A/N: Spoiler alert for Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Avengers: Age of Ultron, Captain America: Civil War, Ant-Man, Spiderman: Homecoming, and a bunch more.
As always, many thanks go out to CapriceAnn Hedican-Kocur for the Beta and Winter-Soldier-88 for the brainstorming.
Year From Hell: Season 3, in progress. Please stand by…
Namaste,
Sunny
"I will come back to you, I swear I will;
And you will know me still.
I shall be only a little taller
Than when I went."
― Edna St. Vincent Millay, The Harp-Weaver and Other Poems
Winter Soldier
And You Will Know Me Still
Chapter 85
Evolve Academy for the Performing Arts
Joliet, Illinois
"Relax… Relax… You feel a buoyant, restfulness coming over you. As I continue to speak, that feeling will get stronger and stronger, until it carries you into a deep, peaceful state of well-being." Fincher exchanged a quick glance with Natasha. She touched her right temple, activating the nano mask. Her features blurred, and when they were clear and sharp once more, she again looked like the woman whose place she taken for this mission.
To the now former students, he said, "Is it true that you were given instructions by another?" As a group, they nodded. "From this moment forward, any directives you have received from anyone but me will not be followed. From this moment on, you will return to yourselves, with minds and wills of your own. You will once more be as you were before your acceptance at the Evolve Academy for the Performing Arts. You will remember everything that happened here with the exception of hypnotic suggestions made by Dinah St. John, Klaus von Richthofen, or any of the other instructors. If asked, you will deny any knowledge of any wrong-doing by these individuals, and show surprise and shock at the revelation that they were involved in illegal and immoral practices."
~~O~~
As the compact four-door sedan approached the school, Veronica took in the managed chaos of fire, police, and ambulances, the personnel moving about in a sort of dance to which only they knew the steps.
Veronica parked her car in the lot of a medical office, locked up, pocketed the keys, and approached the scene on foot, Veronica limped toward the crowd. The woman who'd given her name simply as "Hill" had admitted that her injuries weren't real, but the memory of the pain still lingered. She heard them gossiping, but not really listening. All she wanted was to get to the students and staff who lived on-site, to make sure they were all safe.
Circling around and through the crowd, Veronica spotted the students and the missing instructors in the micro-park behind the academy. A distinguished older man jumped off the bench, shoved something in his pocket, and moved among the group seated on the grass, smiling, and occasionally laying a hand on a shoulder for comfort. She headed in that direction, catching the man as he stopped to speak with some of the younger students. His voice was so soothing and calming, she felt herself relaxing too.
The man turned, saw her, and smiled as he came to her side. "Which one is yours?"
He'd obviously mistaken her for one of the parents. "All of them. I'm a member of the staff. Veronica Lovejoy."
The smile widened as he took her hand in both of his and their eyes locked. "Dr. Fincher," he made a sheepish shrug, "a therapist that was in the right place at the right time to help."
He took a half step closer, dipping one hand into his pocket, reminding Veronica that he was a stranger capable of overpowering her. Fear must have shown in her eyes because he leaned back and held up a beautiful pendant. The red stone seemed to glow from within, mesmerizing her.
"Look into my eyes… Don't look away… I am all that you can see and hear…"
Budapest, Hungary
The Home of Kerekes István
The last of István's guests let himself in, scowling at those assembled while removing his jacket and loosening his tie.
Miklos Pataki tossed the jacket in the chair with the others, refused the offer of food and drink. He had a wide face, dark grey hair cut close to the scalp, and a broad muscular body in spite of his years, more than making up for his short stature. "Where?"
István, formerly Dimitry Caramitru of Romania, gestured down the shotgun hallway that lead to the back of the house. "Basement."
Zsofia Farkas, on the skinny side of slender, grey hair in a bun at her nape, glasses perched on her oversized nose, and mouth set in a permanent state of disapproval, stated, "He has not yet regained consciousness, which is troubling."
Grunting as he stood, Roland Dobos, rotund, with a receding hairline, shuffled over to refill his coffee cup. "As is the entire situation."
Bence Vass stubbed out his cigarette and immediately lit another, earning him a scowl from everyone, with the exception of his wife, Elizabet, who had also been smoking non-stop since receiving István's call. "He must be faking, Kerekes."
Endre Barna, small of frame, mustachioed, and impeccably dressed as always, paced nervously in the archway between the living and dining rooms. "One so young would hardly remain unresponsive this long."
Miklos purposely stood in Endre's way, earning him a startled glance. He stood in place, shifting from one foot to the other nervously. "Where are Benedick and Patrik? I've not heard from either of them in over a week."
Zsofia crossed her legs and pulled her skirt down over her knees in her usual show of modesty. "Unfortunately, both are in hospital. Patrik's cancer has returned. Because of his stubbornness, it's likely that he will die in the next few weeks."
"And what of Benedick?" Roland inquired in a tone that indicated he didn't really care one way or another, except for the inconvenience to himself.
The woman scoffed. "His diabetes is out of control again."
Getting to his feet, Bence went to lean on the mantel, waving the hand with the cigarette. "Serves him right if he dies as well for refusing to take the threat to his health seriously."
The others exchanged a glance and headshake, for they'd been saying the exact same thing to Bence and Elizabet in regards to their smoking, their words falling on deaf ears. István had told them time and time again that he didn't allow smoking in the house, but they never listened. He chose to respond passive-aggressively by lighting scented candles, and making a show of installing numerous air fresheners in the nearest outlets the moment they lit up. He would have opened the doors and windows, but what was being said had to stay between them.
He went to the bookshelf to the left of the archway and pulled on the spine of a specific tome. A panel popped open, showing a small stash of weapons. "Miklos, Bence, Zsofia, and I will question the prisoner. If he gets free, take appropriate action."
István met each set of eyes, seeing agreement from all except Endre, who stared at the floor, teeth worrying at a thumbnail. A nod was all the others needed in the way of orders regarding the weak link in their chain.
~~O~~
With István in the lead, the co-conspirators made their way to the basement. They crossed the bare concrete floor to a metal door with a series of locks. István produced the keys, removed the locks, and tossed them and the keys onto a dusty work bench. He grasped the metal handle and eased the door open.
The prisoner was still unconscious. Or rather again following a difficult interrogation. Difficult for the prisoner, of course. The man had passed out thirty minutes into it and had yet to regain his senses. István knew it wasn't a pretense. Only one who was insensate would not react when pain stimulus was applied to a specific area of the male anatomy. This man, whoever he was, hasn't so much as twitched.
Under Ceaușescu, Zsofia, formerly known as Elena Arcos, had taken the extraction of information from suspected spies and conspirators to a whole new level, often succeeding where others had failed. If anyone could get the prisoner to tell all, it would be her. She knew this as well.
The men stood with weapons at the ready to defend Zsofia, should events not work in their favor.
She paced around the prisoner who was slumped in a heavy metal chair bolted to the floor, legs, and arms heavily shackled, and a metal band around his neck through which electrical "encouragement" flowed at the touch of a button. His head hung forward, long hair obscuring his features. "How long?"
"Last night," István told her with a smirk. "He was not forthcoming, but then, I am not as skilled in interrogation as you."
Miklos and Bence shared a knowing grin with István, which was ignored by Zsofia.
Grasping a handful of hair, she lifted his head, a gasp coming from her throat, eyes widening in a small show of fear as she stumbled back a step, the weapon in her hand coming up, aimed at the man's forehead.
It was so unlike her to show fear that the men surged forward. They halted in place when she raised her hand. Without a word, Zsofia put the safety on and shoved the weapon in the back of her skirt. A quick tug removed the glove on his left hand, but from their position, they couldn't see what fascinated and scared her at the same time.
The glove hit the floor. Zsofia grasped the man's shirt and ripped his sleeve, exposing the bicep. Then, she laughed, startling her companions once again.
Miklos, who'd worked under Zsofia, moved to her side. "What…"
Zsofia sat in the only other chair, uncaring that it was covered with dust and grime, covering her face with both hands as she continued to laugh. Soon, the laughter tapered off to the point where she was able to speak. "You've no idea what you've done, Dimitry."
Annoyed that she'd used his given name instead of his assumed one, István scowled, the grip on his weapon tightened, and he returned the favor, using the she'd been given at birth in Eforie Nord. "Do enlighten us, Elena. What have I done?"
She slapped her thighs and stood, gesturing for them to join her. They crowded in the confined space, all facing the prisoner. "Confirmed what was thought to be a myth as a truth." Arms crossed, she shifted her weight onto one foot. "You've captured the Winter Soldier."
Evolve Academy for the Performing Arts
Joliet, Illinois
Due to her talk with Hill, Veronica was prepared for the sight of the school surrounded by first responders running in all directions. Trucks, cars, and equipment, and the accompanying noise, filled her senses. So many people staring and talking among themselves.
Up ahead, she saw Dinah and Klaus talking to a man and a woman in suits surrounded by heavily armed men and women dressed all in black, bringing up the memory of the attack on D.C. when Captain America and several others had been taken into custody. She knew better than to make the assumption that the two events were connected, though no one would blame her if she did. Many of the onlookers were doing so.
Through the noise, Veronica heard a whisper within her memory, one meant to ease the stress of the situation.
Music can heal the wounds which medicine cannot touch.
More words of wisdom, but not from Uncle Lovejoy. These had come from her mother when she was a child, pouting because she was being forced to attend dance classes instead of going to the park with her friends. Then, one day, as she executed a glissade en avant, everything had fallen into place. From that moment forward, she had looked forward to classes with an eagerness heretofore unfelt, practicing whenever she had a few minutes free, or a few hours.
Music been there for her during her recovery from the injury she sustained in Berlin. Without it, and the camaraderie and unconditional affection of Uncle Lovejoy, she might've given up and joined her cousin's accounting firm as her father had urged following their not-so-amicable divorce. Like so many couples in those days, each attempted to turn the child against the other. Somewhat smarter than her contemporaries at the time, Veronica caught on early, refusing to be a pawn. This forced her parents to find a way to get along.
Being accepted as an instructor with the great Dinah St. John had gotten her foot in the door, so to speak. Now that she's seen both sides of the ballet, as a student and a teacher, Veronica knew that teaching was the highest form of understanding. The look in a student's eyes at the moment their soul awakens to the subject, be it science, math, or dance, a teacher touches eternity, for what is taught will be passed on to generations to come. If even one student found a morsel worth keeping in her teachings, she would consider herself a success.
Light applause brought Veronica out of the clouds and back to earth. She rushed to the micro-park, stopping to check that each student and instructor was well in mind and body. As she neared the bench, she saw a petite redhead and a distinguished older man who seemed familiar. In fact, they both did.
"Formidable!" exclaimed the redhead with a smile and light applause. "Now, pair up for développé, dix de chaque côté. She placed one hand on the back of the bench and the other on her hip. "And begin. Un, deux, trois…"
~~O~~
Seeing Veronica making her way through the students dutifully performing the exercises Natasha was leading them through in order to ease their minds, she waved the other woman forward, and spoke to the man. "Could you take over while I have a few words with Madam Lovejoy?"
Fincher took Natasha's place, "Forgive me, but I don't speak French nor have I ever attended a ballet class, so English it is." He clapped once. "Switch sides, kids. And… one, two, three, four…"
Natasha drew Veronica to one side where they could speak privately.
"What's going on? The woman at the phony hospital told me Dinah and Klaus would be leaving the country, but didn't say why."
Taking her ID from concealment, Natasha held it up, smirking internally at the other woman's expression of shock. "It'll be trending on Twitter in about…" she took out her phone, tapped rapidly with her thumb, and hit send, "…now minutes." Hooking her free hand around Veronica's arm, urging her away from the crowd. "This group of supremely talented individuals are in need of fresh direction. Someone who eats, drinks, and breathes dance," Natasha held up one finger, "and not just ballet. Other forms have much to offer as well. I have the ear of a private investor who would consider it an honor to finance your vision."
Veronica gaped at the woman, closed her mouth, and cleared her throat, "I-I… I don't know what to say. Thank you doesn't seem nearly enough."
One hand waved away the appreciation. "Your new benefactor prefers to remain anonymous as well as silent. I will see to it." Natasha passed Veronica a card. "Call this number to work out the details."
The moment Veronica's back was turned, Natasha returned to the micro-park, waving to get Fincher's attention, and, together, they vanished into the dark. Klaus and Dinah were about to get a big send-off and they didn't want to miss it.
~~O~~
Using everything she had to keep her excitement in check, Veronica returned to the bench where the man was regaling his audience with sleight of hand tricks, making them laugh. He saw her and smiled, gesturing to the group. "I'm sure the students will be more comfortable with someone they know until their parents and guardians can come for them." He held out his hand and she took it automatically. "Dr. Fincher, Ph.D."
"Veronica Lovejoy, ballet mistress." Though wary of the man who seemed familiar, Veronica called on her deep well of confidence to keep her voice and expression steady, "It will be hours before someone can come for them. Where will we stay until then?"
Fincher smiled genially, hands shoved into his pants pockets. "My colleagues are setting something up as we speak. Then, when the police and fire officials have completed their investigation, you and your students will be brought back here, if that's your preference."
"Oh course." Veronica checked for her phone. "I have their emergency contact info. Once the children are settled, I'll make the calls."
One hand came out of a pocket holding a card. "If anyone, even yourself, requires counseling, please don't hesitate to give me a call, Madam Lovejoy." He looked over her head and nodded to someone. "I'm being summoned. Take care."
He waved to the children and they waved back, talking among themselves. Veronica wanted to keep them busy so they wouldn't have time to dwell on the events of the night, but was too tired to bother.
A few minutes later, several uniformed officers pulled up in a bus. Veronica went to have a few words with them and returned to usher her charges on board. Apparently, an unnamed benefactor had procured them lodging at an upscale hotel at the other end of town. She wanted to know the name of the anonymous philanthropist, but didn't have it in her to fight for it.
Taking a seat behind the driver, Veronica eyed the officers stationed in the back and at each door, wondering why they needed so much protection following a fire at the academy then decided she didn't care. She turned to look out the window at the passing scenery without taking it in and sighed.
Budapest, Hungary
The Home of Kerekes István
The men, none of whom had served in the intelligence corps, gaped at her stupidly. Firmly installing herself as leader of their group above István, Zsofia, strode toward the stairs, expecting them to follow, which they did after a moment's hesitation. "Check his restraints before you come up. And be sure to bolt the basement door and brace it with a chair under the doorknob." Halfway up, she faced the men again. "It's not much, but the best we can do under the circumstances."
With that, she climbed to the first floor and returned to the sitting room where the others were peering out the drawn curtains. At Zsofia's nod, they found places to sit, with the exception of Endre, of course. He continued to pace, one hand on the butt of the weapon stuck in the waistband of his pants.
The moment he stepped from the basement, Bence lit a cigarette, exhaling the smoke in a thick cloud as he joined his wife.
Miklos and István took seats at opposite ends of the sofa with the wide girth of Roland between them. He took out a handkerchief to mop the sweat from his brow and neck. "Can we get on with it? It's past my bedtime and I have a long drive home."
István sighed heavily and crossed his knees. "Take the guest room for the night. What Elena, I mean Zsofia has to say is more important than your nighttime ritual." To her, he said, "Please, continue. Who is this Winter Soldier?"
~~O~~
Chuckling and shaking his head, István got to his feet, stretched his back, and went to pour himself another glass of wine. "He's not the man the legends purport him to be. It was far too easy to take him down."
Endre had relaxed somewhat, assisted by the full bottle of Egri Bikavér he'd consumed, and taken a seat where he could see both the front door and the hall that lead to the basement door. "If it was so easy, maybe he isn't this Winter Soldier. From what you've told us, Elena, he was endowed with enhanced strength, speed, agility, stamina, and reflexes."
Elizabet crushed out her cigarette, scoffing. "If that's true then how was István, a man more than fifty years his senior, able to not only capture, but keep such a specimen confined?"
"Yes, Zsofia," Miklos sneered, "tell us."
Within the space of a heartbeat, Zsofia and Miklos were on the floor, him on top of her, both on their backs, her legs trapping his, and his neck in a chokehold. The others, save for István and Roland, gasped at the sudden change in the mood of the room. "I could kill you without a moment's hesitation or remorse." Miklos struggled and she tightened her hold. His hands clawed futilely at the arm across his throat and she finally allowed him a breath. "Unlike some," she glanced at Roland who rolled his eyes and dabbed at the sweat on his upper lip, "I have not allowed my skills to deteriorate." Placing her mouth close to his ear, she snarled, "Keep that in mind, should you ever question my veracity again."
Zsofia squeezed once more, released Miklos, and got to her feet, tugging her clothing into place. She patted her bun, ignoring the hairs that had come loose, and took the seat Miklos had previously occupied, catching Istvan's eye. "Now, where were we?"
Talk continued as if nothing happened while Miklos went down the hall to the bathroom.
"He's been watching me for weeks," Istvan reminded them. "If he is this legendary assassin…"
"… then why are you still alive?" Roland finished for him, holding up a finger to indicate he had more to say. "Of commensurable importance," he boldly met each set of eyes, ending with Zsofia, "who ordered the assassination?"
Undisclosed Location
The woman stood back letting the man do his job. She could've done it herself, but he'd insisted on doing the work. After all, she was their commander and work like this should be delegated.
Information scrolled across the screen faster than the human eye could comprehend. She caught a word here and there that didn't mean anything out of context.
Eventually, the flow slowed and stopped. She moved closer to peer at the screen. "That's not what we agreed on."
The man glanced over his shoulder and back to the screen with an air of self-satisfaction. "I know, but this works better. I used some of your ideas, added a few of my own, and gave it a spin." He waved his hand in a circle.
Pursing her lips, she thought through all the possible scenarios, satisfied with the result. "Good job."
"Now what?"
A smirk came over her stern yet attractive features. "Now we sit back and wait for the fireworks."
The man smiled and got to his feet. "Cool. I'll get the popcorn and beer."
Evolve Academy for the Performing Arts
Joliet, Illinois
Clint and Natasha went around to the back of the school, slipped inside, and made their way to the third floor. She let them into the suite then into the not-so-secret room filled with electronic equipment. He passed her a thumb drive and leaned one hand on the desk to watch her work.
Reaching into a hidden pocket, Natasha brought out a small metal tin, placed it on the desk, and slid it in front of Clint. "No offense, Hawkeye, but your breath could knock a buzzard off a shit wagon."
He did a quick breath check, opened the tin, and popped a mint in his mouth. "I love the sound you make when you shut up."
"Bliteus belua es."
"Back atcha, Nat."
She tapped enter one last time. Clint took out that thumb drive and replaced it with another. One was the truth, the other, a lie. The first drive contained all their files, the truth, and the second rewrote them to integrate with the false info Hill had programmed into the internet superhighway, the lie.
Without another word, they left the way they'd come, moving through the thinning crowd to where they could see Dinah and Klaus being interrogated by Homeland Security. They inched as close as they could without drawing attention to themselves. Natasha crossed her arms and shifted all weight onto one foot.
Clint reached into his inside pocket, pulling out a sheet of expensive stationery he'd bagged from the suite on the third floor. He motioned and Natasha presented her back. When he was done, he rolled it into a tube, holding it while Natasha tied a ribbon in a fancy bow. The paper went into a plain cardboard tube along with a few other objects. He sealed the end, the best friends sharing a smirk.
~~O~~
Senior Special Agent Megan Lloyd of Homeland Security, U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services division, listened to Dinah and Klaus recounted the events of the evening while her counterpart in U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement, Senior Special Agent Brandon Crawley held the recording equipment.
"…and shortly thereafter, the doctor arrived. He lead the drunken oaf around the corner and our security officer went after them," Dinah concluded, pressing the back of her hand over her mouth to cover a cough.
Lloyd kept her dark eyes on the couple, seldom blinking, knowing it would disconcert them. Perhaps enough to get them to speak without thinking. "And that's when the fire started."
Klaus continued the story. "Yes. I mean no. There was no fire."
Lloyd looked to the fire chief for confirmation. For an answer, he cued up video from the teams sent inside to clear the building, turning so all could see. "As you can see here, the walls, ceiling, and floor inside, and around the kitchen show that that's where the fire started. Lucky we arrived when we did or the whole building would've gone up. Accident, not arson."
"But…" Dinah stuttered.
Lloyd cut her off by changing the subject. "Where were you born, Ms. St. John?"
The couple shared a confused stare, "Westover Hills, Delaware. Why do you ask?"
Crawley shifted his feet while giving Lloyd a side-eye. "Then why does your birth certificate state your name as Helga Birgit Steinhauser and that you were born in Ummerkirchen, Germany? Which is, or was, midway between Frankenberg and Schwalmstadt. A freak storm virtually wiped the village from the face of the Earth in 1982, along with all the town's records. Births, deaths, the works."
"I-I have no idea." Dinah looked at Lloyd with desperation, apparently hoping to appeal to her sentimental side. Too bad she didn't have one. "You must believe me. I am an American citizen. Always have been."
"But your husband isn't, is he?" Lloyd looked over Crawley's shoulder at the screen. "His birth name is Klaus Johann Muntz, of the Potsdam Muntzs, of course."
Her counterpart snorted, "We also show that your work visa's expired quite some time ago." Crawley shook his head sadly. "Six years without renewing? To quote a cultural icon: for shame, for shame."
"Right," Lloyd added. "Looks like we gotta deport you."
Dinah shot to her feet, startling the agents and the SWAT team. She slowly resumed her seat. "This is ridiculous. We demand to see our attorney before answering anymore questions."
Lloyd and Crawley removed their hands from the butts of their weapons, Lloyd motioning the SWAT team leader forward. "Take them into custody. They speak to no one, not even the director, or the Secretary until their attorney arrives."
The man nodded once. "You got it." He waved two of his people forward, and in short order, Dinah and Klaus had electromagnetic handcuff around their wrists. "This way, please."
After they'd gone, Lloyd and Crawley called for their teams to regroup at their vehicles. Before they'd taken more than a couple steps, a fireman called out to them. "Special Agents, this is addressed to you." He handed over a tube about two feet long and gave them a lopsided grin. "It's safe, ma'am. Checked it out myself."
With that, he was gone, back to his real job.
Again, the senior agents shared a glance and a shrug while they put on gloves. Lloyd pried the cover off one end and tipped it over. A sheathed knife, an arrow, and a sheet of paper tied with a ribbon dropped into her palm. Crawley passed the tablet and tube to one of the agents and took the paper while Lloyd examined the weapons.
Crawley untied the ribbon and unrolled the paper, holding it so Lloyd could see two words written in the distinctive backward slant that indicated the writer was left handed.
Bitte schön!
"You're welcome?" they said together, Lloyd continuing alone. "What the hell does that mean?"
"Sir?" They both looked up at the tone in Special Agent Rachel Baxter's voice. A military-grade thumb drive was in her hand. "Maybe the answer's on this."
Special Agent Reuben Carr was looking over Crawley's shoulder. "What's that?" he asked, pointing.
At the bottom of the page had been sketched three symbols. The larger was an uppercase A inside a circle, one leg of the letter longer than the other. Below that was a bow and arrow next to an hourglass inside a black circle.
Lloyd took in the agents standing in a semicircle, inhaled deeply, let it out, inhaled again, saying, "Not one word of this to the press. Understood?" The agents nodded. "Whatever's on that drive has to be volatile. If it gets out that HSA had no idea what was going on right under our noses and the Avengers had to stop them, it would be detrimental to the US's intelligence community, and highly embarrassing to the Secretary."
"So mum's the word, people." Except for the drive, they dropped each item into a separate plastic evidence bag held open by Special Agents Gabriel Jacoby and Roland Culhane, also wearing gloves. They sealed the bags, packed them in the back of the first black SUV, locked it up, closed the back, and joined their colleagues for the ride back to HQ.
Movement to her left turned Lloyd's attention to a group of people dressed in black. At the front stood a petite woman and a smirking man. Both looked familiar. Her memory clicked in as the group raised their right hands and flipped off a salute accompanied by impish grins.
They backed up and faded into the dark before Lloyd could utter a word.
The radio crackled and Crawley's stunned voice muttered, "Did you…"
"Yeah," Lloyd responded.
"Was that…"
She cleared her throat, casting a glance at her subordinates. "I think it was."
There was a long moment of silence. Then, "Son of a…"
Lloyd cut Crawley off, started the vehicle, put it in gear, and eased her foot down on the accelerator.
TBC
"Music can heal the wounds which medicine cannot touch." ~ Debasish Mridha
