Frozen in Time

by: Shadow Chaser

Disclaimer:

All Marvel characters do not belong to me, they belong to Marvel Entertainment and Marvel Comics.

Story:

Chapter 11

He had been sedated again, the familiar feeling coursing through him as he instinctively assessed his surroundings with closed eyes. The bed itself was firm, soft blankets covering him along with the coarse feeling of linen pants and sleeveless shirt. He could feel the twist and slight dimpling of newly healed skin on his torso and elsewhere; a clear indication that he had been injured, but the injuries had just healed. The feeling of cold was absent and he knew he was more than likely back at the Avengers Tower, judging by the soft smell of clean cotton sheets and muffled sound of blaring traffic. He could feel the warmth of the sun on his face and knew there was a window near his bed, the brightness of the sun behind his eyelids telling him that it was perhaps mid to late afternoon.

He remembered-

His eyes snapped open at the absence of the familiar aching, dulled pain that had constantly settled behind his eyes. An unnamed, unfamiliar yet so familiar panic clawed at him as he tore away the sheets, lurching up, ignoring the dizziness from the lack of food-

"Whoa, whoa, settle down there for a second," the voice that spoke up followed by an unnaturally strong grip on his arm made him growl, ready to lash out and snap the neck of this interloper that dared to interfere-

Only to stop as he met the steady, unmoving gaze of dark brown eyes flecked with green-

He was met half way, taking the full-bodied tackle to the stomach as he folded and let their momentum carry them tumbling down the stairs to the bank. The target had exposed himself just so- Or not, he noted as a gigantic roar filled the air and the man who had cowered behind him earlier burst out, all muscled, green, and furious. He did not know what kind of creature it was, but he could see the angry brown-eyes flecked with green as his vision was obscured by pavement and the target's attempt to pin him to the ground.

This man, this same green-furious-muscled man - not muscled now - that held him was not his target, but was far from innocent either and at the same time, was someone he knew instinctively not to anger or get close to. This man was to be taken out from far away or not even at all.

"There you go," the man said in a soothing tone, almost too calm for his liking and it pricked at something uncomfortable within him. It was not fear, he knew that as much, but rather it was caution. He felt the firm grip on his flesh-and-blood arm loosen before the man held up his hands in front of him, palms facing him, as if he was submitting to him, showing that he was unarmed. "See? Just letting you go-"

"The..." he wet his lips, feeling his throat suddenly dry as he put the puzzle of what this man, this non-target creature was, to the side, "...target- Rogers-"

Something in the man's eyes lit up and he nodded before giving him a faint smile, "He's alive..." His fingers waved in the air before a projection lit up the space in between them showing a spy camera feed of the target.

He grunted softly at the sudden bloom of pain in between his eyes and gritted his teeth at the video feed of the target- Rogers, throwing his shield at targets in what was clearly a training room of sorts. He had not killed him-

"You're fighting it, please, fight it...you're stronger than-"

He had fought, he had tried to fail the test, but the test had overwhelmed him, had tried to take control- No! He had fought, he had believed. He had warned the targ- warned Rogers to not go into combat – that he would, should, had, targeted him because he could keep his stupid punk-ass idiotic self out of a fight-

"I had him on the ropes-," Steve brushed the blood from his lips as he shook his head and rolled his eyes.

"-on the ropes," he finished nearly at the same time and looped an arm around his shoulders, "Sure you did." He could never stay away from a fight, even in the theatres as he leaned down and picked up the enlistment form that had fallen out of Steve's pockets during the fight, he inwardly shook his head. [4F] The jackass who had been wailing on his best friend had it coming if Steve was willing to come to blows with him over what had to have been something against the troops overseas.

Rogers had fought anyway, his silvery red-white-blue shield flashing this way and that, taking out HYDRA soldiers that had ambushed them. He had fought without a care in the world, a trust to not put a bullet in his head and it had hurt. Oh, how much it had hurt, to resist, to not fail, to fail, to stop the agony that had screamed at him to finish the job, finish his mission. That he was his mission and he needed to complete it-

He had shouted at the heavens why, why must he complete it, why, why, why and it had screamed back, squeezing him like a vice that choked and clawed at him, that he must finish the mission that he could not fail, that if he failed- It drove him mad, drove him to attack Rogers, because he could, and because he needed validation, that he could not resist- that his fight-that he had fought- That the pleading of pain, to stop it, to somehow not have that much pain, that much hurt coursing through him, burning him-

"I will keep killing...you...until you..."

It had been no use – death was not an option.

It had been a test and he had succeeded, but he had failed.

His eyes had been blue, and they had promised.

"And I'll keep protecting you, even if you can't."

'Till the end of the line.

He had protected the target from himself, from the pain, from the programming, from the command. And that...that was-

"Good," he whispered as he opened eyes he did not know he had closed and stared at his hands blankly. His eyes absently traced the curved, callouses of his flesh-and-blood one before looking at the metal one with the faint sensation of touch. The momentary absence of pain that had defined his moments since walking into the Avengers Tower puzzled him, but it was something he did not currently dwell on and pushed it aside as he focused more on the more immediate sensation of his flesh-and-blood arm – that the stiffness and occasional twinges of pain were completely absent. He was a weapon and thus knew every ache and pain that had been inflicted upon him by others or by himself in escaping traps, ambushes, and those willing to retaliate against him. He knew the sensation of chilled ice, of cold lethargy, the painful hypersensitive burn of ice-cold blankness that was immediate coming out of cryostasis, of sedation – cotton-like – and of things that enabled him to do his job, to carry out his commands.

"I, uh...reset your shoulder, well, after Steve kind of dislocated it again trying to stop you," the man sitting next to his bed looked a little sheepish, "um, also took the opportunity to reset some of your other bones in your shoulder and arm so you shouldn't have much nerve impingement anymore."

He flexed his fingers, noting the minute difference of reactionary time in them, the lack of stiffness that had plagued him since he had dragged the target-dragged Rogers out of the Potomac. A very small part of him wanted to scream and shout that he needed to be incapacitated, that having stiffness was good because then he could not kill the target- But ruthlessly quashed it down – since when did he need to be incapacitated to feel guilty for killing a target?

He squeezed his eyes shut, pushing away the insistence to go and deal with Rogers at this moment, because he had been almost completely healed and he would not get another chance- That the training room Rogers was running through was perfect, would never see him coming- No! He would not- He would fail the test and pass it. He would succeed in the test and fail it.

He opened his eyes, noting his breath was a little ragged, but the man that was sitting next to him did not say even a word. He expected judgmental eyes-

Those eyes always evaluated him, not kind or unkind either, but calculating and seeing him as the Soldier he was. He never wore a lab coat, the only faint memory that was not quite tangible, but not intangible either. He and the other man. One in a business suit, cut differently, one in military uniform that he could not place, monocle ever present. They, the others, wore lab coats and he dismissed them from his mind.

-but instead saw a steady gaze that belied pain, yet was not condescending in any sort of sentiment of shared experience or nonsense like that. No, the eyes that met his gaze were a simple one that brook no judgment or of understanding. They were just simple and watched him, waiting.

He knew that this man's voice was steady, sometimes too unnaturally steady, and with eyes and seemingly unafraid of being near him. That housed the green monster that tore through the bank and into the HYDRA soldiers... This was someone who made no judgments upon others because he had been judged too many times by others – more than likely to have been found lacking. And somehow, he understood him like he understood the man named Tony Stark. This man was not his enemy, but neither was his ally. This man was also not a tool to be used nor to be discarded. This man was just that.

"Steve finished your sketch," the man said and he stared at him, his interest piqued. He knew that Rogers had been sketching since Stark had relayed his request, noting the scraps of paper littering the various wastebaskets around the Tower. Rogers had shown him the various sketches, faces that looked almost like the one that haunted his dreams and waking hours. The face he knew would help regain his fractured mind, regain a sense of who he truly was – not the Soldier, not this "Bucky" that Rogers called him and at the same time so hauntingly familiar that he wanted to respond and be true.

"I'll show it to you in a second," the man shook his head and patted to the familiar sketchbook that was wedged in between the back of the chair and his back. "But first," the man drew out a small manila envelope that clearly contained something bulky. Judging by the various rectangles he could see it was set on the small end table next to his bed, some of it was money, most likely American dollars by the shape and size of the rectangles.

"This is for you," the man said, pushing the envelope towards him a bit and he stared at it for a long moment. It did not look harmful, but he was suspicious as to why he was being handed an envelope that contained money and other objects in it.

"Is this a test?" he asked, his voice cracking on the words and he dry swallowed, trying to get some moisture into his parched throat. Sedation always came with the cotton-mouthed feeling and he knew that there was the long-buried memory of stuffing cotton balls into his own mouth, next to the memories of a younger, youthful Rogers. There was a glass of water on the end table, but he dared not reach for it. If it was a test, then perhaps there was something in the water and he did not want to suddenly end up cold-pain, memory gone-lost-

He forced himself to focus, flicking his gaze back up to the mild-mannered man who looked a little disconcerted before answering with a hesitant nod.

"Yes...and no...?" the man seemed unsure by his own answer and seemed to war with something inside him before nodding a little more decisively, "I...saw the videos of you, of what they did to you in that vault and can probably also guess that they also did things to you elsewhere. I mean, I want to say no, it's not a test, but yeah...it's a test if you want to look at it that way...? Maybe? I'm...not really good at this...but I don't want Steve to do this and Tony certainly not. Maria's more liable to treat you like an asset, which you aren't, so yeah...err...now I'm rambling."

He took the proffered envelope and tore it open, dumping the contents out onto his lap where they pooled amongst the blankets he had been given. One tiny square metal object in a small plastic bag. He instantly recognized it as what Stark had been working for his arm before they went to D.C. He set the object aside, Stark having told him where it was to be put and could easily have done it himself once it had been finished.

The envelope also contained one passport, labeled with the name [Gilberto de Pietro] filled with a few stamps of other countries, he had visited, namely South American ones. Bits of Latin American Spanish and Portuguese flitted across his mind as he rolled the name around his head, accenting it in the right places, and could almost imagine introducing himself as such a name. But it felt foreign, almost a floating-dreamlike quality, much like the other names he had used in his missions. The codename he had been given, Winter Soldier, felt a little more solid in his head. The rank and name Stark, SHIELD Agent Maria Hill, and the others had been calling him, "Sergeant Barnes" went deeper, felt more solid; but none of them felt as solid, or as painful as when he heard the target-heard Rogers call him "Bucky" or even "James Buchanan Barnes."

"Gilberto de Pietro," he tested the name out loud before putting the passport down to the side, and picked up several neatly folded sheets of paper. Opening them up, he could see that they were official-looking medical forms for the metal arm, stamped with Stark Industries' logo everywhere, noted with composition, medical reason, and the signature of some doctor he suspected did not exist. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something in the other man's look sharpen and realized that the signature at the bottom was signed by this man.

"Dr. Rick Jones," he looked over to see the man shrug.

"Not my real name, I'm Bruce Banner, but I can't exactly use it to sign off on technical specs and medical stuff," the man made an abortive movement as if to lean over and shake his hand, but decided against it at the last minute. "Kind of like you...hiding from people who want me dead, want me alive, want me for...well...not pleasant things."

The name Bruce Banner had been a vague notation in his memories and in the mission files, mostly associated with a General Ross, but he could see the guarded look the other man wore. Banner was not afraid of him, but rather that fear was directed at something else, something that worried him far more than what had happened in Washington D.C., the past week, or for a very long time. He saw Banner shift in his seat, gesturing to the papers he held.

"It was Maria's idea, really, hiding you in plain sight. Those will get you past TSA and if they do give you problems, Stark Industries has the best lawyers so you really shouldn't have any problems. In ways, you're like me, hiding from HYDRA or other agencies that want you dead or worst, want to use you-"

He curled his metal hand into a fist, feeling the brief wash of anger before forcing himself to push it away. No one would take his memories away and use him.

"-so Maria's been hypothesizing that you're probably going to want to leave as soon as you get the name and face that you wanted Steve to sketch. I don't blame you, I kind of want to go after those bastards too after what I've seen done to you. I know that Tony said that you might be willing to play ball with us, let us be the spear tip in your mission against these guys who did this to you, but I think we all know that you would probably want to seek vengeance by yourself," Banner cleared his throat a little. "If this is really the guy that you're going to hunt, we won't stop you."

He narrowed his eyes, staring at Banner, "There is a catch."

Banner nodded, "We want to help you."

He could see the truth in the words, the sincerity, but shook his head. This was the test, this was to see if he would fail or if he would pass. Like the many games played where they would shock him, put him in the cold-darkness, water-

It was a test and he was-

-he was...failing?

No.

It was a test and he was-

-he had...passed?

No.

He stared at Banner. If it was a test...but it was not a test...then...

"We want this son of a bitch as much as you," Banner continued, "because of SHIELD, because of HYDRA, because this guy ruined the life of two people, one of whom we don't really know yet, but we feel like we're starting to know, one of whom who supports him tirelessly and will never give up."

"...till the end of the line..." the words fell from his lips before he could stop them, knowing exactly whom Banner was talking about.

Banner had a faint sad smile on his face, "You know he'll follow you if you do leave, right? It may take a few days and I'm sure you'll probably leave him false trails, but he'll follow you."

And follow him he did. It was only after he had read some of the records in Steve's file – happening upon them from a very lovely young blonde-haired secretary with the name of Lorraine, who worked under Colonel Phillips – that he realized the night he was due to ship out was when Steve had successfully enlisted. Steve had literally followed him to the HYDRA facility – a few months late – but had followed him nonetheless. Too stubborn, too tough, too damn foolish to realize that it was war and good boys were dying left and right.

And he was grateful as hell because there was no one else he could ask to watch his back as he watched little Steve Rogers' to ensure that maybe they both could get out of this war alive.

"...Stubborn punk," he muttered, letting the memory wash over him, even though he winced at the lancing pain that stabbed across his temple and to the back of his head. He saw the faint, sad smile pull a little wider on Banner's face at his comments.

"Listen," Banner leaned forward a little, "I'm not really a good person to sound off on, or even be talked at – heck ask Tony, I slept through some of his monologues, but the fact that in all this time, even when you had been programmed to kill Steve, you've hesitated. Do you know what that tells me?"

He only arched an eyebrow at Banner, his face expressionless, but feeling the curl of something hungry, something that wanted, a validation that he did not know had existed. This was what the tests were for, right?

"That you...James," there was a moment where he thought Banner had hesitated on the name, but it passed too quickly for him to make anything of it, "that there a strength in you, fighting, unwilling to bend to any rules, any commands, anything that isn't your own will. It's a testament to the strength of your character that you have been able to resist and even fight back."

They were comforting words, they were words he knew that had to be said, but somehow, he felt a little empty from them. It was not... It was not the validation he had been seeking. But neither did it leave him with a completely empty feeling. He only blinked as Banner sat back, disappointment in his eyes, but pushed the emotion aside as he reached behind him and pulled out the sketchbook.

"We, the Avengers, want to help you, if you'll let us," Banner said before opening the sketchbook-

"Again..."

His breath was harsh, a gasping wheezing sound before every single one of his muscles seized and a strangled scream emerged from his lips. He tried to shake his head, tried to plead for it to stop, for the buzzing whining sound to stop. It hurt so much-

"Stop."

And suddenly he could breathe again, the black spots fading, slowly fading, as he turned his head to stare at the impassioned face that stared back. He wore a monocle, something that had always stuck with him, a part of him thinking it would have been an amusing thing to tell to-

-tell-

Who was he going to tell? He...he did not know...just...the pain-

"Again..."

"No..." he breathed, tried to speak, "p-please-" His words hitched upon the rubber guard on his mouth as he choked and tried to swallow his spit- Choking on it- arcs of agony lashing at him-

"Hey! Hey!"

He lashed out, the whine of his functional arm slamming into something, breaking cracking- He pushed at the sheets that tangled up on his feet – he needed to get away – could not breathe-

"James! James!"

He froze at the name, something in him reaching out, grasping onto it and holding on for dear life as he drifted, flailed, drowned.

"James!"

He snapped open eyes he had not known he had closed and looked up from where he had crouched on the ground. It was also then that he realized on the peripheral of his vision the utter destruction he had laid waste to half of the mattress, ripped out, with fluff and foam everywhere, the broken end table with a shattered lamp, mug of water broken and dripping into off-white carpeting and Banner, half-reaching out with a hand to him, but not so close to touch him. He had fugued again...

He grunted a little as he pushed himself up with his good hand from the ground and avoided looking at the mess. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Banner sigh and reach over and around him, picking up the scattered contents of what had been in the envelope and setting it in front of him, in a slight soggy mess.

"I...guess that's confirmation of the face?" Banner commented mostly to himself as sat back against his chair and moved to close the sketchbook.

"Wait," he cleared his throat, stopping Banner mid-movement, "let me...let me see..."

Banner stared at him for a long moment before handing over the sketchbook with that man's face at the forefront. Shunting aside the queasiness, the blinding memory of pain, of pleading, begging- He stared at the sketch of the man's face, tracing the familiar curves and angles, the facial hair that he knew had changed each time he had seen him, but the agelessness of lined youthfulness, the monocle...

"...His name is Baron Wolfgang von Strucker," Banner started quietly, "and he's currently in London, probably for the next few days before he returns to Austria. Agent Coulson is coordinating efforts with the SHIELD base there if you want to contact him. Maria wants us to make sure we have good intel before we hit him and take him in. The governments of the world are still a little leery that the Avengers were part of SHIELD and now only independent working for Stark Industries so we have to do some more intelligence gathering before we make our move."

Baron Wolfgang von Strucker. Baron von Strucker.

He had a name to go with the face and something curled in him like satisfaction as he lifted the other pages to close the sketchbook. He realized he had under-grabbed the pages and moved to completely close the sketchbook when his gaze fell upon the sketch in front of him.

"Self-portraits are kind of vain, you know?" Steve had only stared at him as he used the last of the sunlight to put finishing touches on his latest sketch. The hot summer days of August were finally nearing the end and the rumble of distant thunder would bring some relief to the stifling heat that had plagued the city for two weeks now.

He clambered out of the fire escape window and joined him on the metal stairs, feeling the press of solid metal digging into the sore points on his body. It had been a long day at the factories.

"Most artists do them right?" he countered, "so, self portrait just for vanity's sake? For me?"

Steve laughed, the hitching wheeze of his breath telling him that his best friend had an attack today, but was not as serious if he was willing to laugh. That was also one of the reasons why he was glad the summer heat was on its way out. Less chance of having a heat-stroke induced asthma attack on his frail body. "Who would remember a skinny little kid from Brooklyn?"

"Besides me? No one, but tell you what, sketch me a self-portrait and I'll put it in one of the secretaries' desks at the factory. Hide it in the order forms and whatnot," he joked and Steve laughed again.

"Only if you get me her name," and he nodded.

"Promise, I swear."

He had gotten Steve one of the secretaries' name, had not received the sketch, but never went on the promised double-date. Because he had gotten his orders and assignment the next day, to the 107th. The sketch and self-portrait in his hands was the face that he remembered, skinny, angular, narrow, but still bright eyes of someone who wanted to fight bullies and did not want innocents to be hurt.

"This is for you," a thumb drive appeared in his vision and he looked up to see Banner staring at him with an unreadable gaze, "it's all we got on Strucker as well as all of the files of what happened to you. It's all there if you want to look at it. There's a portable tablet in the desk over there...um..." He trailed off before standing up, "Listen...it's up to you. We won't stop you if you decide to leave since you've gotten your sketch and the name..." The other man looked like he was about to say more before shoving his hands into his pockets and walked out, leaving him alone.

He barely heard the door close as he stared at the self-portrait of Steve Rogers, not Captain America Steve Rogers, but Steve Rogers.

"I had them on the ropes," the tiny, squeaky voice spoke up behind him as the others ran away. It sounded like it was trying to be surly, but utterly failing to even sound threatening.

He snorted as he turned and offered his hand to the skinny little boy with the buck-teeth and bleeding nose. Skinny Steve Rogers was what everyone called him – and the nickname probably rang true, but he ignored the 'Skinny' part. "Sure. James Buchanan Barnes. Everyone calls me Bucky."

"I know who you are," Rogers said grouchily, taking his hand, but looked surly and defensively at him. "Everyone knows who you are."

"Damn straight," he grinned, showing his own gaping teeth. He had just lost one yesterday and the Tooth Fairy had given him ten cents even. He was going to buy ice cream later on with it and eat until he was completely stuffed- "Hey, let's get some ice cream. Got money from the Tooth Fairy last night."

The skinny blue-eyed boy stared at him, agog, "What?"

"Ice. Cream," he repeated as if Rogers was stupid before grinning again, "Or maybe just use it to kind of stop your face from turning purple-" He grinned as Rogers frowned, fists balled, ready to strike him, "Just kidding, geez, stop taking everything so seriously."

"Why," Rogers asked, lowering his hands as he absently wiped his bloodied nose on a sleeve.

He shrugged, "I hate bullies."

He looked over to the projected video image of Rogers still running the obstacle course, apparently testing out the durability of his shield. Rogers was still alive. He had failed to kill the target, had failed in his mission. Twisting the thumb drive in his metallic fingers, he could feel the faint imprint and shape of the small rectangular object as he got up and walked over to the desk, stepping carefully over the debris that littered the room. He found the tablet that Banner had been talking about and plugged the drive in.

He hated bullies, he was sure of that. And if the man who haunted his waking dreams and foggy memories was the cause of that, then he was a bully.

And he wanted to find out how he had been made into a bully, how he had utterly failed his test of protecting Steve Rogers.

"Sir," JARVIS' voice was quiet and insistent, but Steve nonetheless jerked his head up at the noise, realizing that he had all but dozed off in front of reading more notes taken from the files in bank and watching another horrific video of the behavioral conditioning and experimentation done on Bucky.

"Y-Yeah JARVIS?" he blinked, his eyes feeling like sandpaper and glanced blearily at the clock to see that it was 5:42 in the morning and sunlight was already starting to dawn through the cracks of his curtains. He realized he had all but stayed up all night again to watch and read more footage of what had been done to his best friend. Sleep had been a slight issue since he had started to watch, his dreams twisted and confused; sometimes he felt like he was watching them torture Bucky, other times he was the one who was being subjected to the chair, waterboarding, begging for it to stop. Then there were the times when he thought he had found the place, rescued Bucky only for him to turn on him, stabbing him with a knife, yelling about how he should have been there for him, to not abandon him. He also had nightmares about Bucky falling from the train, his screams echoing and blending in with screams and pleading in that chair that usually made him wake up with a start.

"You asked me to notify you if Sergeant Barnes left the premises," JARVIS said politely, "he left just a few seconds ago, headed around the corner into Grand Central Station."

"Did he take the envelope?" adrenaline shot through him as he rubbed his eyes roughly and closed the tablet, stumbling over the chair he had been sitting on, grabbing his wallet, credit cards, and keys.

"Yes sir," JARVIS replied as Steve sorted them into his pockets and grabbed his comfortable leather jacket.

"What's the next flight out of here to London?"

"JFK Delta Flight- Captain Rogers, Sir has asked me to counter your offer with a private jet of his own-"

"Tell Tony thanks but no thanks, I'm going after him alone-" he yanked open the door to come face to face with Tony and Sam, both whom had stony looks on their faces.

"Like hell you're doing this alone, Steve," Sam glared at him, "Remember? We're doing this together. I did not go globe hopping with you all last year just for you to do this alone when we both know where the hell Bucky's going."

"And if not the private jet, I'm thinking quinjet so we can meet him on the tarmac when he gets there," Tony's voice was chipped and his eyes glittered with anger, "Cap-"

"No one's going anywhere, not at the moment," Maria's voice came from down the hallway and the three of them turned to see her walking towards them, Sharon trailing in her wake with a nervous look about her.

"Maria? Sharon?" Steve frowned before Maria produced an innocent-looking envelope from the folds of her business jacket.

"JARVIS, is Bruce coming down here?"

"Here," Bruce's voice came from where the elevators were as all of them turned to see him dressed in slightly rumpled clothes, a little sleep logged, "JARVIS said that he left-"

"Yeah, but that's not the main problem," Maria confirmed and handed the envelope over to Bruce who took it with a frown. "Agent 13?"

"I...I had orders to give this to you when I checked into the New York headquarters," Sharon looked pale, "I'm sorry Dr. Banner. Really... But...it's a subpoena for you to appear at an emergency field hearing in downtown New York City later this morning. I...I tried to tell them that you weren't a threat, that the Hulk isn't a threat-"

Bruce's very bitter laugh made her fall silent and Steve saw that he had opened the envelope and unfolded the pieces of paper inside. "Signed by General Thaddeus Ross...wonderful."

Author's Notes:

I'm amused at the unassuming way Bruce always takes over parts of my story. It's not sneaky like the various SHIELD agents POVs like Maria, Romanov, or even Coulson, nor is it barge-in-make-noise style like Stark, but very subtle. He's done it in the first two stories of my series and now is doing it again in this one. Well played Bruce Banner, well played.