Chapter 23

As soon as the Quinjet's ramp lowered after touching down back at the Triskelion, Steve was out the door, striding with intense purpose toward the garage. Lucy stared after him with concern as the rest of the team disembarked. Perhaps that concern—and curiosity—clouded her judgment, but she found herself going after him, though at a slightly less conspicuous pace. She heard the inner door on the other side of the vast garage close as she entered, and continued her pursuit.

She rode the elevator up to Fury's floor, her guilt about potentially sticking her nose where it had no business being stuck increasing by the second. Still, she got off of the elevator on its intended floor and made her way down the corridor.

She slowed when she heard Fury's voice from beyond his closed door.

"Look, I didn't want you doing anything that you weren't comfortable with. Agent Romanoff is comfortable with everything."

"I can't lead a mission," Steve replied, with well-restrained anger, "when the people I'm leading have missions of their own."

Lucy halted just outside the door. A separate mission? What was he talking about . . . ?

A small throb pierced Lucy's skull. She winced, wishing, yet again, that she hadn't let the pirate catch her off guard like that.

"It's called compartmentalization," said Fury. "Nobody spills the secrets because nobody knows them all."

"Except you."

There was a finality to Steve's words, and the silence that followed was heavy.

Until it was interrupted by a sharp pain in Lucy's head—much worse than before. She sucked in a sharp breath, nearly doubling over. Her heart rate picked up instantly. This was not a lingering effect from the punch that she had taken.

She vaguely registered Fury saying something about sharing, and that he was "nice like that," before she was too far from the office door to hear anything else, and too intent on finding privacy before the attack increased in severity. Unsure of where she was going, she made it to the nearest adjoining corridor, practically stumbling around the corner, just in time to hear Fury's door open. Clenching her jaw in pain, she peered back toward the office, squinting against the constant piercing throb, and saw Fury leading Steve in the direction of the elevator. If she weren't in so much pain, she would have breathed a sigh of relief that she had so narrowly avoided being caught outside the office and having to explain that she hadn't meant to overhear anything—and hoped that they believed her when she said that she hadn't heard anything important.

She sank to the floor, holding her head in her hands, and waited for the agony to pass, hoping that no one came by and saw her in this state. When the pain finally eased, she leaned her head back against the wall and tried to calm her pulse. She would have to report this, she realized. And she had no excuse not to, seeing as she was already at headquarters. She closed her eyes in protest to the idea.

But . . . Fury had just left.

Should she see if Pierce was in his office?

Something inside of her rebelled at that. And perhaps it was that part of her that planted the next thought in her mind: Why should I tell them?

She opened her eyes.

She had already reported it. They had run tests. She still hadn't gotten the results, but that was on them; she had done her part. What difference did another headache make when S.H.I.E.L.D. was already aware of the problem?

No. She didn't need to say anything. She just needed to get out of here—go home and put an ice pack on her bruised cheek. And try not to think about Steve and Fury and Batroc and the impending results of her tests.

She took the elevator back down—all the while anticipating running into the captain and the director and having to explain why she was there. But she made it to the garage without incident, and proceeded to the armory, to change back into her civilian garb.

She pulled on her gym clothes from before, regretfully postponing her shower until she could get a fresh set of clothes at home, and made her way to her car.

As she crossed the garage, a rough engine came to life. The distinctive sound drew her attention, and she watched Steve—already back in his own street clothes—with his shield secured to his back, steer his Harley to the open bay door. She caught a glimpse of his face before he sailed out of the garage. His expression seemed . . . troubled. It would appear that his and Fury's conversation had not made him feel better after whatever had happened on the Lemurian Star. Lucy watched his retreating back, the white star of his shield bright in the midday sun, as he raced across the bridge, back to the city. She wished that she could do something to help him, but she got the feeling that he still wouldn't want to talk about it.

As she slid into her Mazda, she caught sight of Natasha leaving the garage, headed in the direction of the lobby. She didn't have to wonder about where she was going. Natasha met with Fury rather frequently, and after whatever had happened in that control room, it wasn't surprising that she would want to talk with him.

Discarding her concerns over the matter to the best of her ability, Lucy started the car and pulled out into the sunshine, sailing over the bridge and the glittering river.

Her mind was still occupied with troubled thoughts of the captain when she pulled onto her street. Lately, she couldn't seem to think of him at all without feeling some kind of negative emotion. He wouldn't talk to her about whatever had started making him so distant. Did he not trust her? And then there was the nurse and Natasha's teasing about his dating life, and . . . Lucy didn't want to think about it. She knew why. But she still refused to admit it to herself.

She and Steve were friends. Teammates.

She approached the house.

Then pressed on the gas and continued on. She needed some new perspective, some other aspect of everything to draw her focus for a while.

A short while later, she was climbing the steps of the Smithsonian's National Air and Space Museum.

It had been ages since Lucy had been to a museum, and stepping through the doors was like entering another world. Feats of aeronautical engineering filled the vast space around her, displayed proudly, as though frozen in flight.

But she hadn't come for them.

Her stomach did a little somersault when she saw the banners up ahead. The image of Captain America—Steve—in uniform, mask and all, led the way, the white star emblazoned on his chest drawing her eye like a beacon. She proceeded, following a steady stream of people deeper into the museum.

Then, she saw it. The entrance to the exhibit gave her chills.

"Welcome Back, Cap," a heading pronounced, standing out boldly on a sleek black wall, underscored by a screen featuring a rippling American flag. Beneath that was a block of text: a brief overview of Steve's history as a soldier—and Super-Soldier. Directly to the right was an adjoining partition wall that proclaimed the name of the exhibit: Captain America: The Living Legend and Symbol of Courage.

Lucy stepped out of the way to read the paragraph as a voice-over made the introduction. "A symbol to the nation. A hero to the world. The story of Captain America is one of honor, bravery, and sacrifice."

Having done her own research on Steve after her hospital stay following the Battle of New York, she was already aware of the information, both written and spoken, but it did not diminish the impact. Seeing it presented like this made it feel so much more . . . current. Almost as if it hadn't been seventy years since it happened.

Lucy moved past the wall and was faced with a magnificent mural of the captain saluting patriotically. She stood for a moment, admiring the painting, before moving on to make way for a young family with three children.

Her eyes roamed over the lighted exhibits, drinking in the photos and artifacts from the Second World War. Then, her gaze caught on one of the tall screens. A full-body shot of Steve, in his cadet uniform, was displayed before her. But it was not the Steve that she was used to. She stopped in her tracks at the sight of the short, scrawny young man before her. Her eyes widened, and she was overcome with shock, then pity, for which she instantly felt guilty. She doubted that he would have appreciated anyone's pity. But those emotions turned to awe when the image before her suddenly morphed into Captain Steve Rogers—tall, built, completely transformed by the serum. Several seconds later, the image reverted to the previous version of Steve, once again demonstrating the drastic effect that the serum had had. But despite the unbelievable differences in his body, his face was the same. Those eyes—earnest, strong, filled with the desire to serve his country, to protect others—were Steve's eyes. Never changing. That constant, reliable gaze brought a smile to her lips and warmed her chest.

As she wandered on, another screen caught her attention: black-and-white war footage, as one might see on a news reel in a movie theater all those decades ago, featuring Captain America in the field, alongside his fellow soldiers.

The sight gave Lucy chills. It was surreal, almost haunting, to see the man whom she fought alongside—whom she could call a friend—in his original glory, moving as though his actions were filmed only yesterday. She no longer had to imagine what he had looked like.

Her gaze drifted to the motorcycle on display next to the screen. It seemed that motorcycles had always served the captain well. She now understood why he had a preference for them.

She tore herself away from the mesmerizing black-and-white footage, and wandered on, past more small displays of mementos and plaques of fascinating historical information. Then, the crowd became more dense, and Lucy's eyes were immediately drawn to the main focal point of this section of the exhibit: a collection of uniforms on a raised platform. Behind the formation of mannequins was another magnificent painting, showcasing the men who had worn each of the uniforms, Captain America front and center. It was an awe-inspiring sight.

The portraits were so striking, Lucy had the feeling that these men could be alive today. And that she could almost know them herself, through her relationship with Steve.

"Battle-tested, Captain America and his Howling Commandos quickly earned their stripes," the voice-over spoke over the crowd. "Their mission: taking down HYDRA, the Nazi rogue science division."

As Lucy gazed at the mural, another voice-over drew her attention to a display behind her.

". . . were inseparable on both schoolyard and battlefield."

She immediately recognized the handsome young man featured on the glass partition as one of the men standing beside the captain in the mural. A heavy sadness fell upon her as the voice-over continued and she realized what she was looking at: an obituary.

"Barnes is the only Howling Commando to give his life in service of his country."

She gazed down at the black-and-white footage of the man in question standing beside Steve, both men laughing and smiling brightly. It was the happiest she had ever seen her friend. Despite the joyful scene, the sorrow gathered even more thickly around her heart. Intellectually, she had known that Steve must have lost people who were important to him, if not in the war, then simply due to the passage of time. But seeing one of them like this—Steve's best friend, no less—and knowing his fate . . . The pain that she felt for Steve in that moment was nothing close to what he must have felt back then—what he must still feel—over the loss of his friend.

She dragged her eyes from the screen and tried to collect herself, turning her gaze elsewhere.

She arbitrarily looked to her left—and froze.

Steve was standing less than three meters from her side.

Her eyes were locked on his profile for what felt like much longer than the mere seconds it took for her to turn away, angling herself in the opposite direction. That momentary glimpse was enough to read the pain on her friend's face.

She was overcome by the intense urge to pull him into a hug, but at the same time, felt the need to disappear as quickly as possible. She felt guilty, as if she had come upon a private moment.

And considering how secretive and withdrawn he had been as of late, she had the feeling that he wouldn't exactly be happy to see her standing right beside him, witnessing this vulnerability connected to his past that he didn't seem to want to talk about.

Hoping that she wouldn't draw his attention and disrupt his personal moment, Lucy slowly moved away.

As the distance between them grew, and she avoided being jostled by wandering museum visitors, she felt a tug inside of her and halted.

The instinct to leave was suddenly eclipsed by a completely opposite desire: She wanted to stay with him.

Amid the flood of people, she slowly turned around.

He hadn't moved. He was just staring at the display—at his best friend's face—as if seeing the man in his mind's eye rather than in the photograph and video before him. She wished that he would move. That the sorrow and the loss would disappear from his face. But, she thought, this might be what he's needed this whole time: to face that loss and try to come to terms with what's surely been haunting him since he woke up in this modern era. She hoped that that's what he was doing here: trying to heal.

Heal, and not dwell on the past that he cannot recover.

When Steve finally pulled himself away from the display about James Barnes, Lucy warred with herself for what felt like several seconds, but was more likely just moments. The decision was easy, instinctual.

She worked her way through the crowd, following the captain at a safe distance.

Her curiosity and concern for him was edged by constant guilt. Part of her wanted to give up her distant pursuit, part of her wanted to let him know that she was there, but the part that won the inner battle was the part that allowed her to mingle discreetly with the other visitors as she passed slowly through the exhibits, keeping Steve's blue jacket and baseball cap in sight amid the constantly shifting bodies.

He slowed occasionally to take in various artifacts, photographs, news reels and documentaries, and Lucy tried to read his emotions from the set of his shoulders, the length of time that he gazed at each display.

Eventually, he stepped into a small theater. Lucy waited a few seconds before following. She entered the small, dark room, staying close to the door while keeping out of the way. There was hardly anyone present, so she felt rather conspicuous, but Steve's attention was glued to the projector screen.

Lucy watched the images and listened to the accompanying narration, the atmosphere almost solemn. It felt like more than a documentary, thanks to Steve's presence. She was constantly aware of how he might be feeling about seeing himself shown and talked about from the perspective of the present day—this future—as these people looked back on Captain America decades after his disappearance.

But here he was, alive and well, and Lucy wished that she could see his face—to sit beside him and offer him comfort if he needed it.

She imagined that she would need it, if she were in his position.

A brunette woman appeared on-screen.

"That was a difficult winter. A blizzard had trapped half our battalion behind the German line."

She was English.

Lucy read the identifying name and title: Agent Peggy Carter, SSR.

Agent. Possibly S.H.I.E.L.D.? she wondered, but the thought was pushed aside as the woman's name jogged a distant memory in the back of her mind.

"Steve—" the woman stumbled over her words for a moment before recovering— "Captain Rogers—he fought his way through a HYDRA blockade that had pinned our allies down for months." That slight glimmer of recognition in Lucy's memory began to shine a little brighter. "He saved over a thousand men," the woman continued, then her voice dropped slightly, as if her next words were perhaps a bit more difficult to say. "Including—the man who would, er . . . who would become my husband . . . as it turned out. Even after he died, Steve was still changing my life." She sounded almost wistful, and Lucy watched as the woman appeared to be fighting to keep her composure, as if a multitude of emotions warred within her. It broke Lucy's heart.

Then, movement caught her eye, and her attention snapped to Steve, who had stood abruptly. She bowed her head, hoping that he wouldn't notice her in the shadowy room, and waited until she was sure that he had passed her by, before going after him.

It took her only a moment to locate him. But he was moving much faster now, and she set off in his wake, weaving her way through the crowd, keeping his broad shoulders and baseball cap in sight as he made his way back through the museum and out into the sunshine.

With no more people to act as a cover, Lucy slowed considerably once she passed through the doors, and watched as Steve crossed the parking lot to his motorcycle. While he still had his back to her, she took the opportunity to hurry to her car, wondering what she should say to him once they arrived back at their apartments—where she should say that she'd gone. If he even asked. She supposed that she should tell him the truth—just leave out the fact that she had seen him. Perhaps she should take a few trips around the block before heading home, so that she wouldn't be right on his heels.

His bike revved to life as she closed her car door, and she started the engine while watching Steve make his way down the aisle toward the street. She put the car in reverse and began to pull out—then noticed the direction in which he was turning.

It wasn't the direction of home.

She backed out and followed the bike as discreetly as possible, guilt once again nagging at her, but she dismissed it readily, much too concerned—and curious—about her friend to give up now.

She had never been required to tail someone in a vehicle before, but she managed rather well, keeping a good distance, and only feared losing sight of him once or twice.

Finally, he pulled off of the road.

She slowed as she approached his point of exit, and saw that they had arrived at a retirement home. Her brows knitted as her mind worked to come up with whom he might be visiting. She pulled up to the curb and watched him park his bike, dismount, and make his way into the building.

And suddenly, it hit her: Someone staying here could have easily been alive in the '40s. It could be someone he knew during the war.

How many times had he been here before? He definitely seemed comfortable with the route, and he had come straight here after the museum . . .

Lucy's chest tightened. Was this what he had been doing lately? Had he discovered the whereabouts of an old acquaintance and been visiting them regularly?

The thing in her memory that had been nagging at her suddenly clicked, and she reached for her phone and typed 'Peggy Carter S.H.I.E.L.D.' into the internet search.

She scanned the results and wondered how she had forgotten.

Margaret "Peggy" Carter was one of the founders of S.H.I.E.L.D., and worked closely with Howard Stark—and Captain America—during World War II.

He had known her—the woman in the documentary. Maybe even been close to her. Her heart broke all over again, but this time for Steve as she recalled Peggy's words in the video, her barely controlled emotion when reminiscing about the captain, and imagined how Steve must have felt to see her, looking, for all the world, as she had a lifetime ago—which, for Steve, was but a few short years. To know that you had missed someone's whole life, while for you, time stood still . . . Lucy didn't want to think about it.

But she did.

She allowed it to wash over her, imagined leaving her parents and Lena behind in such a way, waking up from suspended animation to find them near death—or already gone. To find Steve as an old man, that he'd given up on her existence, thinking her lost long ago.

To have no one.

To be completely alone.

She stared at the entrance of the retirement home, the guilt washing over her in a fresh wave. She knew that she couldn't talk to Steve about this—about any of what she'd witnessed today. Even if she justified it by saying that she was concerned about him, how would he feel, knowing that she had followed him like a damn spy?

She sighed and leaned back against the headrest, closing her eyes. She had never liked keeping secrets. The secrets and lies about her new job were for the benefit of everyone, including her loved ones, so those were easy, albeit unpleasant. If she suppressed her guilt about this and buried it, she could spare Steve the feeling of being betrayed. But it would eat away at her. The last thing that she wanted was to hurt him, but if she wanted to maintain a healthy friendship, coming clean was a necessity.

She shouldn't have followed him.

She wished that she hadn't even gone to the museum.

But as soon as she thought it, she knew that it wasn't true. The things that she had seen were a part of Steve as much as his place in S.H.I.E.L.D., and she did not regret bearing witness to the memories—to his pain.

As her thoughts settled, her mind cleared, and she knew that she had to tell him. She needed to keep her conscience clear.

No more secrets from Steve.

Suddenly, her phone chimed with a text notification, and she checked the screen. Her thoughts of Steve scattered as she saw the name: Fury.

She hastily opened the message.

'HEADQUARTERS. NOW.'

Her stomach twisted with nerves as she tossed her phone onto the seat beside her and put the car back in gear. This was it. She was finally going to get the results of her exam. And judging by the abrupt, almost harsh nature of Fury's text, she couldn't shake the feeling that the verdict was not a good one.

She made her way through traffic as efficiently as possible, trying to suppress her anxiety and not psych herself out about the possible test results, while at the same time preparing for the worst: suspension—or another surgery.

She didn't want to consider the latter.

But maybe there was nothing to worry about. Maybe this had nothing to do with her tests. Maybe Steve and Natasha had also received the text and they had an assignment.

She hoped. But somehow, she doubted that that was the case.

The glittering expanse of the Potomac stretched out on either side of her as she crossed the bridge to the Triskelion's garage. She had barely pulled into her parking space when a black SUV practically screeched to a halt beside her. Already on edge, she went into a defensive mode, her hand on the handle of her door, ready to fight. But a moment later, she saw Fury sitting in the driver's seat, watching her with his intense stare—waiting for her.

She leapt out of the car, barely remembering to grab her personal effects, and rounded the SUV to the passenger's side.

Fury took off before she had even closed the door. She fastened her seat belt as they headed back across the river, no longer quite so concerned about her test results.

"Sir? What's going on?"

He lifted his hand to her, and she saw a tiny metallic disk held between his fingers. "Take it," he ordered, not looking away from the road.

She did as she was told without hesitation, her confusion and alarm mounting by the second.

"Press the button," he said.

She stared at the small object and its wheel-like design—a silver rim surrounding a gold, spoke-like pattern—and found the tiny button in the center.

When she didn't immediately press it, Fury commanded her again, "Do it!"

The harsh urgency in his tone made her comply without further hesitation.

A mind-numbing jolt of blazing electricity shot through her, from her hand, up her arm, and into the rest of her body in an instant. She was unable to even suck in a breath of shock as every muscle in her body locked. A searing pain split her head open, and she would have screamed if she could have.

The agony felt like it went on and on, but in a matter of moments, her vision darkened, her rigid muscles went limp, and everything, including the pain, disappeared.

A strap cut into her neck, putting pressure on her chest. She groaned miserably, confused as to where she was and why she felt so weak.

She opened her eyes and blinked, squinting around at the interior of the vehicle.

Then it came back to her.

The pain.

Her pulse hammered as she sat up straight, panic rising as she looked to her left, at Fury, who seemed relatively calm. She pressed her back against the door, putting as much distance as possible between herself and the man who had just electrocuted her.

His single eye pinned her down briefly before staring back through the windshield. "Calm down, agent," he said, reaching for something in the console between them.

Lucy watched his action warily, not ready to take another order just yet.

He held up a compact device the size of a small calculator in front of her face. She jerked away, nearly bashing the back of her head against her window.

"Hold. Still."

Not sure what other choice she really had at the moment, she complied, bracing herself for another onslaught of pain.

But none came, and two seconds later, Fury lowered the device, checked whatever reading it was giving him, and dropped it back into the console. Something in his face seemed to relax slightly.

Lucy took the opportunity to speak.

"I'm sorry, sir, but what the hell—?!"

"Carlisle, listen to me carefully," Fury cut her off, momentarily pinning her with his intense gaze once again. She closed her mouth, heart pounding with adrenaline. "Two years ago, they put a chip in your brain as part of Project Artemis. The taser disk disabled it, but I don't know for how long."

Lucy's blood drained to her feet. Had she heard him correctly? She suddenly felt like she couldn't breathe properly.

But his next words forced their way through her panic.

"Something's happening inside S.H.I.E.L.D. I suspect Pierce is behind it, or at least heavily involved. Maybe the entire council. I need people I can trust." He glanced at her again. "The chip in your head was intended to make you a 'better agent.' Controllable. A more advanced weapon." Lucy stared, wide-eyed, horrified. "But they haven't been able to perfect it."

"Is that why I've been getting the headaches?" She felt the tremor in her voice, but couldn't bring herself to care that she sounded less like a seasoned S.H.I.E.L.D. agent and more like a terrified girl suddenly out of her element.

"I suspect they're related. Could be remote calibration attempts. Could be something else."

Lucy stared, trying to keep her breathing even, waiting for him to give her something more, to add another piece the increasingly complex puzzle that her life had become in such a short time. But if he had more information on the subject, he apparently did not consider it a priority. And what he said next only made her panic rise.

"They might not be able to control you, but they can track you, so I had to disable the chip temporarily." He looked her in the eye for one long second, and said, with grave importance, "I need you on the inside. Even with the flaws with the chip, Pierce might bring you in, keep you close. Let him think he has you. If he sends you after me . . . well, now you know the situation. You can play along—to an extent, of course."

Lucy's mind was reeling, trying to wrap itself around the bombardment of information, the earth-shattering revelation that her mind might not even be entirely her own. From the moment she had agreed to Project Artemis, she had been a pawn.

Maybe it even started when Pierce first approached her in the hospital.

But what did Fury suspect Pierce of doing? She had no idea what was going on in the inner workings of S.H.I.E.L.D., and if Fury wanted her on his side, shouldn't she know what exactly that side entailed? Both Fury and Pierce had overseen Project Artemis. Until now, neither of them had told her the full truth about what was done to her. If both were to blame, then she couldn't use that as a measure of whom to trust.

The feeling of betrayal twisted in her gut as she stared at the man in front of her. He was expecting her to blindly follow his lead. Like a good agent.

Like a pawn.

No. Her mind rebelled at the thought. Fury isn't like Pierce. She wasn't particularly close to him, but Natasha was. And he and Steve had a relationship that went beyond simply that of a director and an agent, beyond merely giving and carrying out orders. Somehow, Lucy doubted that her friends would trust a man the way that they seemed to trust Fury if he were not worthy of that trust.

In her current situation, she really didn't have many options. She had to make a decision. And she was certain what side Steve and Natasha would take.

She swallowed, her mouth dry, and nodded. "Yes, sir."

Seeming satisfied with her answer, Fury reached out and hit a button on the dashboard. A pleasant automated voice emanated from the car.

"Activating communications encryption protocol."

"Open secure line zero-four-zero-five," Fury instructed.

"Confirmed."

Lucy watched as an icon appeared in the upper left-hand corner of the windshield, displaying a woman's face and name. She answered immediately.

"This is Hill."

"I need you here in DC. Deep-shadow conditions."

There was a slight pause.

"Give me four hours."

"You have three. Over." Fury ended the call without waiting for a response, but Lucy knew that Maria Hill would make it happen.

Lucy finally settled back into a proper position in the seat, and Fury rolled down her window, possibly sensing that she could use some air, before she could even think of it herself. He pulled to a stop at a traffic light as she took a slow, deep breath. She hadn't been paying much attention to the road or their surroundings at all, thanks to her preoccupation with their conversation, but she knew that this wasn't the first time that they had stopped. The stagnation suddenly made her feel uncomfortable, uneasy. As if her brain needed the motion of the vehicle to work properly. It was made even worse by Fury's silence.

She waited impatiently for the light to change.

When she noticed movement to her right, she looked out the window to see a white police cruiser beside them.

The two officers wore sunglasses and looked like a perfect, almost obnoxious cliché of a pair of movie cops or private detectives. Lucy would have found it comical if the officers weren't looking directly at her and Fury. Even though she couldn't see their eyes, she sensed the coldness in their stare. It unnerved her.

"Wanna see my lease?" Fury said dryly to the two men.

They blared their siren once, as if in warning, before pulling away. Lucy glared, definitely not in the mood to put up with any crap.

With the changing of the light, Fury followed the police car's lead, slowly accelerated into the intersection.

Lucy was too distracted by the cruiser ahead of them to prepare for what came next.

Something slammed into the SUV so hard that Fury's airbag deployed, and Lucy was jerked forward against her seat belt—hard—before colliding with her door and whipping back toward the center console. She felt the SUV slam down, and then it was moving—sideways. Until it came to a crashing halt.

She stared out the windshield, dazed, panicked and bruised, frantically trying to get her bearings as adrenaline pumped through her system. Her vision locked on to the police cruiser, and her momentary relief that the officers were already on the scene evaporated when the car began to reverse—unreasonably fast—directly toward them.

She braced.

The cruiser slammed into the front end of the SUV, immediately followed by another collision at the rear, which lifted their back end off of the ground. Lucy cried out as she was yet again jerked against her belt, almost convinced that it had drawn blood.

"Fracture detected."

Lucy's eyes whipped to an x-ray-like image of a human skeletal system displayed on the windshield, its left forearm highlighted red. Unless she was so pumped full of adrenaline that it was blocking the pain of a fractured arm, the assessment wasn't referring to her. She looked at Fury with concern, who was just managing to sit up straight. Having taken the brunt of the initial collision, he looked much worse than she felt.

Her eyes swept their surroundings frantically as a large black police van pulled up outside. Considering how helpful the cruiser had been—and she now saw that there were more than just one—the sight did not give her comfort. What the hell is going on?! What are the police doing?!

"Recommend anesthetic injection," said the voice from the car, and Fury hastily leaned forward with a small, strangled moan, reaching for the glove compartment. Lucy moved her legs out of the way as he dug inside, her primary focus still directed outside of the vehicle.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Fury inject his arm with anesthetic.

"DC Metro Police dispatch shows no units in this area," the car informed them.

Lucy's blood ran cold.

In seconds, they were surrounded. Staring down crosshairs in every direction.

Lucy's brain scrambled for answers, for a way out.

"Get us out of here," Fury commanded.

Bullets peppered the windshield, leaving large smashed dents in the mercifully bulletproof glass. Lucy flinched and cringed against the cacophony as the rest of the vehicle was relentlessly pelted with lead.

"Propulsion systems offline."

"Then reboot, damnit!" Fury shouted over the noise.

Lucy watched with dread as the display monitoring the vehicle's armor integrity depleted past eighty percent.

It wouldn't be long now.

Suddenly, the gunfire stopped. Lucy leaned forward in her seat, searching past the mess of cracks in the glass for a reason behind the ceasefire.

When a group of men who looked like SWAT approached Fury's window, carrying something reminiscent of a big black cannon, Lucy's stomach sank.

"Warning: Window integrity compromised."

"You think?!" Fury cried in exasperation. He quickly turned to Lucy and ushered her into the back seat. She moved without a second thought, scrambling over the console and falling half on the floor and half on the seat.

"How long 'til propulsion?!" Fury yelled.

"Calculating."

As if in response, the first blow by the battering ram slammed into the armored window with a deafening BANG, sending the SUV up onto its right-hand tires. Lucy braced herself for dear life as it crashed back down, jarring her already shaken bones.

"Window integrity: thirty-one percent. Deploying countermeasures."

"Hold that order," Fury commanded, pressed against the passenger-side door, watching their assailants with an intensity that sparked hope inside Lucy.

She scrambled upright and positioned herself on the end of the seats farthest from the assault, mimicking Fury, just before a second collision from the battering ram rocked the vehicle. It still jarred her, but not as badly.

"Window integrity: nineteen percent. Offensive measures advised—"

"Wait!" Fury roared.

Another slam.

The glass was almost obliterated.

"Window integrity: one percent."

"NOW!"

With lightning speed, something sprang from a section of the center console, straight into Fury's grasp. He took aim, and a hail of bullets shattered the window, dropped the "SWAT" team, and scattered or felled the rest of the phony officers in view. Lucy's ears pounded with the noise, but she was too much in awe to care, the hope expanding to relief. Then, Fury fired a larger projectile, and a heartbeat later, the black van exploded into the air with a magnificent plume of fire. A second small rocket sent one of the cruisers flipping onto another.

"Propulsion systems now online."

About time! Lucy thought victoriously.

"Full acceleration, now!" Fury shouted, continuing his counter-assault through the window.

The vehicle obeyed, reversing with force and crashing into the cruiser that had initially pinned it from behind, before careening forward, past the remaining "officers" and out of the war zone, a few last-second bullets pinging off of the armored exterior.

Fury's multifaceted weapon retracted back into the console as the SUV raced down the street.

Despite the high speed, Lucy felt like she could finally catch her breath.

"Initiate vertical takeoff!" Fury ordered.

"Flight systems damaged," the car replied.

This thing can fly, too? Lucy marveled. Somehow it didn't surprise her all that much.

"Then activate guidance camera!" A navigational map appeared on the windshield display—amazingly still functional—and Fury threw himself back into the driver's seat, crying out in pain as he landed against his injured arm. Lucy cringed in sympathy, admiring his strength and perseverance—and the apparent potency of the anesthetic. "Give me the wheel!"

The vehicle returned control to Fury, and despite his injury, Lucy had complete faith in his ability to avoid a high-speed wreck.

Her faith was not misplaced. He expertly weaved between the other cars on the road—one-handed—glancing between the road and the rearview mirror. Lucy twisted around in the back seat to look through the shockingly undamaged glass, and saw two police cruisers in pursuit. Her heart sank. She had known that it would be too simple to be out of the woods so quickly, but a longer breather would have been nice.

"Get me Agent Hill," Fury said.

"Communications array, damaged," the car informed him.

"Well, what's not damaged?" Fury asked, exasperated once again.

"Air conditioning is fully operational."

If they weren't fleeing for their lives, Lucy might have laughed. You've gotta be kidding me.

The surrounding vehicles gradually became more densely packed.

"Traffic ahead."

"Get me an alternate route."

"Traffic alert on Roosevelt Bridge. All vehicles stopped. 17th Avenue clear in three blocks, directly ahead."

Fury gunned the engine, and Lucy saw his intention moments before he slammed into the back of a silver Dodge pickup, knocking it off to the side. She felt sorry for the driver and any potential passengers, but it hadn't been hit hard enough to cause any fatalities, and any possible injuries would be minor.

From there, the SUV scraped its way between two other vehicles, both of which came to a stop in its wake and created a barricade that blocked the way for the two cruisers.

That, however, was only part of the battle. The street ahead was practically a wall of traffic. Fury powered his way through, weaving when he could and nudging and shoving when he had to.

Seconds later, gunshots peppered the air. Lucy ducked instinctively, in spite of the SUV's still-intact armor. One of the rounds ricocheted off of the empty window frame beside Fury, narrowly missing him. Lucy looked back to see an armed man nimbly climb down from the hood of one of the cars in the road, and a cruiser began shoving its own way through the wall of traffic.

Fury pulled up alongside a stationary bus, and for a moment, Lucy felt a bit safer, with such a large barrier to protect their left side.

But a moment later, bullets shattered the windows of the bus, and Lucy pressed herself to the seats, flat on her stomach, not caring how much of the armor might still be intact. Fury plowed on, pushing the vehicle in front of them forward—then suddenly braked, halted, and reversed quickly, with bullets pinging off of the back, until—the SUV hit something. Something that sounded very unlike a vehicle. The gunfire ceased instantly.

Lucy would have felt sick at the thought of hitting a person, if he hadn't been trying to kill them.

With the hail of bullets on hiatus, she sat up to get her bearings as Fury raced forward once again. Lucy caught sight of another armed man behind a silver car a short distance ahead. Seconds after he began shooting at them, Fury ramming into the car, which in turn swung into the man, sending him straight through a section of the glass walls of the bus stop.

Fury pushed past the last vehicle and peeled out, onto the next street. Lucy looked back in dismay to find two cruisers hot on their trail. But now, instead of fear, she felt anger. She wanted to fight back. When she found out who these people were . . .

One of them pulled up alongside the SUV, a couple of lanes away. A man leaned out of the passenger window with his gun, took aim, and let off a stream of rapid fire. Lucy barely withheld a shriek as several rounds entered the SUV. She threw herself to the floor, desperately afraid for Fury—and exceedingly glad that she hadn't thought to climb back into the front seat.

The assailant cranked off seemingly endless bursts of lead, some hitting unfortunate vehicles that got in the way, until he was momentarily separated from his target by a semi. When the cruiser came back into view, Fury swerved dramatically, closing the distance between the SUV and the assailant in mere moments.

Lucy's heart was in her throat as they collided with the car, the armed man hanging in through Fury's window. A rapid-fire burst of bullets exploded inside the vehicle, and Lucy ducked down again as they ricocheted, fully preparing herself for the feeling of lead ripping into her flesh.

Suddenly, the SUV was jostled, and she could feel the push of another vehicle—the second cruiser, no doubt—on their other side. The anger rose again. Where was a weapon when she needed one?

The gunfire ceased, and was replaced by satisfying grunts of pain from the assailant at the window as Fury worked to fight him off.

"Warning: Approaching intersection," the SUV notified them, and Lucy tried not to panic. Instead, she rose up, intending to assist Fury in any way that she could—but was thrown violently forward, barely catching herself on the back of the passenger's seat, as Fury slammed on the brakes. The air left her lungs, and an instant later, she heard a symphony of collisions and crushing metal, looking up just in time to see the two totaled police cruisers being tossed across the road by a yellow trailer truck.

She sucked in a lungful of air as Fury steered them left, onto other street, away from the accident, and, hopefully, away from imminent danger.

"Get us. Off. The grid," Fury commanded, sounding like he needed a moment to breathe himself. Lucy hoped that the anesthetic was still doing its job.

"Calculating route to secure location."

There was no more gunfire. No more swerving. Lucy took the moment of peace to attempt to calm her nerves, hearkening back to all of her training and her many months of experience in the field. She had never been in a situation quite as intense as this. If only she had been armed, she could have done something useful.

She hated being useless. Helpless.

Flashes of memory from the Battle of New York came to mind: Steve fighting almost single-handedly; what it had felt like to rush into the street and pick up the alien weapon. To not be . . .

Powerless . . .

Her eyes focused through the damaged windshield.

On a lone figure standing in the middle of the street.

Clad in black.

Dark hair about the length of her own.

His face concealed behind a mask.

Lucy's body went numb.

Powerless. Helpless.

An inhumanly strong arm pinning her against the glass revolving door.

Her back slamming into concrete.

A stranglehold around her neck.

Helpless.

It couldn't be him.

But she knew. Even without seeing his eyes behind the black goggles that he now wore.

It was him.

The man who had almost taken her life in Stockholm.

The man whom she thought—hoped—she would never encounter again.

The man who still haunted her . . .

And had now found her.

Note: I've been waiting for this part for so long. :D The first half took me a while (sorry about that!), but I managed to write the last 4,067 of 7,611 words this morning and afternoon, which is great, because I really wanted to post today. (January 21, 2021: the 21st day of the 21st year of the 21st century~ :D hehe)
The next chapter should be easier, but sometimes there are unexpected aspects of the story that crop up and take more planning than I'd expected, so we'll see how it works out. :)
Thank you, all of my new and continuing readers! I'm glad that I can write something that you enjoy.