Author's note: It's ironic that the MERS virus is in the news now. A good example of how the media freaks out.

Spoiler warning: if you don't know who the Winter Soldier is, you will by the end of this chapter.

Clint had been an orphan for the majority of his life. Home was wherever he slept for the night, and he had slept many nights within a SHIELD bunker, awaiting new orders from Director Fury. A man known in public as "Director Fury" and in private, among some of the operatives, as "that rat bastard."

To an even smaller demographic, composed of fiercely loyal seconds, discarded orphans and ex-Russian spies, he was known as simply "sir."

"Where's Fury?" Clint asked, his fingernails digging into the flesh behind his ear. "Where's the rendezvous?"

"There isn't one," Natasha said. He heard more information wedged in between the words and syllables, enough to send him ripping the earpiece from his head and slamming it to the ground. He stopped himself from stomping it into tiny shards only because it was the last connection to Natasha. It was a near thing.

Tony's face was screwed up and pale. Bruce barely looked concerned.

"That's it," said Tony, "that's the last time I get attached to someone from SHIELD! Nat, Barton, if either of you die, so help me God -"

"Tony," Bruce said, and nodded at Clint. The inventor pressed his lips into a tight line.

"Sorry, Clint," Tony said, wiping a hand across his mouth. "Sensitivity training never did stick."

Clint was picking up his earpiece, his face a solid mask of indifference. He slid it into his ear.

"Natasha?" he said, waiting for her to acknowledge his voice. "Where's the rendezvous?"

"She just said -" Tony began.

"We're coming to you," Natasha said. Tony looked at Bruce, who shrugged.

"I thought she said no rendezvous," Tony said after Natasha cut the communication.

"She did," Clint said, and began checking over his bow to make sure the mechanism was polished, clean and ready.

The contagion spread. Official quarantine had been declared for the city of Philadelphia, which now had over three hundred confirmed cases. One of the city hospitals was devoted entirely to treating those who were infected, and turned away all other cases. The doors were sealed with plastic, the air inside vacuum compressed to prevent further passage of the unknown assailant. Employees were required to wear contamination suits at all times, which were discarded daily for a fresh suit the following day. All used suits were burned, and the smoke was passed through chlorine dioxide gas and purified before exiting into the atmosphere.

Manhattan became old news in the media radar as the entire island was swept up in panic. The cases continued to spread unchecked, and no immunity was observed in any of the inhabitants. With SHIELD gone, the CDC called upon all available research resources, from private companies to public institutions, and opened a network which all of them could access.

A private company bead-beat human lung cell samples and isolated all of the DNA available for sequencing. All DNA was sequenced and BLASTed to funnel through what was alien and what was human; no matching organisms were found in any database. They were working blind, and desperation led to opportunities.

The Red Death spread from France into Spain, then Germany. England sealed its borders upon the announcement of the first case, effectively isolating itself from adverse effects. More than one news bite blamed foreign immigrants for the surge. A Swiss politician, speaking in front of hundreds of xenophobic banners, laid the blame at the feet of Muslim settlers in the region. Radio talk show hosts picked up the quote and spread it like wildfire. Tensions heightened, and several attacks were seen on immigrants within Italy.

In forty-eight hours, the death toll had tripled from six hundred and two to over eighteen hundred. The CDC called upon its European counterparts, granting them access to the network. The Japanese databank was included next, the three entities passing information daily between them. Differing regulations in Europe and Japan allowed for greater research possibilities, and it was a Swiss engineer who found the Ridley strain nestled inside of the mitochondria of a lung cell, the tiny microorganism feeding on the energy generated.

"I would have called it a virus," the articles quotes him saying. "It is nearly a virus, it is so small."

The samples were frozen, stored on dry ice and sent throughout the world. The international community waited for the cure to arise.

The infected now outnumbered the dead.

A day and a half passed without incident on the mountain. Natasha arrived with Steve and Sif, who were both nursing wounds which Bruce took it upon himself to dress. Steve was quiet and Sif remained at his side, murmuring to him occasionally. Tony explained what they were waiting for and Steve only nodded, happy to take the time to recuperate.

Thor found the larder, as he called it, and dragged out pallets of food for them to prepare over an open flame which Loki created. The group huddled together in the cool night, their collective body warmth masking the shroud which hung over them.

Loki did not speak.

Tony quizzed Steve on the events which led to the dissolution of SHIELD. His face fell when he heard of the culprit - the never-dead Hydra, not resurrected but merely concealed and now revealed to the light. Natasha pulled Clint aside and explained her own actions, and their newly publicized crimes. Clint understood the decision; Tony made job offers to Steve, Natasha and Clint on the spot, and refused to hear their protests.

"We'll privatize world peace some more," he said, and that was that.

Sif shook her head when Tony began to pry further. It was obvious that Steve suffered from something deeper, something which bothered him on a level which Hydra hadn't touched. The lady warrior pulled him aside often, and finally tugged him into joining her for a walk around the compound.

She laced her arm through his, a familiar, friendly Midgardian gesture she enjoyed.

"I know that you blame yourself," she said to him as they rounded out of sight from the group. Steve raised no protest, and she nodded. "Just as Thor often does, for actions which are not his own. You cannot deny the facts, Steve - you did not know."

"I didn't look," he said. Her arm tightened around his.

"No one would have looked, Steve. You said he fell to his death."

"I was wrong."

Sif thought of Thor and the Warriors Three, and placed herself in Steve's position in her mind. She sighed.

"I do not know what I would think of myself in a similar position, but I am sure it would not be much." She smiled tightly when Steve looked at her, eyebrows raised. "You've suffered great losses in your lifetime which I cannot relate to. Perhaps your friend's return is less a curse than a boon?"

"Maybe," Steve hedged. He wanted to believe it, and without Bucky's face haunting him behind closed eyelids he might have allowed himself flights of fancy where Bucky would one day be happily reunited with his friend.

Years of hoping to wake up from this prolonged nightmare of modern life had taught him how to ignore his baser desires. He had learned the hard way that reality pulled no punches when it came to Steve Rogers.

"Glad for the escort, though," he said, and patted her hand where it looped his forcep. Sif smiled sadly and wished for an end to all of this.

"Wouldn't it be nice to have a boring day every once in a while," he said, and together they laughed grimly at life's follies.

Don't move.

"Why not?" His voice was slurred and painful; his lungs still hurt.

Don't speak, either.

"Too late."

Bad idea.

"Quit with the cryptic." Wade raised an arm and groaned, pressing his fingers against his forehead to stem the ebbing headache.

Why don't you listen?

"You're not the boss of me."

"Who is it that you speak to?"

Wade's eyes shot open and he lifted himself to his elbows, looking in the direction of the cultured voice. A man all dressed in green leaned against the far wall, arms crossed over his chest and one knee crooked. Wade raised two fingers in a peace sign.

"Hey, we're like Christmas in here! Give peace a chance."

Don't antagonize him.

"Why the fuck not?" Wade's eyes drifted to the side, where a small female form remained silent and still. "Oh…"

He looked up. The man hadn't moved at all, watching him with slitted, passive eyes. Wade rolled to his knees and waved two hands over the body.

Don't.

"Aw, babe." He reached to check for a pulse, knowing he wouldn't find one, and that was when the man moved.

He couldn't see the movement except for a static blur, the sensation of flying and then slamming into the lab bench. Supplies clattered and flew as the weight of his body displaced them. Several bottles fell, and he grabbed the wrist holding him down against the countertop. He couldn't breathe easily, but that didn't stop him from trying.

"It wasn't personal," he choked out, and was flying again.

You should grow wings.

He didn't have time for a comeback; he landed on top of the cooler with the lungs and knocked it sideways. The top cracked and sprung to the side, and viscous, dark liquid splattered outward. The lungs, dissolved into a mass of flesh soup. His hand landed in the puddle and he jerked it away when he heard the sizzling.

"Aw, gross, dammit!" He started to rip his glove free and found that he couldn't move. He was pressed to the wall, that same grip around his throat and now a new one around his untouched hand. The sizzling was louder. He choked and scraped the cloth against the wall behind him, trying to rid himself of the burning fabric.

The look was the same. Impassive, cold, barely a sneer. When his hand started stinging, he recognized the face.

"Say, aren't you that guy from New York?"

Wade raised his burning hand and pressed it against the man's chin; he hissed and dropped Wade, all at once, green light flaring in a blinding flash. Wade ripped off the glove and tossed it away. The skin underneath was white and blistered until his healing kicked in. The blisters sank away, and the pain with them.

It's like cheating.

"Can you suffer?" The rasped question sounded deadly. He looked up. Now there was some emotion: hatred, pain, and something very close to murderous rage.

"Can we talk about this?" Wade asked. The man fisted his hands; green-yellow flashes began to grow.

I bet it's gonna hurt.

"Whoa whoa, hey! Cool it!" Wade raised both hands in surrender. "I lose!"

He's going for the neck again.

"Gak," Wade said as he was hefted into the air. This time he couldn't get enough air to speak, which was probably just as well, because this time, the guy looked pissed.

"It is your fault she suffered, and it is your fault she is dead," he rasped. "And for that, I will kill you slowly. Again," the hand drew him forward, slammed his head back against the wall, "and again."

It won't take.

"N sht," he choked. The hand around his throat tightened.

This is gonna hurt.

"Loki," a deep baritone said from behind. The hand loosened and the glare softened, flickered to the side. An acknowledgement of a witness.

The hell kind of name is Loki?

"Loki, enough."

"It is not enough, Thor," Loki snarled.

"That's not for you to decide, Loki." Another voice. Wade shifted his eyes and saw an American flag as a suit.

Holy shit.

"Can I have your autograph?" he asked around the hand. Loki tightened his fist again to cut off further words, and he gagged.

"Loki, enough." The baritone manifested into a large blond, easily recognizable. Wade didn't like this. This was probably bad.

It's definitely bad.

Thor touched his brother's shoulder, once, and the trickster released Wade at once. The mercenary caught himself on his feet and rubbed his hand across his throat, waiting for the muscles to mend before daring to speak.

Don't speak.

"I always speak," he said. "So, fellas -"

A fist cracked square into the center of his face; his nose shattered under the force of the blow and he staggered back. "Motherfucker!" he cried, "ow!"

Steve shook his hand and scowled at the mercenary. "I think it was deserved."

Captain American says you deserved it.

"Small favors," he muttered as his nose mended itself. The cartilage reshaped and crackled into place. "Gah. Gah. I hate that."

"I think our position is clear," Captain goddamned America, Crusher of Noses said. He was wiping his fist with his other hand, cracking the knuckles as though he needed to loosen up the muscles. "Two of us are gods, and one of us wants to kill you pretty badly."

"He is quite creative," Thor offered with a friendly smile. "It is a challenge, that you cannot die."

"Accepted," Loki said.

Yeah, this is bad.

"So you're going to tell us who hired you and why," Captain America, Unleasher of Insane Gods said. "And then we'll decide if it's good enough."

"That's not a very good deal," Wade said. "Shouldn't it be 'and then we'll let you go?' Or at least, 'and then you'll live without horrible, horrible torture?'"

The Captain was looking down at the small body not ten feet away from where they stood. His jaw was clenched, his eyes hard. Thor crossed his arms, which drew attention to his massive muscles. Loki stared with the same cold expression as before, all of the violence once again harnessed in the face of company.

Don't be alone with that guy.

"That's the offer you get," the Captain said. "I don't make promises I can't keep."

Is that comforting?

"Nope," he said, "I'm pretty sure it's not."

"Of course it's the Ten Rings," Tony harped angrily. "Of course it is! Who else can pop up again? Anyone have any evil exes to fess up to?"

"You don't want to know," Natasha said dryly.

"We need a course of action here," Steve said. The group was huddled around a table deep within the compound. "There's too much to tackle at once. We need one goal at a time."

"Who are our foes, as we know them?" Thor asked. Loki stood behind him with his arms crossed, staring at the video feed where Wade Wilson, prisoner of the Avengers, sat in a holding cell within the compound.

"Hydra," Natasha said.

"Ten Rings," Tony said.

"The Ridley strain," Bruce said. Everyone paused to look at him, and he shrugged. "It started all of this; I'd call it the biggest problem we have. If that thing wipes out everyone, none of the rest matters."

"I have Lynn's notebook from inside that lab," Tony said hesitantly. He'd skimmed through most of the notes, realizing immediately that they were gibberish meant to fool the less scientifically minded. Until he hit the last page where she'd been writing, and the handwriting became clearer, more focused.

What if it works? the notes asked. He slid them in front of Bruce, who read through slowly. His face tensed and he clenched his hands on the table.

"What is it, Bruce?" Steve asked.

"She found a way," Bruce said. "Maybe." He turned the page and showed it to Steve, who scanned the words and shook his head to show he didn't understand.

"Look, this guy, Deadpool - he heals. Here, she says he can survive anything. His blood can regenerate on its own."

Steve glanced at Tony, who had one fist pressed under his chin as he stared at the table. The fingers of his other hand strummed against the table.

"Ok?" Steve said. "What does that have to do with the strain?"

"They can use this mercenary to study the disease," Loki said from behind Thor. His eyes shone brightly with appreciation of the idea. He looked nearly giddy. "This strain will not yield to your sciences as of yet, correct? His blood could solve the riddle."

Tony drummed his fingers. What if it works? the notes said. He couldn't blame her for her fretting. He didn't share the same hesitation.

"I say we do it," the inventor said. "What've we got to lose?"

"What are we talking about doing?" Clint asked.

"Donating his ass to science," Tony said. "Hook, line and sinker. Lynn already drew blood; let's collect that and work from there."

"This isn't right," Steve said. Bruce nodded immediately, and Steve was relieved to know he wasn't alone. Sif stood at his back as well, and her hand gently squeezed his shoulder before pulling away. Steve looked at Natasha, who was turning her hands over and over. She had washed the body alone, out of respect for Lynn's gender, and laid her out in a bunk down the hallway. They might bury her in the morning, when the mountain air was easier to work in.

"Lynn was my friend," she said, and added nothing further.

"I side with you, Steve," Thor declared. "This man is our prisoner now, and should be afforded certain rights."

Loki snarled at his brother's back. "What do you care for this mortal's life?"

"It is a bad precedent, Loki," Thor said.

"For what?"

"It could have been you," the thunderer said, and they all turned to look at him. "Do you deny it? Your Director Fury asked me to torture him, in so many words, and I am his brother. If I had not been present, what would have been done?"

"I wouldn't let it come to that," Steve said quietly, and Thor nodded at him.

"You stand alone often, Steve," Thor said. "I cannot trust it will always be enough."

"That's fair," Steve said.

"You are all fools," Loki rasped. He turned on his heel and stalked from the room, the door slamming behind him.

"Ok, so, Ridley strain, then the others, right?" Bruce asked. "I just want to make sure my priorities are straight here."

"Someone should find him," Steve said wearily. Thor began to stand, but Clint raised a hand and excused himself.

"Be careful, Clint," Natasha said. He nodded and left the room.

There was only so long he could avoid the inevitable, and now that the body was moved and cleansed, he could not force himself away any longer. Loki pushed open the door where Lynn Creed's body rested, and forced himself to look upon the remains.

She had been a friend, if he were honest. She was exasperating and challenging, a stubborn tiny mortal who never could understand her place.

Now she was only cold and silent, and he couldn't understand why.

The door creaked behind him and the archer stepped forward to stand at his side. His right hand side, the trickster mused, and wondered if Barton noticed. Judging from the somewhat annoyed expression on the smaller man's face, he did.

"I had a brother, once," Clint said. "I told you that."

"You did," Loki said quietly.

"No family left now. SHIELD was like family. Fury was someone I could count on, always." Clint crouched next to Lynn and took her hand. Loki waited for her to rouse from her slumber. Her chest remained still, as did her eyes, and he hurt, oh, he hurt.

"Natasha told me about some of the guys who were Hydra. I knew them. We worked together." Clint sighed and let go of Lynn's hand, standing back up. "I never knew. I guess none of us did, and now that world is gone."

The world where SHIELD existed. Loki understood.

"I have experienced loss, Barton," the trickster said. "I survived each time before."

"We all have," Barton said. "Don't forget that. She was our friend, too."

"Was. The past tense, to indicate a history now gone." Loki closed his eyes and thought of the Gauntlet. "How could one so unworthy be given such a gift?"

"You mean Wade?" Clint asked, misunderstanding completely. "It was part of a program, from what Nat says. He wasn't born that way."

This was intriguing. Loki looked at Clint, who shrugged. "I don't know more than that."

"How convenient, then, that he is here to provide further information."

"Loki," Clint said, "she's dead. Humans, once we've died, we stay that way."

"Except this man," Loki said casually. There was something else picking at the edge of his consciousness, something he had heard when his waking mind wasn't present. A bit of information that he could use. He pricked at the thought and waited for his brain to elaborate.

Loki had ever been unwilling to accept the reality presented to him, instead choosing to mold reality to his needs. Surely death was simply another form to exploit. And someone about the mercenary, specifically - some connection to death itself -

He, I cursed with life -

Loki smiled then, a tight, cruel smile. There was one game left to play; he had not lost this hand yet.

Author's note: In case you are wondering, Lynn is indeed dead. Will she stay that way? How about some audience feedback! Feel free to drop a comment.