frustration, as he finally reached up to her face and, with one swift motion, pulled the balaclava off of her face.
The red was the first thing he saw. The red of her hair—made abundant somehow by the gleam of the sunlight. She stopped slightly, breaths heavy and fast as her eyes darted around his own face...wide...with fear...expectation. Her nostrils flared as he was momentarily gripped by the face before him, so close to him. His eyes roamed over her form as his mind struggled to comprehend the woman he held.
He knew her. Her face...from the folder Hydra had given him...he had studied her features. Her face was burnt onto his brain. It was unmistakable, then. She had been his comrade once upon a time.
Her...
The Black Widow.
"You..." his voice was low.
For a brief moment, his grip lightened on her form as his mind went haywire with the reality of her presence.
As such, the Widow took her cue, kneeing him again—this time with enough momentum to procure a harder blow. He winced in pain, momentarily being side-tracked by her surprise attack. She was about to relay a second blow, when his metal arm reached up to her neck.
His demeanour had changed, as the essence of the Winter Soldier took over—eyes, cold and ruthless bearing down on her. The metal of his fingers clenched around her throat, growing tighter as her mouth opened slightly to grasp for every bit of air possible.
Her eyes bulged around the sockets—wide, confused, fearful, angry—as her arms flailed about, punching his back, his ribs, all in a futile attempt to make him ease the grip he had on her. It failed to work, as he continued to exert the force of his metal arm—its mechanical gears shifting to increase the torque of his hold.
For a while, he lost control over his sense of self. It was almost as if, the duality shared between his mind and his body had been severed. Where his mind struggled to make sense of this woman, his body slipped into survival mode in an attempt to eradicate the threat—her.
It confused him.
All he possessed was the feeling that he was supposed to harbour some deep-seated resentment for this woman.
All he felt was hate; and yet he knew not why.
What had she done to him?
The soldier looked on now, as her once kicking form was starting to shrivel under him. Anymore of him holding her down and the force of his grip would crush her larynx, he knew. He saw her try for one last-ditch play at her stingers, but to no avail. She was almost on the brink of unconsciousness, one that would lead to brain damage, even death. He could not stop...
...until he heard footsteps hastily making their way towards him...
...until he heard voices, shouting in his direction...telling him to STAND DOWN NOW...
...until he felt a gun cock behind his ear...
...and a sharp blow to the base of his neck from the stock of a rifle—a swift motion, simple yet effective enough to induce a concussion.
The soldier lost sight of the red-haired woman...the Black Widow, as he began to slip away.
In his fever dream following the blackout, he saw this;
Her.
She was younger; her shoulder length red hair was cut short and straight and she fumbled to move a few strands from her face.
She was younger in his illusion—possibly just out of her teenage years. Only just. She had a hint of innocence that still seemed untarnished.
She was sobbing...her head was against his shoulder, resting under his chin.
I dream about running away so that I don't have to confront them.
I'm so scared. I'm scared of failure...James...
...vying for success but having to settle for something unfulfilling instead.
Natalia...
A slight whisper left his lips—his body and mind, still under the embrace of unconsciousness
