A hand shot out, pressing at the hinge of Holly's laptop. Just barely snatching her fingers away, the brunette shot a glare at the offender. She'd been in the middle of typing an email to the publisher, their debate about release dates and meeting at the New York offices ongoing. While it could wait for a few moments, she did not like being interrupted in such a manner. Staring at her husband, any protest that had been on her tongue died when she saw the seriousness of his expression, the jerk of his chin at the television being his only response.
The channel had been tuned to CNN all morning, early speculation about the U.N. summit the background noise to their breakfast and the couple of chores she had started on. Steve would be heading to the base in the afternoon to catch up on proceedings with Hill and Fury, but he'd wanted to keep an eye on the situation in some way. Something, they were discovering, was needed. Returning her focus to the screen for the first time in hours, she was shocked to see the cameras shake, the screams of dismay and surprise echoing in the microphones as the chamber was overrun by men in Kevlar and armor. Violently, the chaos that descended was recorded, a sudden fist appearing and blackening the camera as the lens was punched out, punched through. As the feed switched, it continued to show the horror, the swarm of enemies overtaking Natasha and Rhodey. Over all the madness, a man in a gray suit presided, his hands tucked into his pockets and the barest hint of a smile on his lips. Soon enough, he raised a hand, a cutting motion made across his throat, and then the feed went dead. The fear and shock in the central newsroom was powerful, but it was nothing to the heavy fog surrounding the man and woman watching it all in their living room.
"Oh, my God..." Holly breathed, a hand going over her mouth. Looking at Steve, she saw the dark set of his face, the sharpness in his eyes. At that moment, buzzing and rattling came from the coffee table, the device perched there shaking with extreme intensity. It was a transmitter, an emergency transmitter to alert him of true danger. It had to be activated by one of the team members inside, the distress signal given to get him on the move as they could not lock down the situation themselves. At once, he was on his feet, running up the stairs to fetch the shield. Rocking and scooting off her seat, she shuffled as fast as she could, grabbing up her phone and purse, laptop tucked under her arm as he came back downstairs. One fast glance was sent to her, to the keys she had scooped up, and he frowned. She returned the expression, seeing the argument he was preparing in his mind. If he expected her to be able to simply let him go, with her staying behind to fret in their home, he was about to be sorely mistaken. Arching her eyebrows, she did not give him the chance to voice it, instead heading towards the back door with all haste. He followed behind, taking the keys from her and jumping behind the wheel of the truck. Barely buckling herself in time, the engine roared to life, commands to lock up the property given as they drove away from the house, all speed limit postings duly ignored as they went.
The base itself was practically pulsing as they entered, his hand gripping hers hard as they navigated around scurrying agents and away from the calls and answers. As they moved quickly, Holly spotted a flash of blue hair, Kay raising her hand and saluting her as they passed, no time to spare for any other gestures. Typing in access codes, Steve overrode the system to allow both him and his wife into the back halls. Approaching the locker area, the din of the base had quieted somewhat, replaced with the nervous hum of energy that had descended upon them as they'd left their home.
"Steve!" Maria Hill shouted, hoofing it despite wearing heels. The garage staff had sent her an alert when Captain Rogers had arrived, and she was desperate to catch him on his way in. Exchanging greeting nods with Holly, the older woman barely had time to get her breath back.
"Everyone here?" he asked, striding forward. As her hand was still in his, Holly was pulled alongside him, and Maria flanked him on the other.
"Yes, they're suiting up and getting ready to head out," she reported, nodding ahead to the flurry of activity of his remaining team members. Cupping her hand in the air, Maria went on, "All agents are on standby, and we've got a quinjet waiting."
Steve nodded, his captain's tone taking over as he spoke again. "Good. We leave in fifteen; get the word out to the others, and patch me in if Fury calls before we're in the air."
"On it," Hill said, hooking a thumb's up at him before departing down another hallway. Her assistant was waiting for her at the other end, the two women's discussion cut off as they disappeared. Leading Holly over to a bench, he softened his voice as he asked her to wait there, a kiss pressed to her hair as she sat down. One by one, she watched the others stream out, Wanda casting her a sympathetic glance as she took the Vision's hand and drew him along. The android could not do much but follow, though he did give her a cursory nod as he went by. One of the newest additions, the one called Ant-Man, came up to her directly. He'd wanted to say hello before, but there was hardly any time between training and mission work, and then he didn't want to seem too forward, because he had a tendency to be, but...all in all, he told her exactly that and extended his well wishes for the baby. A clearing throat behind him made him jump, but Scott (as he insisted she call him) recovered decently. Looking over his shoulder at his leader, he smiled wanly and crammed his helmet on, waggling fingers in good-bye before she could wish him luck. Her dark eyes cut back to Steve, the blooms of fear and worry in her stomach rising as he stood there. Armor all in place, shield attached to the electromagnetic strips on the back, all that remained was to put on the helmet, and he would be stoic, steely Captain America in a heartbeat.
"Holly," he said, blue eyes wavering as he approached her, his bundle of clothes handed off to her. He was still Steve, for the moment, still her husband. His thumb unconsciously rubbed the inside of his ring finger, the wedding band sung beneath the gauntlet, and his expression was filled with all that was pooling inside him. Dumping his clothes on the bench, she stepped forward, not wishing to waste more time.
"Just kiss me quick, and be back as soon as you can," she demanded, reaching for him.
"I will," he stated swiftly, half his promise met as he embraced her. Dropping his helmet, he cupped her face, drawing her in hard and fast. Her hands clung to the belt pack at his hips, light tugs pulling him as close as possible to her. A soft swipe at his lower lip, and he opened up to her, the kiss deepening. The urgency of it meant that it was over far too quickly, but both of them understood why it had to be that way. When it ended, their heavy breaths mingled in the air. A glance shot downward, and his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. Lowering himself onto one knee, he braced his hands on either side of her belly, fingers stiff even as she laid her palms over them. He had to do this, had to have at least one talk with his boy before he left. It may have appeared silly, but Steve wasn't about to leave his child wondering what-ifs about him for the rest of his life if something happened. This mission was bigger, more dangerous than the ones that had come before it in the past several months, and if it all went wrong...he just had to do it. Brushing his thumb against the swell, he inhaled shakily.
"Okay, son, you listen here. You be good for your mother while I'm gone, alright?" His ears caught the bare hitch resounding in her throat, the implications beneath his words making her tremble a bit under his grasp. His heart thumped in dread, in pain, but he could not stop himself from saying it. Bending his head, he gave the swell a peck, the reverberation of a kick bouncing against his lips. Message received and heard, he mused quietly. "Just...just be good."
Breathing sharply out his nose, Steve fetched up the helmet he'd let drop to the ground, placing it upon his head firmly and snapping the clasp into place under his chin. Getting back onto his feet, he looked down at Holly, his tongue failing him after his little speech to their unborn boy. Blinking hard, she grabbed his hand, bringing it up to lay on her chest. The faint beat of her heart was beneath his hand, the fingerless gauntlet muting it further, but it was still there. Her own rose up, splaying her palm over the outlined star. For a moment or two, they stood suspended, the world disappearing as they looked upon one another. Carefully, she raised herself up a little, fingers hooking around his harness straps and bringing him down to meet her. A final kiss, and she sighed.
"Go, Captain," she whispered against his lips, the tingle in them remaining even as she gently pushed him back. The farewells were difficult enough as it was, and clinging would not help (not that she had done that before, in his memory). Dipping his chin, his lips pressed to her forehead, hushed I-love-yous passing before he turned, stiffening his spine and resolutely marching down the hall. The shield caught the light as he rounded the corner, the star at the center glinting before he disappeared.
Tucking her hands around the hem of her blouse, Holly did deep breathing exercises, trying her best to keep the tears at bay. Letting him go was getting harder every day, and the hormones certainly did not help matters. She had stood there for several long minutes, the distant rumble of the quinjet taking flight breaking through her calming process. Swiping at her eyes, pushing away the stray drops, she cleared her throat loudly, sniffing hard as she gathered up her things and his clothes. Aloud, she asked JJ for help. Following the directions he provided, she found herself taking the private elevator up to the offices. Proceeding directly past the bank that housed the team's spaces, she went to one of the conferences around the corner, the clear glass walls revealing the single occupant of the room. Sniffing again, she knocked at the door. Attention caught, the woman looked up, nodding for her to come in. Quickly, she crossed the threshold, noting the growing look of question in her gaze.
"Maria," she started, ready to make her case, "I know I can't do much, but if there's anything I can help with..."
The other woman waved her hand, brushing away her speech. There was no need to convince her to allow her to stay. It was something she had heard before, and besides, she already knew Holly's value. Ushering her into the room, she nodded towards the chair to her right. A headset and a few phones were sitting atop the table, the hook-up running in from long cables from the adjoining rooms. Waiting until she was sitting down, her purse and laptop placed on the floor, Maria pointed at the phones, a grimace creasing her lips as the interfaces lit up sporadically.
"Cover these phones, give reassurances where you can," she instructed, her own headset in place as she commanded her own phones. Normally, there was a telecommunications branch in place at the base, but there were a select few who had the direct number to her office. The companies and organizations that had been working with the team since the Battle of Novi Grad would be calling her soon, no doubt, and they would want some form of answer. Tapping an index finger on the table, she asserted, "No firm commitments."
"Okay, same drill as last year," Holly replied, the feeling of similarity and familiarity weighing down upon her. With a light snort, she continued, "Minus kissing butt to get endorsement."
Maria smiled sardonically. "Good thing we already have it."
The younger woman snorted. "Unless this goes sideways."
"Had to say it, huh?"
Holly had the grace to look a little chagrined. Forthrightness sometimes equated to bluntness in her case. She really needed to work on that.
"Sorry."
Roughly three phone calls had passed by the time Hill's assistant came running down the hall, her hair streaming behind her as she burst into the conference room. Instinctively, Holly backed up her chair, palm over her stomach, while Maria jumped up, angling her body defensively. After a second or two, the assistant caught her breath.
"Ms. Hill...CNN reconnected," she told her, stepping into the room and up the television hook-up on the far wall. Maria and Holly shared a look before the older woman nodded.
"Tap in the quinjet; they'll want to see this," she commanded, sitting down just as the screen came to life. Out of impulse, Holly snatched her wrist, the fear inside her forcing its way out. Maria merely patted her fingers, both breathless as they looked on the scene, where friends were captured by enemies.
xXxXxXx
Zemo looked around the chamber, the sweep of his army and Rumlow's mercenaries cornering the diplomats and dignitaries with ease. A select few, along with the two Avengers in the room, had put up a fight, but that had only lasted a few minutes. The building was in his control, the portion of the city locked down for blocks out. There would be no easy entry in or out of the place. Just as he planned, just as he wanted. Rumlow tapped into the earpiece under his mask, muttering under his breath, and then he approached. The Black Widow, who had been in his charge, was given over to another mercenary, a rifle pointed directly at the back of her head and his body positioned in a way that would not allow her to strike. Zemo had to hand it to him: he definitely knew how best to handle his former coworker.
"Jensen's holding outside," Crossbones reported in, a bit superfluously given how they were all tapped into the same comm channel. However, he reckoned it was more for the benefit of their acquaintances. And sure enough, he caught the rapid glance passing between the colonel and the ex-agent. That was what happened when they failed to finish a mission, failed to capture an enemy.
"Good," he replied, eyes flicking around the chamber. Knowing full well that there were more out there, waiting for the chance to strike, he commanded, "Keep a lookout for intruders."
"What should we do with them?" asked one of the underlings, his rifle jerking towards the capture Avengers. The guards behind them were standing at attention, waiting for his orders. It would be so easy to put a bullet in their heads and be done with it. However, they wouldn't learn anything if they did that. Right away.
"Make them watch, of course," Zemo exclaimed, as though it were obvious. He squinted at Rhodes, dark eyes meeting his without hesitation, and let the corner of his mouth curl. "Make them see how helpless the situation really is."
"Why are you doing this?" Romanoff asked, fire in her eyes as she stared up at him. The one he returned was icy, freezing as he cross over to her. Palms planting firmly on his hips, he bent at the waist, his face only inches from hers. He had to give her credit; she didn't flinch at his proximity. Either stubborn or courageous on her part. His bet was stubborn.
"I saw the world crumble and burn around me," he confessed, the weight of a year's misery, heartbreak, and pain behind every word as he spoke. Tipping his head back towards Rumlow, he continued, "So has he, so have others. Because of you."
He jabbed a finger at the colonel, at her, representatives of those who had destroyed everything worth having in his life, for no other reason than because they had. He kept his tone low, but the savagery in his speech was clear.
"It might not be much, but when it's your life, it matters. It's enough," he exhaled, the snarl inside evident. Straightening, he turned to face the chamber, to face the trapped members of the United Nations, and raised his voice to address them. "You put so much faith in the Avengers...let's test that."
Smoothing down his jacket, he looked over to where the terrified camera operators (the ones who were still alive; with some of the mad dash and scampering earlier, some had been unfortunate enough to fall), a finger raised and rolling in a circle. The mercenaries holding the cameramen hostage nudged and threatened them into submission, made them turn on the cameras and reestablish connection. Stepping back up to the podium that had been abandoned, he cleared his throat once before staring directly out. No more modesty, no more hiding in the shadows. It was time.
"This is for Captain America and his sycophantic team," he practically spat, his control resumed after a few seconds. "You have two hours to come here, and stop the madness. Give yourselves over to justice, or we take the city next. And we will kill anyone in our way. Starting here. No quarter given. After that...we will see."
Pausing for effect, he looked down upon the quaking leaders in his thrall, and he smirked darkly.
"This, by the way, is not a bluff. We will start here, and we will start now."
Nodding to a couple of his men, he pointed across the crowd, to the table designated to Wakanda. The guards he'd brought with him had been wounded significantly, though they attempted to keep the sovereign out of the enemy's clutches. A few well-placed punches destroyed their defense, and left the king without protection. T'Chaka was manhandled out of his seat, dark eyes flashing harshly as he was dragged to the front of the room. His son protested, earning him a rifle butt to the shoulder before he was shoved into the aisle as well. The father and son exchanged glances, the older man giving the smallest shake of the head as the younger's eyes lit up with fury. Despite his status as an Avenger, private though it may be, he would listen to his father's unspoken command. Defense could come later, when the situation was not as dire. Brought before the podium, he stood, gaze defiant as he looked upon the odious man in the gray suit. Zemo stared back frankly, unperturbed.
"Your Highness...see what your support has cost you now?" he inquired facetiously. The king had been outspoken in his support for the Avengers for months, yet he could not be touched. Not until now. The thorn in his side would be eliminated, one way or another. Leaning forward slightly, he spoke up again. "You will be our first example, if the Avengers don't cooperate."
T'Chaka said nothing, but continued to look upon him with disgust, his head held high. He had been faced with worse in the jungles of his own country; nothing the stranger threatened him with could make him afraid, and he would not cower before him.
From their perch up in the balcony, the Falcon and the Swordsman looked at one another. Barnes and Duquesne, after breaking in, found Sam hunkered down behind one of the pillars, a few stray thugs littering the ground around him. When the tide turned, the trio had assumed positions to spy on the proceedings. Despite some accidental actions taken within the room, nobody had been outright brought forward for death. Not until then.
"Shit," Wilson muttered, his brown eyes wide. Under his breath, he heard the Frenchman mutter the equivalent in his native tongue. Glancing over to Barnes, he saw the stiffness in his jaw, the resolve in his gaze, and he sucked in a breath. "Barnes, don't—"
"Stay here," the ex-assassin commanded, brooking no argument or refusal. It would be a veritable suicide mission, but he could not allow the stranger to threaten anyone else, to make things worse. Before either Wilson or Jacques could say another word, he launched himself over the edge to the floor below. His left hand dug into the drywall and paneling, gasps ringing through the air as he landed heavily on his feet. Raising his Glock, he began his advance, heedless of the mercenaries filling the chamber. With his distraction, T'Chaka took initiative, his elbow jerking back to collide with the neck of one of his escort. Sharp jabs fired off from his shoulders, the older man as lithe as he had been in younger days. Many of the dignitaries hit the deck as the ex-assassin made his way to the front, springing off tables and catching the throat of one man with his boot before a few shots were popped off. The pair worked in tandem, Barnes trying to get closer to free T'Chaka totally, to free his teammates, his girl. The king was holding his own as some of the mercenaries circled up around him, attempting to bring him down. For his part, the prince mimicked their actions, knocking his own captor down and running to meet them. Bright eyes darted a look at him, and Natasha opened her mouth, sudden shock lacing her irises as she spied something.
The crack of new gunfire startled those still trapped in the chamber, screams of horror echoing in Bucky's ear. Pivoting hard on his heel, he watched, flabbergasted, as the man in the gray suit tossed away the hand gun he'd produced, no doubt having been secreted on his person. Having infiltrated the group of mercenaries with ease, he had merely waited for an opening. On his knees before him was T'Chaka, a hand clutching at his throat and choking breaths coursing out of him. Another scream, and the prince's forward rush was halted, his body frozen and tears beginning to fill his eyes.
"Should've stayed put, Your Highness," the man muttered, an edge of false regret in his voice as he fell to the ground, dead. Looking up, he and the masked mercenary shared a nod, the ringing group rushing out towards Barnes then. Struggling mightily, he refused to be subdued. A kick to his lower back followed by a jab to his temple made stars explode in his vision, and he was grounded. It was enough time for his limbs to be snatched, his weapon forced out of his grip and his body jerked forward. The man blinked at him, and grinned, almost friendly despite the dead body at his feet. "The Asset. I wondered where you were, Soldier."
"That's not my name," Bucky snapped back, trying to twist his way out. That wiped the smile off the fellow's face, at least for a few seconds.
"But it is what you are, isn't it?" was the fast retort. His gaze scanned over the ex-assassin, as though he were looking for something specific on him. Inclining his chin, the man motioned to the masked mercenary. "Hold the chamber, Rumlow."
A tiny inhale, and Bucky's gaze flicked over to Natasha. Her face was stony, her gaze narrowed in on the mercenary. It matched his own expression; he remembered the guy, one of Pierce's underlings. His name had not been discovered until after he'd gone through rehabilitation, after he began to reconnect the pieces of his life. Steve had told him that Rumlow had disappeared, vanished after the helicarrier disaster. Well, now they knew where he'd gone. The mercenary just shrugged a shoulder, but Barnes got the vague sense that he was smirking beneath the mask.
A short command and a pointing finger, and he was pushed towards the side doors. Digging in his heels, he refused to be taken anywhere, refused to give up the fight. A harsh grip twined in his hair, jerking his head back and twisting it painfully. A groan floated out of his mouth, and out the corner of his eye, he watched the gray-suited man tighten his grip.
"Move, or I'll make it harder on your friends," he whispered, the ultimatum issued. As though his feet were leaden, he forced himself to step forward. He would not risk the rest of them due to his own stubborn folly. The sight of Natasha watching him go, the brief softness in her gaze, made his heart shrink. He would go, for now, but he would get back in there, back to her.
xXxXxXx
The feed cut off, and the quinjet was absolutely silent for several long moments. Total shock and disgust hovered in the air around the team members aboard. Wanda's grip on the Vision's hand tightened, red rimming her eyes as what had happened sank in. Scott appeared to be stunned, gaze ricocheting from the screen to his hands as the seconds passed. And the captain, well, he was infuriated, the cold fierceness within him holding him in place as he looked ahead, staring but seeing nothing. The first shot had been fired, so to speak, the first casualty. One of their own had lost someone in the fight now, and was being held as ransom. The message that had been issued was heard loud and clear, echoing in the silence around them until it was almost deafening. Within minutes of the live feed going dead again, Fury called in, the absolute horror of the situation reflected in his eye as he contacted the primary team. They were just outside New York airspace, and they had to get a plan together as swiftly as possible. No more innocent lives should be lost on their account.
"How'd they even get there in the first place? An army can't just materialize out of thin air," Lang pointed out, the logistics of it baffling.
"No doubt they've been building and preparing for months. And given how most of them are unknowns, slipping past security isn't such an impossible idea," Fury theorized, the harsh set of his face almost doubling as he spoke. "For the higher ups, I'm going with bribery, threats, and falsified documents. Generally, that's how it works."
Steve frowned at that, coming back to himself in that moment. "What do we have for support? I know Chapman's team is right behind us, but it would be nice to have some back-up, just in case."
Fury inclined his head. "National Guard is ready to move out, and we've got the evacuation teams on hold, too. From what we understand, they've got the building on lockdown, and own up to ten city blocks in every direction."
"The aggressors?" the captain demanded, wanting names for the bastards who took hostages, who took his friends, and killed at will. The older man nodded on his end.
"Doctor Jensen is one. She's been sighted on the ground, leading the troops with all those stolen weapons from HYDRA, I don't doubt. The masked guy who was onscreen in the upper right, he matches the description of one called Crossbones. Took some digging, but he's been identified as Brock Rumlow." Steve's eyes were wide as saucers when he said that, and Fury just raised an eyebrow. "He's been building up a reputation underground, and now we see the result of that."
"And the third? Who is he?" Wanda inquired, taking note of the captain's twitching jaw and stepping in.
"We've got facial recognition running through the scanner, but..." the director trailed off, knowing the trolling through all the information databases of the world would take some time. Even if a hit came up, it had not been immediate. Suddenly, beeping came in on his mobile handheld. Scanning through it, he tapped at the screen, forwarding the information he'd received to them. On an accompanying screen, the hateful man's face filled it again, followed by scanned documents and reports. "Got a match. Helmut Zemo. Of German and...Sokovian descent. Standard member of gentry, nothing special about him until last year."
Nick read ahead, and he blinked rapidly. Noting the shift in his demeanor, the others stared at him until he looked up again. Understanding, anger, and pity warred in his features, and he swallowed.
"He was there, at Novi Grad. Lost his wife and kids in the attack."
Another silence fell, and Steve cupped a hand over his mouth, scrubbing down his jaw. The others looked on, staring at the picture of the man who threatened so many in such a short time.
"That gives us motive," the Vision uttered plainly, the grip on his hand increasing. Despite his not feeling pain on the same level as humans, his features did contort in a wince as his female companion held on.
"He lost his whole world. And it will cost everyone else theirs, if we don't move fast," Wanda murmured, determination overcoming the sudden spring of guilt in her stomach. If Zemo was of their making, then they would be his undoing.
"Then I suppose it's time to move out, huh?" a new voice crackled over the line. With comms in, they were all connected, and they all looked at each other.
"Tony," Steve said, some of the sourness draining away. Though the general call had sounded, there was no guarantee that Stark would come. Not after everything had happened, not after choosing to stay away for so long because of tragic, horrible mistakes.
"Come on, I didn't get all suited up just for a flyby," the billionaire responded, speaking over the captain's thoughts and a trail of white streaking behind him just outside the cockpit windows. The agents piloting the jet, to their credit, did not let a hint of a reaction show on their face (but they'd jumped, and the team noticed). The quiet that followed was loaded, and soon enough, Tony cleared his throat. "I'm not gonna leave my friends in the lurch over our problems. Let me know what you got, Captain."
Something deep inside Steve felt repaired, for a few seconds, upon hearing those words. It was time, time to get down there and down to business.
"Okay," he responded, tapping at the display screen in the quinjet and summoning a layout of New York City. The battle was at hand, and they had to prepare for it.
xXxXxXx
Crossbones surveyed his temporary charge, his men in place and holding the chamber as he commanded. Well, not him, Zemo, but the point still stood that the men would come and leave on his say-so. Part of him was still deeply uncomfortable with the plan, purely because he still did not understand the merit of it. And it was not a question of his intelligence, but rather whether the end result would be as satisfactory as, say, charging Captain America head-on and ripping his throat out himself. However, capturing an entire assembly of delegates, dignitaries, and a couple of Avengers to boot? That wasn't so bad. That part was alright. Out the corner of his eye, he saw the shift of red, Romanoff squirming in her spot. If she kept that up, he was going to have words with her.
Long, painful words. The corners of his lips twitched. He kind of hoped she would break, just so he could do something about it.
A crackle came over the comms, the channel skirting past him to his underlings.
"Quinjets have been spotted, sir," one of the younger fellows reported, coming up to him. A flicker of interest laced his irises, and he gestured for the kid to continue. "Along with Iron Man. Orders?"
Brock couldn't help himself, and since he was wearing his mask, he didn't. A genuine grin broke out on his lips. For once, he would gladly relay Zemo's orders. Simply because they fell in line with what he truly wanted.
"When they come, attack with extreme prejudice. No quarter, remember, especially if they make to the front gate," he repeated, tapping into the channel and sending out the call to others as well. Tilting his head up, he went on, "And if someone manages to get to Rogers before I do...I want his head. I mean that literally."
Off his signal, he instructed several of his men to go out to the front lines, bolster the defense on the steps and narrowing down his crew significantly. There were still enough of them to deter any hero-wannabe types in the dignitaries, particularly as none of them wished to catch a stray bullet like the king of Wakanda had. Tapping out, he caught the derisive snort the Black Widow did not stifle, as well as the glare she shot at him. Rolling his eyes, he waited for the inevitable verbal response.
"You sick son of a bitch," the redhead spouted, almost as if on cue. Chuckling humorlessly, Rumlow advanced on her, crouching to meet her eye-line.
"Aw, and here I thought you liked me once, Romanoff," the mercenary crooned, taking off his mask in a false show solidarity.
"You enjoy flattering yourself, don't you?" Her gaze skittered over the crosshatch of scars on his face, trailing down his neck, and arched a brow. "God knows you probably can't get anyone to do so, now."
That wiped the smirk from his face.
"Big talk from a damsel in distress."
He heard the crackle of the comm again, but it sounded distant. Wondering if the links Zemo had secured were faulty, he turned his head, missing the brightness invading the redhead's eyes, and the subtle shift of her glance to the balcony.
"Now you know that's not true," Romanoff muttered, suddenly shifting weight onto her back foot and driving her knee into his jaw. Stunned, he fell back swinging his rifle wildly as she careened around her guard, a collapsible wire pooling out the sleeve of her jacket and pressing against his throat. Off her actions, the colonel executed a similar escape, twisting around and driving the flat of his palm up into the nose of his guard. From above, Wilson appeared, a confiscated rifle in hand and firing warning shot. Commanding his men, Rumlow directed fire to be returned, missing the Avenger by the narrowest margin. The prince of Wakanda, coming out of his distress, slid from aisle to aisle, disarming any remaining mercenaries in his path, his teammates meeting his actions stroke for stroke. With distraction of gunfire, the Swordsman finally leaped down from the balcony, rope taken from the flag display secured around his waist as he swung in. Throwing knives flew from his hands, piercing the unlucky few who happened to choose him as a target. Touching boots to the ground, he cut himself free, ducking to avoid the mercenary lurching towards him, the Black Widow's kick pushing him over.
"About time, Duquesne," she breathed, grabbing his arm and pulling him into a run beside her.
The brunet man smirked down at her. "Had to make an entrance. Like a modern-day Errol Flynn, yes?"
"Alright, Captain Blood, don't get cocky," she snapped back. The banter was all well and good, but there was a time and a place for it. That time was not then. That was the time to take back the chamber, and their freedom. Nodding the concentrated troops still standing, she pulled another set of stunner disks from her pocket, grinning as he unsheathed his sword. The blade sprang out, humming as he thumbed a button and brought out the laser edging. "Let's do this"
xXxXxXx
The local news affiliates were unable to get too close to the action, but from what they could record and send back to the stations, it was a bloody fight. Sightings of two quinjets were reported, and suddenly it was a mad dash for the ground crews to get over as close to First Avenue as possible. The Avengers, all of them, had come, ready to not surrender, but to fight and free those captured in the U.N. hall. As promised, the renegade army were in engaging the Avengers on the street as they attacked, the distant pops of gunfire and shouts caught by the microphones of the crews, shaky cam footage following as they retreated from the danger as needed. Some were speculating as to whether or not the team should have simply given over to the demands, or whether the current course of action was correct. With the National Guard also on the scene, it was tough to say, and even more difficult to predict.
Alone in the Tower since Stark's abrupt departure, Peter stared at the screen, the images of the fight fluttering before him as he sat in the laboratory. His posture was rigid, his face blank. He had been given strict instructions to stay put, Tony telling him to keep an eye out on the lab and keep his phone on him in case of any emergencies. Obeying his wishes, a small part of the teenager could not help but feel frustrated. What right had he to just tell him to stay back, stay behind. What right did Peter have to remaining in safety when so many others were not? There wasn't much he could be sure of in his short life, but that what he was doing—watching the news, biting his nails—was wrong. Chewing his lip, he considered the screen, watching Iron Man as he tore through the sky, landing hard on a set of mercenaries and repulsor beams shooting out of his gauntlets. Suddenly, Captain America appeared beside him, the beams switching to bounce off the shield and tear through the ring of enemies surrounding them. Scarlet auras were followed by mists of blue and white, a yellow streak tearing up behind them as they went. A guy with the British flag on his mask jumped in and out of frame, followed by a young woman with billy clubs and an attitude. The others, too, Emily and Scott were in the mix, fighting the good fight. Thus far, they were doing alright, but how long could that remain the truth?
Parker's phone beeped in his pocket, alerting him to the missed call that had just come through. Pulling it up, he stared at the name and number attached to the notification. True to his agreement with the captain and the others, he had told his aunt everything that had happened to him in the last six months. After the initial shock wore off, she had confessed to knowing something was going on; too many suspicious disappearances from the house, the innumerable, unexplained injuries to his person, and the fact that he could lie just about as well as one would expect a fifteen-year-old to (which is to say, not well at all). The first few days were the hardest, with her watching over him even more closely than before, but within a week, she was beginning to understand. To understand why he was choosing to use his gifts in the way that he was, in honor of the man she'd loved so dearly. And for the honor of others. However, it still didn't mean things were sailing smoothly in the house—she had quite a few words to say about Tony Stark, after finding out the level of deception they'd gone to—but it was closer to normal now than before. Knowing the truth, knowing that she still stood by him, had been more of a help than he'd realized.
At the moment, though, the help looked more like a hindrance, as he opened up the voice-mail app on his phone and dialed through.
"Peter Benjamin Parker, when you get this, come home. If you've heard what's going on already, don't do what I think you'll try to do," May had said, the sternness in her voice doing nothing to hide the fear underneath. He almost smiled to himself; she was one step ahead of him, as always, when it came to him and his nature. Drawing in a sharp breath, she begged, "Please, come home...I'll be waiting for you. Love you."
As the message clicked off, and the electronic voice requested his next action, he tapped the end call button. He dearly loved his aunt, wanted to respect her wishes, but...he cast his gaze over to the far wall, where the secreted number pad was stationed beneath an old Mercedes poster. To the locker within, the newest iteration of his suit waiting inside. As yet, the new additions had been untested, but he figured now would be as good a time as any.
"Sorry, May," Peter muttered, tucking the phone away and striding over to the wall, fresh purpose in mind. He had to do it, had to go, and nothing would stop him. It was the right thing to do, he told himself as he started pulling on the suit, preparing to enter the fray.
xXxXxXx
The empty office Bucky was taken to was cramped, made even more so when the guards filled the room around him. Being held in place, kneeling on the floor, he was forced to wait as the man consulted something on his phone, declaring he would be in within a few minutes. A hand was braced at the back of his neck, thick and steely, threatening to snap it if he made any wrong moves. Frustration and fury were poised to boil over in his mind. He had gone with to ensure that no one else would be harmed due to his actions. So that Natasha would be safe...but it didn't do them any good to have him holed up somewhere, unable to come up with a new strategy. Well, one beyond killing every miserable person who got between him and those he cared about, but that was the default. Bucky shifted to the left, trying to assess his surroundings, but the guards jerked hard, keeping him in place. Murderous intent laced his irises as he stared at the floor, his metal fingers clicking as they curled into a fist.
The door opened, and his newest captor strode in, his gait fluid. When the panels shut them off from the outside (from the two hired mercenaries stationed there), the man let his gaze slide over him, not rushing in the slightest.
"The Asset...HYDRA's true pride and joy," he murmured, stepping closer. Barnes bristled, both at the statement and the fellow's proximity. If only he had the room and wherewithal to punch the guy in the nose...in any case, he did not reply, just clenched his teeth and glared. Scoffing aloud, the fellow removed his jacket, hanging it on the door handle before unbuttoning the cuffs and rolling up his sleeves. The scenario was one that Bucky was familiar with; he'd been held down like this before, been forced to endure a form of punishment while his captors attempted to be casual and calm prior to the event. A sick feeling tore through him, but he did not acknowledge it. For his part, the man merely canted his head. "Rumlow had a few stories to share about you. Have to say, they don't quite match the reality."
Bucky snorted derisively. "Maybe because I'm not that guy?"
The man glanced up at the ceiling, considering the point. When he looked down at him again, he swiped at the mousy brown locks that had fallen out of the comb-over, smirking all the while.
"In ideology, no. You never have been. But then again, they were never interested in that part of you. Just in that you could do as you were told, and to kill whomever they told you to kill."
The emotionless, heartless summation of his time spent with HYDRA wore down his patience, but there was little Bucky could do. Too much was at stake, and he could not throw his chances now away. Whatever those chances were.
"But now it's a choice, rather than a forced decision. You fight for the 'right' side, and do so happily," the fellow continued, gaze darkening as he stared at him longer. Deep-seated rage and skepticism flickered in the irises, the most that he would probably allow him to see. Bucky's brow quirked. Who was this man? What had been done to him to make him like that? "I had wondered if you would be redeemable. Too much time has passed for that, too many things for you to want to abandon your cause willingly. Especially after the mess with Klaue."
It all clicked, then. This was the man the arms dealer had warned him about, had told him would be coming after him. And he had willingly handed himself over to the guy. The flash of his irises, the flash of recognition, was spotted by the man, but he did no more than smile at him. The bitter, twisted expression did nothing but make Bucky want to smack it off of him, and that time, he physically jerked forward. The grips around his wrists tightened, and the hand at the back of his neck was removed only to smash into his face. It was hard enough to bruise, and he would be feeling it for the next few hours. Warily, he watched as the man fiddled with something in his pocket, a smartphone drawn out after a moment or two.
"What are you doing?" he asked, eyeing the phone with suspicion. The smile his captor sported vanished, and he squared his stance.
"What needs to be done, Asset. Whatever it takes to make you pliable again. If the Avengers were foolish enough to take you in, then they deserve to be taken out by you as well," the man retorted coldly, staring at the screen of his device for another few seconds. The list sat before him, handed over as promised with the proper word pronunciations. Clearing his throat, he continued in a low, smooth tone, "Zhelaniye...rzhavet..."
At once, Bucky's spine stiffened, horror and dread washing through him. Fractured though his memories were, he recognized the significance of those words, spoken in that order. His shoulders shook, and his blue eyes clouded over in a haze. The process hovered, creeping at the edge of his mind, and he fought back against it with all his might. Was that all he was ever to be, a stolen good warped into a killing machine? Was he made for nothing more than missions and compliance, to perpetuate the evil of the world? His body and brain screamed, hollers and shouts deafening him internally as he begged for release. And beneath that, he could hear the mellow alto, tell him to keep wanting, to keep fighting. It shifted to the baritone, promising to be with him until the end of the line, no matter what happened. Others, too, saying he was more, he was better than what he'd been forced to become, had made himself better, pushed to the fore, drowning out the remainder of the fellow's words.
The Winter Soldier was no more, and it was past time to show how far gone he was.
When he was finished, Bucky stilled, his shoulders slackening, and with the flick of a few fingers, the gray-suited man had him released. Falling forward, Barnes braced his hands on the floor, keeping his face calm and his gaze lowered. Subtle shifts and shuffles of boots told him the guards were relaxing, thinking him submissive and safe. His captor, putting his phone away, came forward and squatted in front of him, his icy stare boring into him as he remained motionless.
"Soldier?" he muttered, summoning him out of his haze.
The bright blue gaze flew up, riveting to him. The other man's smug satisfaction bled away as he could see the clearness within them, the burning rage that was building up inside. When the gaze narrowed on him, and the corner of his mouth barely curled, Gray Suit leaped away, backing up just in time for Barnes to growl and shoot up onto his feet. Legs and arms flew out, punches and jabs landed to heads, necks, torsos. One by one, the guards fell, no matter that they tried to swarm the ex-assassin and overpower him. When he was allowed freedom, he exercised it fully. Registering the gross miscalculation he'd made, the man in the gray suit darted to the door, summoning those posted outside to come with him. He'd only made it a few feet when he heard the rapid advance behind him, heard the grunts of his hired hands as they fell one after another. Keeping his fast pace, his fingers had closed around the handle to the door leading out to the main lobby when metal closed around the back of his neck. Thrown backward, he landed on the floor, pain firing up his side as he fell. A punch to the gut as he tried to get to his feet, another to his shoulder, and then hands curled into his shirt, forcing him onto his knees. Forcing himself to focus, he witnessed the enraged visage of the man he'd tried to manipulate...and laughed. The soldier's brow furrowed, confusion decorating his face.
"Do it, Soldier. Prove how far you haven't strayed," he egged him on, arching an eyebrow and daring him to follow through. To beat him into submission, to show how he had not truly changed. Fists clenched in his shirt, pulling him sharply forward. The clarity in the blue eyes of the man who was once an asset sent a shudder down his spine, and his own eyes widened.
"My name is Bucky Barnes. And that's not me," he grumbled, fist cocking and connecting squarely with his opponent's temple. Immediately, the man crumpled, collapsing atop his broken glasses and sprawling over the carpet. Gasping heavily, the churn of Bucky's mind did not prevent him from immobilizing him. Reaching into one of his pockets, he removed the zip ties for fast detainment, securing the man's wrists and ankles, then connect both to keep him in place for later pick-up. Patting him down, he took the guy's phone, the remains of his pockets turned out and emptied. Straightening, Bucky pivoted sharply, running down the corridors and picking his way back to the main chamber. He had to get back, had to start getting the others free..had to do something to make up for the losses already accrued that day.
"Anybody copy?" a voice finally crackled over the link in his ear. A bubble of relief swelled in his chest when he realized it was Steve. Finally, some word from the outside! "Wilson, Romanoff, can you copy? We are on our way, repeat: we are coming to you. Anyone on comms?"
Leaping over a fallen balustrade, Bucky cupped a hand over his ear as thankfulness ripped through him. It was about damn time.
"Barnes here. I copy. Meet you here, Captain."
A/N: Action sequences still continue to kick my butt, y'all. But, I am excited to write these, so it all evens out!
The opening battles commence, and the showdown between good and evil (or morally ambiguous, depending on who you're talking about) is underway. More is still to come, guys, so hang tight for that.
And yes, I included the trigger words concept here, but instead of just succumbing to them, Bucky fully fights back. Granted, I have no understanding of the breakdown that had to happen to make sure those words worked, but in this version, Bucky is already so far beyond the grasp of his captors to the point that he can actually fight back. He still feels the pull, but he doesn't give up. It was one of the points of the movie that kinda pissed me off, just because of course it was another thing to keep him submissive and "evil", but for the love of all that's holy, I want the guy to have a freaking chance, okay? Disbelief, suspension, all that...and to answer any potential question about it: Zemo got the list from Rumlow, due to his previous involvement with both HYDRA and the asset. He worked with him, makes sense he would have to know how to make him compliant, right?
Don't speak Russian, therefore used an online translator for the two mentioned trigger words. They are as follows:
"Zhelaniye...rzhavet."—Longing...rusted.
Almost late again, but it is out on a Tuesday! Trying to get back into the regular swing of things...Happy 2017, everyone.
I don't own anything from the MCU, nor do I own any other pop culture references made in the text (Marvel comics, CNN, Captain Blood, etc.)