Disclaimer: I do not own Capt. America (the comics, movies, characters etc.) or any of the characters; I only own my OC Art.
10. Showdown
Once everyone had showered and calmed down, they joined Sam in the kitchen. The three Avengers took turns retelling the events of the day, making sure that they wouldn't tire themselves out from recounting too much at once. They were already exhausted as it was. They couldn't afford to be more tired than they already were. Sam was dutifully making toast and delivering glasses of orange juice or coffee to whoever needed it. A mess of egg shells sat beside a dirty pan, which had been used to fry bacon and scramble eggs. The room smelled heavily of coffee. Said beverage had perked up their energy, but not their spirits. Art still felt like she'd been hit by a bus; her cuts and bruises were now mostly healed, and the aches were gone, but nothing could fix how emotionally drained she felt. Somehow, she'd thought that several cups of coffee would perk her mood. They hadn't.
Steve had made himself at home at the kitchen table, a hand poised thoughtfully at his mouth.
"So, the question is, who at S.H.I.E.L.D. could launch a domestic missile strike?" asked Natasha, who was leaned back against the kitchen counter. There was a beat of silence before Steve scoffed almost silently from his spot at the table.
"Pierce," he concluded.
Art snorted, mouth curling distastefully at the man's name. She leaned back in her seat and shook her head. "Knew he was a fathead from the minute I met him."
"And that 'fathead' happens to be sitting on top of the most secure building in the world," Natasha pointed out, still managing to make fun of the dated slang her friend had used. Art arched an eyebrow at her from across the room. She shrugged innocently, clearly feeling a world better after taking a cleansing shower.
"But he's not working alone, Zola's algorithm was on The Lemurian Star."
A look of subtle revelation washed over Natasha's face. "So was Jasper Sitwell."
Art shoved a hand through her still damp hair and narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. She recalled the bald man not being good with pressured situations; the minute someone leaned on him a little heavily, words would flow from his mouth like a running tap. "He's the easier target, then. He isn't beholden to a secure office, he's a foot soldier––if we can get to him then we can get to Pierce. That, and he's a nervous talker."
"So, the real question is, how do the three most wanted people in Washington kidnap a S.H.I.E.L.D. officer in broad daylight?" Steve questioned flatly. His eyes jumped from Natasha to Art, his slightly arched eyebrow making it clear that he was open to suggestions.
"The answer is," Sam started, snagging a waiting folder off the counter, "you don't." That folder was promptly snapped down on the table between Art and Steve. The two soldiers eyed each other, then Sam, and then the folder.
"What's this?"
"Call it a résumé."
Sam stood back, shoulders squared and hands clasped at his lower back, almost as though he were standing at-ease. The three Avengers all stood from their respective spots and crowded together in order to look over the file. Art––stood in the middle––picked up a large photograph of Sam and another, unfamiliar, man that sat atop the hefty folder.
"Is this Bakhmala?" asked Natasha. "The Khalid Khandil mission. That was you?" Sam said nothing. Silence was his confirmation. She directed her attention to Steve and Art. "You didn't say he was a pararescue."
Steve took the photograph and eyed it quietly for a moment. "Is this Riley?"
"Yeah," came the soft reply.
"I heard they couldn't bring in the choppers because of the RPGs. What did you use, a stealth chute?"
"No." Sam stepped forward, took up the file, and handed it directly to Art. "These."
The front of the file read: EXO – 7 FALCON. Art, with vaguely pinched brows, opened the file and was immediately captivated at what she saw. She stared at the pictures clipped to the informational page at the front of the file. She held it out to Steve and looked over at Sam in something close to awe. Sam stood patiently, arms crossed, expression determined. A surprised, nearly silent, exhale passed between Steve's lips, the air of it grazing Art's ear.
"I thought you said you were a pilot," Steve stressed. A smile, pleasantly smug, broke out across Sam's face. He quirked his head to the side, eyes glimmering.
"I never said pilot," he reminded.
After a moment of quiet consideration, Steve shook his head. "I can't ask you to do this, Sam. You got out for a good reason."
"Dude, Captain America and Lieutenant Liberty need my help. There's no better reason to get back in," Sam stated firmly, brows raised. The statement had roused something nostalgic in both Art and Steve's chests. Something about being the reason someone wanted to fight reminded them of the days when the Howling Commandos were a call to action. They smiled warmly to themselves.
Another contemplative moment passed before Steve––smiling slightly––tapped the file still clutched in Art's hands. "Where can we get our hands on one of these things?"
Sam's face fell a little, as though the answer would not please them. "The last one is in Fort Meade. Behind three guarded gates and a twelve-inch steel wall."
Art and Steve looked over at Natasha, who shrugged like the notion wasn't daunting in the least bit.
"Shouldn't be a problem," Steve said.
Art snapped the file down on the table and looked up when Sam snorted. His eyes danced between his three guests, disbelieving and awestruck.
"Not a problem?" he scoffed with a laugh.
With a shrug, Art smiled at him and braced her hands on her hips. "Believe it or not, that's not the most complicated thing we've had to face in the last twenty-four hours," she deadpanned. Her smile faded into something more serious. "Are you sure that you want to get involved in this? You'll be the fourth most wanted person in Washington, and you'll have the maw of hell chomping on your heels."
Sam nodded adamantly, expression just as serious as Art's. "If there's something rotten going on, and I've got a chance to play a part in stopping that? I'd dive straight through the gates of hell to seize that chance."
Art extended a hand with a small, but pleasant, smile spreading across her face. Sam reached out and clasped her hand in his own, giving it a firm shake. "Welcome to the team, Sam."
OOOO
It turned out that getting Sam's equipment was, in fact, quite easy. As was luring Jasper Sitwell to a location where they could talk to him and get information out of him without being spotted. All it took was one call and the threat of being shot––though the little red dot dancing across his tie had been the light of a laser pointer. Once they'd gotten him into Sam's car, and to the building of their choosing, all they had to do was muscle him onto the roof. That, too, was all too easy.
Sitwell was thrown––pushed by Art, actually, but the man had no balance––through the door that led on to the roof, which left him tripping to catch his footing. He hit the ground hard, the knees of his expensive suit scraping across the hot cement. Steve, Natasha, and Art marched after him as he rolled, advancing on him with determined footsteps. Sitwell scrambled to his feet and anxiously grabbed for his glasses, which had fallen off when he'd taken the tumble.
"Tell me about Zola's algorithm," Steve ordered.
"Never heard of it!" Sitwell denied, stumbling backwards. He awkwardly shoved his glasses back on, and darted his eyes between the two super soldiers and the former assassin. With each step they advanced on him, he retreated, backing himself towards the edge of the roof.
"What were you doing on the Lemurian Star?"
"I was throwing up, I get seasick." It was then that his calves hit the edge of the roof and, with a sputter, he started to pitch backwards. Steve's hands shot out to snag fistfulls of his shirt and jacket, hauling the bald man forward. But Steve didn't let go. He let Sitwell remain sandwiched between the super soldier's chest and the edge of the roof. There was a threat there, a very pertinent threat. Sitwell suddenly smirked. "Is this little display meant to insinuate that you're gonna throw me off the roof? 'Cause it's really not your style, Rogers."
For a tense moment, Steve's expression didn't change. His brows remained pinched, his lips pursed, and his eyes narrowed against the midday sun. Then, he offered a slight nod. "You're right." He released Sitwell's jacket and smoothed out the wrinkles his clenched hands had caused. He then raised his brows pointedly, almost cheekily. "It's hers."
Steve backed away, which allowed Sitwell's eyes to jump to Art, who stood off to the side with her arms crossed. He fixed her with a snide look, as though saying 'it's not your style either.' Art smirked snarkily at him and quirked one of her eyebrows.
"You seem to forget that there are two women on this roof," she pointed out.
Before Sitwell's eyes could leap to Natasha, the redhead had already lashed a foot forward, kicking him square in the chest. He went flying off the roof and began to fall, a scream of terror ripping from his mouth. The three merely stood there for a quiet moment, waiting, appearing to not be bothered that they'd just sent a man to his seeming death.
"Oh, why don't you two go to one of those escape rooms for a date?" Natasha suddenly asked, continuing the conversation they'd started days ago, before their world had gone to hell. Steve pushed his hands into his pockets and cocked his head to the side in consideration.
"Those rooms where you get locked in and have to solve puzzles to get out?" he asked.
"Yeah."
"Yeah, I'm not a fan of that," Art denied with a shake of her head.
Before any more suggestions could come to light, something shot into the sky, dragging a still-screaming Jasper Sitwell with it. That thing was actually a person; it was Sam, outfitted with mechanic wings that helped him soar through the air. He dropped Sitwell back on the roof––where he hit hard and rolled for a second time. Sam landed with ease and grace, the mechanical wings retracting to fit tightly against his back. Sitwell, breathless and shaking, lay flattened against the roof. When the three Avengers approached him for a second time, he scrambled to his hands and knees and held out a hand to stop their advance.
"Zola's algorithm is a program… for choosing… Insight's targets," he panted.
"What targets?" Steve inquired firmly.
"You! A TV anchor in Cairo, the Undersecretary of Defense, a high school valedictorian in Iowa City, Bruce Banner, Stephen Strange, anyone who's a threat to HYDRA. Now, or in the future." The examples fell from his mouth in a steady stream of confession, his hand fluttering up periodically to ensure that they wouldn't approach him.
"In the future? How could it know?"
Sitwell started to laugh, suddenly, a kind of laugh that made it seem like he thought the question was stupid. Sam crept a couple steps closer, his lips twisting. With his head snapping up, Sitwell practically sneered up at the blonde captain. "How could it not?" He rose to his feet, staggering a little on unsteady feet. "The twenty-first century is a digital book; Zola taught HYDRA how to read it. Your bank records. Medical histories, voting patterns, emails, phone calls, your damn SAT scores! Zola's algorithm evaluates people's past to predict their future."
Steve, whose eyes had not once strayed from the shaken man, continued his line of questioning. "And what then?"
Art watched as a wave of horror washed over Sitwell's face. Horror in the realization of what he'd just spilled, and who he had spilled it to. "Oh, my god, Pierce is gonna kill me."
Those words spurred Steve to step forward, his expression starting to shift. "What then?"
When Sitwell stuttered a step back, Sam reached out, fisted the back of his jacket, and pushed him back forward. "Then… the Insight helicarriers scratch people off the list. A few million at a time."
The information hit them like a bucket of ice water, dread hitting them each in the face before it washed over them in a rush. They hadn't expected anything good to come from Zola's algorithm, but what they'd just been told was worse than anything they could have conjured as a possibility.
"How much time?" Art asked, somehow managing to keep her suddenly piqued anxiety out of her voice. Sitwell mashed his lips together defiantly and stared at her blankly. She grabbed him by the lapels and hauled him towards her. "How much time till Insight launches?"
Sitwell scoffed in her face, which was mere inches away from his own. "Why should it bother you, Lieutenant? If you're aware of the algorithm, then surely you know why you aren't on the list," he told her in a hushed tone, his lips curling up at one corner.
Before he could even blink, Art had grabbed one of his arms, twisted him around, and hooked her ankle around his. With one swift yank, Sitwell went crashing to the ground; Art dropped into a crouch and twisted his arm behind his back. While he groaned against the hot cement of the roof, she leaned down so he would be able to hear her more clearly.
"You're right. I do know. And I will give you a damn good display of why HYDRA wants me to be their precious kriegerin if you don't give me an answer. You already said that Pierce was going to kill you; so what've you got to loose?" she spat down at him. The day had left her feeling unpleasant, and Sitwell's attitude was feeding into it. When all Sitwell did to respond was groan a little more, Art sat back into her crouch. "Y'know, I may have been a nurse, but that means I know how to break an arm."
"You always said you weren't a real nurse," Steve pointed out. Art looked up at him and shrugged; Sitwell had stiffened anxiously under her hold.
"That means that I'll break it even worse."
Steve's brows twitched up a little as though saying 'fair enough.' They both knew that the officer on the ground would give in before Art even had the chance to place more pressure on his twisted arm.
"No, no, no! Jesus Christ…" Sitwell sputtered against the ground. "Sixteen hours! There's sixteen hours till launch!"
Art let go of his arm and thumped his back firmly. He flinched against the ground. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"
While Sam and Steve hauled Sitwell to his feet, Art stared at the spot that she'd taken him down to. She recalled the words that she'd spat at him with such vitriol. Her brows slowly migrated together and she pressed a hand to her mouth, rubbing at her lips with the tips of her fingers. She'd told him that she'd demonstrate why HYDRA wanted her as their super soldier, as their weapon. She had essentially promised him that, if he didn't cooperate, she would be be ruthlessly cruel. For god's sake, she'd threatened to break his arm. And while Art knew that, usually, she wouldn't have done it… she now feared that there was some part of her that would have done it. That hyper-focused part of her that HYDRA had managed to slip into her biological programming.
"You okay?" Natasha asked. She placed a hand on Art's shoulder.
"Yeah… Yeah, I just had a moment," Art dismissed, rising to her feet. She smiled at Natasha for a fleeting moment before she inclined her head to the door of the roof. "We should get going."
OOOO
After the display on the roof, Art believed that she had seen a side to Sitwell she had initially thought he wouldn't be capable of. He had proved that he could be snide. He proved that there was a side to him that did not care about the outcome of Project Insight, a cruel side hidden under his primly pressed suit. But that side had clearly yielded to the one that anxiously demanded self-preservation. Because, as they pulled onto an overpass, Sitwell shifted uncomfortably between Art and Natasha. The two women had taken seats by either of the doors, ensuring that he had no chance to try and pull the door open and throw himself out of the car.
"HYDRA doesn't like leaks," he pointed out.
"Then why don't you try sticking a cork in it?" deadpanned Sam bitingly. He shot the man in the backseat a look in the rearview mirror.
"Insight's launching in sixteen hours, we're cutting it pretty close," Natasha pointed out, poking her head around Steve's seat.
"I know. We'll use him to bypass the DNA scans and access the helicarriers directly," Steve explained, eyes scanning the highway before them.
"What? Are you crazy?" Sitwell demanded, pitching forward.
Beside him, Art arched an eyebrow. "We've been called more things than crazy in our time."
"Well, you are crazy because that's a terrible, terrible idea."
Before Sitwell had the chance to complain more, there was a loud, disconcerting thud on the roof of the car. The window directly to Art's left shattered suddenly. Shards of glass kissed her cheek and something cold clamped around her throat. Just as her hands flew up to grab at whatever had seized her, Art found herself being wrenched from the car. Her head thunked against the window frame and legs scraped through the shattered glass. Before her feet had even cleared the interior of the car, she could feel herself being thrown. Everything was happening too fast. The sound of glass shattering accompanied the feeling of Art's back colliding with something. All the air was forced from her lungs as the glass of a windshield gave way around her body. For a moment, it cradled her and held her in place; but as the car she'd been hurled into hit their brakes, Art was promptly launched forward as it jostled to a violent stop. She rolled along the hood of the car and onto the hot concrete, gasping for air. The entirety of her body was shaking. The shock of colliding with a car was too much for anyone's system to handle––even that of a super soldier.
It took a moment for Art to regain her ability to breathe properly. Her ears were ringing, whenever her eyes flickered open the sky was too bright, the heat of the pavement was bleeding through her denim jacket––it was all too overwhelming. When breath finally pulled into her lungs with a mighty gasp, her hand shot out to grip the front grill of the car she'd hit. Art pulled herself into a partially seated position, head spinning as she righted herself. She groaned as her muscles moved and felt a wave of nausea beg her to stay still. While the world spun around her dizzyingly, someone seized her left arm––and then someone seized her right. It took a moment to realize that she was being dragged… and then another moment to realize she was being pulled into a car.
When everything started to make sense again, Art realized that someone had pulled her into their chest, and had her in a double arm bar. Her legs were stretched out across the back seat, and someone had looped their arms around them, squeezing tightly. The man holding her legs was dressed in all black tac gear, and she could only suppose that he was a HYDRA agent. It was when he extracted a syringe with a needle from his breast pocket that Art's body jolted all systems back into working order. It was like someone had thrown ice water over her. Adrenaline shot through her body and propelled her into fight mode.
Art grunted as she ripped her legs from the man's hold, and drew her knees towards her chest. She thrust her feet forward and shoved the agent against the door. The agent that had hold of her arms gripped them tighter and pulled them sharply. Her shoulders stung suddenly, the unnatural angle nothing short of painful. With her feet still firmly planted against the first man's shoulder, Art pushed against him and shoved herself back into the second man. He grunted at being squished against the window, but his hold did not lessen. A grimace pulled across Art's face as she decided what she had to do. Bringing her chin down to her chest, Art threw her head backwards and into the second man's face. There were two cracking sounds––that of the back of her skull smacking into the agent's nose, and that of his head flying back into and shattering the window. She wrenched her arms from his grasp, pain blooming across the back of her head, and launched forward towards the first agent, who was starting to recover.
Being in such a confined space having to fight off two HYDRA agents was more than a little anxiety inducing. Back in the day she'd had her fair share of taking on HYDRA agents in moving vehicles; but those had been equipment trucks––this was a cramped armored car. The anxiety of the situation drove Art to act off pure instinct. She didn't have time to assess the situation and act accordingly. So she reached out and grabbed the first agent by the head, slamming it into the headrest of the seat in front of him. She then shoved him back and threw her elbow square into his forehead, the force of the super soldier's hit knocking him out.
The second agent, though more severely injured than his comrade, had recovered faster. He launched himself across the backseat and thrust his hands around Art's throat. The two awkwardly crumpled to the seat, jostled about as the car hooked into a turn. One of Art's hands firmly retaliated by grabbing his throat, pushing and squeezing in hopes that he would let go. But the two were at some odd sort of stalemate, neither of them feeling incentivized to let go. Art dropped her other hand down and swept it across the floor in search of something. After patting the scratchy carpet a couple of times, what she was searching for rolled into her grasp––the needle the first man had dropped. Her thumb popped the cap off and, desperately, Art swung it up and plunged it into the agent's neck. He sputtered as she pushed the plunger down, administering what she was sure was a sedative. Just as her vision started to darken at the edges, the hold on her throat loosened and the man started to droop, the drug taking affect.
A gasp ripped air into Art's lungs, and she shoved the now unconscious HYDRA agent. She laid half-sprawled across the lap of the first agent, massaging her aching throat. It was only when she felt the vehicle she was in slow down that she remembered she was still moving… and that there was still one last person in the car. Her face screwed up while she came to terms that she would have to keep fighting––no matter how sore her body was, or how much it wanted to rest. Just as Art was about to sit up, something smashed into the side of the car. She was thrown against one of the doors, swearing under her breath; the universe truly did not want her to take a break. When the vehicle jostled to a halt, Art was quick to pull the door open and practically throw herself out.
The moment that she was out, she craned her head around to see what had hit her would-be-kidnapper's car––it was a bus. A now overturned bus. Just as she started to stumble towards the bus, a spray of gunfire kicked up at her heels. She took off running, spurred on like a horse struck by the heel of a boot. A flash of red hair caught her attention around the side of a utility truck; Natasha had flattened herself against the side of it, her hands clutching at two guns. She gave a jerk of her head, gesturing Art to fall in beside her. Art practically dove around the side of the utility truck, throwing herself back against it. Something about the situation reminded her of the Battle of New York, and it was twisting her stomach.
"Where did you go?" Natasha breathed out in a rush.
"Nowhere fun––where are Steve and Sam?" Art panted.
"I think Steve caused the bus crash, Sam's still up on the overpass."
Natasha leaned out around the end of the truck and fired up at the mentioned bridge. And at the edge of that bridge was the Winter Soldier, his metal arm gleaming in the bright sun. He seemed utterly unaffected by the gunfire. He then lifted his own weapon and aimed it with ease; Natasha ducked back around the truck as gunfire pierced the air. Bullets cut into the car just beside them, twanging as they lodged in the metal.
Art grabbed Natasha by the sleeve and started to run as the bullets continued to spray. The guns were flung aside, as the clips were empty and they had no access to extra ammunition. They wove between panicked citizens and immobile cars, running along the sidewalk as chaos continued to reign. When they'd made it a couple of blocks, Natasha pulled Art behind a parked car. She started fishing around in the pockets of her leather jacket as she ducked into a crouch.
"I need you to keep a an eye out––I can throw him off and give us the element of surprise, but it's going to take me a moment," Natasha told her. She pulled a small device out of her pocket and started to fiddle with it.
With a nod, Art shimmied along the side of the car. She then dropped into a crouch and shuffled to situate herself at the trunk of the van in front of them. She craned her head around the side of the car to check the street. Nothing but panicked people bolting across the street, slamming on their brakes, and leaping from their cars. Sirens wailed in the distance, screaming closer and closer with every passing moment. When she looked back to Natasha, she saw her setting up the device she'd produced on the ground. It was quietly playing a recording of her voice; a recording that sounded like she was calling for backup. When the two women made eye contact, Natasha jerked her head to the side, motioning that they should cross the street. Art nodded to confirm that she understood. The two women bolted across the street and took shelter behind another car.
"When I get the drop on him, I want you to run," Natasha breathed quietly. Art looked at her incredulously, brows pinched and eyes wide. Just as her mouth snapped open to refute the point, Natasha fixed her with a pointed look. "The two times that you've come in contact with the Winter Soldier, he's spared your life. He could have killed you the night he killed Fury. All he did was incapacitate you. When he tossed you out of Sam's car, he could have killed you by throwing you into opposing traffic like he did to Sitwell. But he didn't. He's been given orders to spare your life."
Art sputtered for a moment, craning her head around for a moment to see if she could catch eye of the mentioned killer. When the coast was clear, she looked back to Natasha. "Then that's all the reason for me to stay!"
"No, it isn't. If he can get hold of you and bring you back to the HYDRA higher-ups…" she trailed off and arched her brows pointedly.
Art's stomach soured, knowing full well what the end of her sentence would have been. If he brought her to the HYDRA higher-ups, she would end up just like him. Every fiber of her being recoiled at the idea of leaving Natasha to fight the ghost-story of an assassin. It wasn't right to leave a comrade, leave a friend behind. But Art knew that she was right. If she was fully incapacitated and captured, that could very well be the end of her. With grit teeth, Art tensely nodded her consent, though the look on her face spoke wonders about how she felt about agreeing.
The wail of sirens careened down the street, only to be cut off in a massive explosion, the force of rippling through the air. Art poked her head up over the trunk, hand flying to her thigh, used to having a gun strapped to it. A cloud of smoke filled the street, and through that cloud stepped the Winter Soldier. He skilfully reloaded his weapon as he walked with the smoothness of a practiced killer. Brown hair flounced in front of his face, partially obscuring his eyes. Half of his face was covered in that horrible plastic cowl. He seemed unbothered by the screaming and the echoes of distant gunfire. The gun he toted was pointed skyward, his eyes sweeping the street for his targets. The determination with which the Winter Soldier walked with was terrifying. It was relentless. It was the walk of a predator.
When he seemed to catch ear of Natasha's recording he came to a stop. The gun dropped into his hands, which held it at the ready but pointed at the ground. His stance shifted. When he started to move again, his steps were lighter and slower. Something about the way that he moved caused Art's eyebrows to pull together. There was something familiar about it. About the way that he crept along the side of an abandoned van––the way that he rocked from heel to toe, how he ducked his head and cocked it to the side, how his shoulders had hunched slightly. But nothing about it should be familiar. Art had never seen him walk before. Not on the night Fury died, and not in the hazy memory of him at Schmidt's base. When he started to crouch, Art ducked back down behind the car, confusion creeping hotly up the back of her neck. Not long after she'd ducked down, they were rocked by another explosion––this one also of the Winter Soldier's doing.
Natasha immediately launched herself onto the roof of the car and started to make her attack. Art did as told and started to run, her stomach twisting as she listened to Natasha grunt into her attacks. It was all that she could do to keep running. She hooked around the corner and screamed upon slamming straight into someone. The person's hands seized her arms and, instinctually, Art wrenched herself away, arm rearing back with her fist poised. When her eyes shot upwards to see who'd grabbed her, her arm dropped heavily. It was Steve. Relief appeared to sweep over his face as his eyes rushed over her from head-to-toe. When his eyes jumped back up to hers, he arched his brows.
"Where's Nat?" he panted. She gestured to the corner she'd just rounded and caught enough breath to speak.
"She's holding off the Winter Soldier, she told me to run," Art replied.
It was then that Natasha's voice cut through the air, loud and pleading as she told people to run. Art and Steve twisted around to watch her sprint down the opposite street, waving her arms frantically at innocent citizens. Before they even knew what was happening, there was a single gunshot followed by Natasha pitching to the ground. She'd been shot.
"Shit!" Art hissed. She immediately started to sprint towards her friend, disregarding Steve shouting after her. It was stupid, yes, because they don't know who shot––though they had a good guess––and where the shot had come from. But she wouldn't leave a friend in peril. She would never leave a friend in peril. Just as she passed a silver car skewed across the middle of the road, a figure leapt atop it.
Art skid to a stop upon realizing the Winter Soldier loomed over her, gun aimed at her. His finger was poised over the trigger. She stared up at him, wide-eyed. Just because they suspected he couldn't kill her, didn't mean that he couldn't shoot her. But before he could, Steve came barreling out of nowhere and leapt onto the hood of the car. The Winter Soldier, distracted suddenly, swung his metal fist towards Steve, who threw up his shield to block the blow. There was a loud clang of metal meeting metal, and Steve flinched at the force it took to keep his shield raised. Before Art could move, or anyone could blink, the Winter Soldier patted the shield aside and threw himself backwards, kicking Steve square in the chest. He flew off the car, hit the ground, and just barely managed to curl himself up behind the shield as the Winter Soldier showered him with a spray of bullets.
Art ripped the gun from his hands and slammed it back into his face, which sent him tumbling off the roof of the car. She cast the gun aside and sprinted over to the car that Natasha had fallen behind. Her friend was leaned up against the car, head thrown back, hand pressed to the place just over her collarbone. Art dropped into a crouch as gunfire ripped across the street again. Natasha rolled her head against the side of the car and met her eyes; her face was pale and it was clear that she was in a massive amount of pain.
"Did the bullet go clean through or is it stuck?" Art asked, desperately trying to drag was rudimentary nursing training she'd had. But her attention was torn between making sure Natasha was okay and checking on Steve over the trunk of the car.
"It, uh…" Natasha swallowed thickly and scrunched her eyes shut. Her lips pulled into a sharp grimace. "I-I don't know…"
"Just keep pressure on it." Art physically moved Natasha's second hand to rest over her other one, prompting her to add more pressure.
"Go help Steve… he can't do it alone… I'll be fine, but he needs help," she told her in a trembling voice. Her face screwed up in pain but she managed to force her eyes open and look Art dead in the eyes. "Go."
For the second time that day, Art felt her gut twist at having to leave her friend behind. But when her eyes rose and spotted the Winter Soldier, looming in the middle of the street with Steve's shield on his arm, determination washed through her. She would not let this man harm someone else that she cared for. Upon rising to her feet, Art leapt onto the trunk of the car and took one large step that brought her to standing atop it. Her hand slipped into her jacket pocket and extracted the hilt of her staff, which had been sitting there heavily for hours.
"Hey!" she barked. The Winter Soldier's head whipped around, his icy, too familiar eyes locking on her coldly. Art arched eyebrow at him and pressed one of the buttons on the staff hilt; half of it extended with a sharp snap.. "We have a fight to finish."
The Winter Soldier, without looking, tossed the shield in Steve's direction. It embedded itself in the back of a white van, beside which Steve was crumpled. The moment the assassin started to stomp towards her, Art leapt off the car, arm raised to strike him with the staff as she came down. But with the move so telegraphed, it was easy for the Winter Soldier to counter; and counter he did. His arm whipped out and batted her aside, as though she were a mere slip of a thing. She hit the side of a car with a grunt, but spun herself around as swiftly as possible. The assassin then pulled a knife out from his belt, and flipped it around expertly. He swung at her and she threw an arm up to block. The knife was stopped by the staff, metal pinging against metal.
The knife was then tossed into his other hand and he repeated the attack, only to have her block him again, this time by bringing her arm up. Art made direct eye contact with her attacker, who narrowed his gaze at her. Art forced his arm down and smacked him square across the face with butt of the staff. The staff clacked painfully loud against the plastic of his cowl, and she could hear him grunt from behind the partial mask. The Winter Soldier retaliated by slamming his boot into her ribs, shoving her away from the car. As she stumbled aside, he came towards her, knife bared threateningly. The swings came at her fast and hard, the knife blade whistling through the air. Her reactions were quick, but she had to move to keep distance between them. For every swing he took at Art, she took one step back. She pulled on every technique Bucky had taught her for hand-to-hand combat. His pointers had saved her life many times, and she was hoping that this would be one of them; his dog tag bounced against her chest under her shirt, like he was urging her on from a place unknown.
When the Winter Soldier took a particularly dangerous swing down at her, Art's hand shot up, grabbed his flesh wrist, and twisted it. Proving that he wasn't completely immune to pain, he grunted behind his cowl and dropped the knife.
But with the knife no longer in play, it gave him the chance to tear his hand from her grasp, duck down, and slam his shoulder into her stomach. But instead of just toppling her, the Winter Soldier wrapped an arm around her middle, and hoisted her upwards like he was going to carry her away. But he he flung her down like a ragdoll, slamming her down onto the hood of a truck. Even with the wind knocked out of her––something the day was teaching her to deal with––Art managed to just catch a glint of silver as the Winter Soldier's fist came speeding towards her face. She rolled to the side and felt the hood of the truck shake upon impact. She felt him seize the back of her denim jacket and lift her off the hood, only slam her back down into it. The metal dented and crumpled underneath her.
Art felt the assassin's hand be forcibly ripped away from her person, and she knew that Steve had thrown himself back into the fight. Her body was making it very well known that it did not appreciate the abuse that it had received that day. Even with her remarkable ability to heal fast, the fatigue was truly making itself known. Her arms shook as she tried to push herself off the second vehicle her body had destroyed that afternoon. Her knees buckled when she set her weight back on them, and Art had to catch herself on the dented hood to keep herself standing. She was quick to scan to street and found Steve and the Winter Soldier duking it out by the van the shield was embedded in. Her eyes darted to her staff, which lay amongst the rubble on the street. Art snatched it from the ground before she darted towards the fighting men.
Steve, who had retrieved the shield, fended off several more hits before he maneuvered his way behind the Winter Soldier. The edge of shield was forcibly shoved into the metal arm, which was also pulled at; it was like Steve was trying to completely remove it. Then, in a surprise maneuver, the shield was brought under the arm and into the assassin's face. The sudden daze he was put into allowed Steve to turn around, loop an arm around the other man's neck and flip him over the captain's body. The plastic cowl went flying. The Winter Soldier hit the ground, ducked into a roll, and immediately rose to his feet. Art skid to a stop at Steve's side, staff bared in her hand, buzzing with electricity, ready to fight.
Then the Winter Soldier turned around.
Staring over the shoulder of the metal arm, with pursed lips, flared nostrils, and cold eyes was James Buchanan Barnes. There was no doubt about it. She knew those eyes.
That was why they had been so familiar. Why his methodical stalking had been so familiar. Art had met those eyes thousands of times before. She'd seen them sparkle with mirth, glaze over with tears, and roll sarcastically. She had stood beside him and stalked down dank hallways and misty forests. It felt like her heart had been ripped from her chest and thrown to the pavement. The shock of seeing him alive and standing there was almost too much. For the last time that Art had seen his face, he had been clinging to the narrowest railing, his body dangling over a cold, snowy, fatal precipice. It should have been impossible that Bucky Barnes was standing there before them; but, then again, it should have been impossible that she and Steve were standing there facing him.
"Bucky?" Steve breathed in shock.
The name didn't register on their old friend's face. Instead, his head swiveled towards them and his body squared off with the other two soldiers. The furrow between his brows had lessened some, but, otherwise, his expression had not changed.
"Who the hell is Bucky?" he asked. The tenor of his voice cut through the air like a knife. It caused tears to spring to Art's eyes because it was him. That voice had laughed with her, barked orders at her, teased her, and lifted her up. And to hear it again, after believing and coming to terms that she would never hear it again was heart wrenching.
Bucky lunged a step forward and leveled a gun directly, threateningly at Art and Steve. There was no recognition on his face, no hesitance. It was like he had no qualms in shooting his best friends. With her heart starting to break in two, Art realized that he was looking at them as though they had never known one another.
There was a whooshing as Sam swooped in out of nowhere and kicked Bucky square in the back. He tumbled to the ground and grunted as he rolled. When he easily regained his footing, his attention was drawn immediately back to Art and Steve. He stared at them through strands of messy hair, his eyes suddenly wide and his lips pulled into a frown. Art stared right back, hoping beyond hope that she would see recognition in his eyes, or hear him say their names. But, with his eyes flicking downwards, Bucky's threw his arm back up, aimed with wicked quickness, and prepared to fire. But someone else beat him to it. There was a loud whistling sound as a large projectile flew over Steve's right shoulder, struck a car behind the Bucky and exploded. A quick glance over their shoulders revealed it was Natasha who had fired the gun Bucky had utilized to destroy the cop car. She was leaning heavily against the back of a jeep, her face pale and body trembling.
In the split second it took to register who had fired and look back to where their friend had been, he had disappeared. Bucky was nowhere to be seen. All there was was a cloud of black smoke and the smell of burning rubber. It took a moment for her to register that they were suddenly surrounded by vehicles with flashing lights. STRIKE force members were sweeping towards them, guns at the ready, shouting at the group stood in the middle of the decimated road.
"Drop the shield, Cap! Drop the staff, Lieutenant! Get on your knees!" shouted Rumlow. Steve lay his shield down on the ground carefully. Art dropped her staff unceremoniously. "Get down! Get down! Get on your knees!"
Art slowly raised her hands to hover by her head as she sank to her knees. Steve, however, only took a knee when Rumlow shoved his foot into the back of his leg. Art felt someone wrestle her arms behind her back while a force of STRIKE agents closed a tight circle around them. She felt handcuffs be tightly cinched around her wrists, the cold metal biting against her flesh mercilessly. There was the undeniable presence of the muzzle of a gun pressed to the back of her head. It was a present threat. They would shoot if they had to, plans be damned. A quick glance towards Steve revealed that he was in the same situation; and he looked just as thrown for a loop as she did.
"Put the guns down," Rumlow ordered under his breath, as he put Steve in cuffs. "Not here." The sound of a helicopter whirring droned overhead. "Not here!"
For the first time since all of the chaos had started, Art felt numb. She hadn't felt numb when Fury died. She hadn't felt numb when HYDRA's plans for her had been revealed. She had felt all of that. But seeing Bucky's face had left her feeling numb. Like someone had injected her entire body with novocaine. The numbness made it easier for the Rumlow and his men to wrestle her to her feet and push her along towards a transport vehicle. The last twenty-four hours of going on the run had been for naught. They had been caught. Their fates had been ripped out of their hands. But despite how this would normally cause Art to feel quite hopeless, all she could focus on was the way that Bucky had looked at them.
How he looked at them like they were nothing; like he'd never known them at all.
Afterword: And so… we have reached the realization. There wasn't enough room to explore the depth of their feelings on Bucky being alive in this chapter, so we'll get to all that good emotional pain next chapter :)
Review Replies!
emmagnetised: I've been really happy to start getting the chapters out that I've had stuff written for for years. Literally, I had a portion of last chapter written and sitting in my ideas doc for probably several years. I'm really glad that your interest is piqued with HYDRA's plans for Artie, it's something that's going to follow her for a long time. I hope that you enjoyed the chapter! Thanks again!
srosegarden: That's the general mood of this particular story. I hope you enjoyed the new chapter! Thanks again!
monkeybaby: Thank you! I hope you enjoyed the new chapter as well!
LoveFiction2018: Thank you! I hope you enjoyed the new chapter!
Nina fo life: I'm telling you, if I could draw, I would be drawing so much shit for this story. Because I would love to sketch out Art's uniforms, and some of the big picture images I've got in my head… but, alas, I am not talented enough with pencil or paint to do so. And I will tell you right now… that I am also thinking through her role in Infinity War, and what happens to her at the end… because… I don't know. Not yet at least. Because one option for her fate would be a lot more painful than the other. I just have to wait till End Game comes out to make the final decision, I think. But I hope you enjoyed the new chapter! Thanks again!
anonymouscsfan: I think that there are very few people in the modern world that Art would allow to see her break down, and Steve is at the top of that list. Because, when you think about it, she's still not really worked with Bruce or Tony or Thor as much as she's worked with, or been with, Steve, Nat, or Clint. So it's gonna be an interesting road to see how she bonds with the other Avengers once their called back into action as a group. And Steve would absolutely tear the world apart for Art. And she will pull through this experience… but it's going to be a lot for her. Just as it would be for anyone. And I always think that's important for stories that involve superheroes––that getting thrown into moving traffic is gonna down them for a hot second because they're not all-powerful. That their brains aren't steel traps that are immune to emotional shock. They get affected by things like seeing their best friend who should've been killed in the 40s being alive and well(ish) in the modern era. And I enjoy getting to write that kind of stuff. Also, you mentioned in a review of last chapter that you'd like to see a series of one-shots about their time in 40s… and I've been toying with that as an idea, so that may end up being a thing :) I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Thanks again!
And thank you to those who have added this story to their follows/favorites; it means a lot!
And that is that for now! I hope to get more up soon, as things are picking up and I want to keep getting chapters out there. I love this story too much to stop. And you guys sticking by my horrible, unprompted absences really does mean a lot. Love you all!
~Mary