Sleep comes with difficulty and I spend the night tossing and turning, cycling between being fully awake, lightly sleeping or dreaming of violence. I wake up to pounding on my door and I know I've only slept about three hours. Any lingering fatigue vanishes and my mind clears in an instant when I grasp what's coming next. This is it. This is what I've been anticipating for months. Years? All of my training, everything, has led up to this day. I roll off of my cot and go to answer the door. It's one of the nameless aides. He's holding a hanger with some kind of uniform draped over it and a pair of black shoes is in his other hand.

He holds the hanger and shoes out to me. "These are for today."

I take the things from the aide and nod. "I need one minute," I say, and he looks up at me with a flat face. I shut the door and turn back to the cot, where I lay out the clothes he's just given me.

Before me lies a green wool double breasted jacket with three golden chevrons on each of the upper sleeves. There's a flat black pin that says "FOWLER" in white above the right upper pocket, and various colored stripes are patched together above the left. Along with the jacket is a long-sleeved khaki button-down shirt, a black tie, and green slacks with a black leather belt already looped around the waist.

I remove the pants I'm already wearing and slide the uniform trousers on. As I'm pulling them up, I feel a little bit of weight and hear jingling from the right pocket. I buckle the belt and stick my hand in, pulling out a chain with two dog tags attached. Both of them read the same thing:

Fowler, Charles J.
US97432188
T-50 B

I slip the chain over my head and the tags land directly in the middle of my chest over the sleeveless undershirt I'm wearing. Then, I slip the khaki shirt on, button it, and tuck it in. I grab the tie and step over to the mirror.
For a split second I'm surprised at my reflection. Last night my hair went from being straggly and almost chin length to being closely shaven into a crew cut. Not even a hint or shadow of a beard exists where yesterday there had been at least three days' growth. The soldier who came at me after the briefing with clippers and a razor didn't leave a single cut in my skin.

I cinch the tie up and make sure it's straight. Then I slip the green jacket on and fasten the three large gold buttons down the front. After the jacket is buttoned, I notice that the bottom left pocket is bulging a bit. I open it up and find a leather glove inside. It's a left-handed glove. Of course, that only makes sense. I pull it on. Last, I slip on the black leather shoes. I give my appearance a final inspection in the mirror. Passing.

I grab my usual combat boots and the file I studied last night and open the door. The aide is waiting with his back against the wall on the opposite side of the corridor. His eyes quickly scan me up and down a few times, his face remaining neutral. He straightens up, and we head down the same path as every other morning.

As we make the final turn and reach the hall where the lab is located I can hear unfamiliar sounds coming through from the other side of the wall. The aide I'm with pounds on the door to the lab three times and someone opens it almost immediately.

"After you," my escort says as he stands aside. I pass him and walk through the door into the lab, where the sound I heard earlier is amplified and I realize that it's music. Inside, Zola is sitting at his workstation with a record player running next to his desk. Alexei is off in the far left corner talking to four soldiers. As I enter, the doctor looks up and grins as soon as he sees me.

"Ah, good morning Winter Soldier! Or should I say, Sergeant Fowler?" He speaks the last sentence with a hint of humor. I look at my feet and don't give a verbal response. "Do you enjoy the violin, soldier? I find this piece most delightful. It is by Gaspard Fritz. Swiss." Pride exudes from the man. Dr. Zola is in the most positive mood I've ever witnessed him in. While I am feeling the slightest bit of nervousness, his confidence is somewhat contagious.

Alexei walks over to us with the group of soldiers. "The team is ready," he says in Russian.

"Excellent. English is the language of the day, Mr. Shostakov. Everyone should keep this in mind," Zola advises him. He turns toward his desk, picks up a green peaked cap and hands it to me. Then he points at the biometrics scanner on my wrist. "I'll take that." I undo the clasp of the wristband, slide the device off over my hand and give it to him. He looks at it for a moment and puts it in the pocket of his white coat. "Alright, Winter Soldier, I will see you tomorrow. Good luck."
Alexei gives me a glance which I return with a nod. We begin walking out of the lab and the four other men in uniform follow behind me. The last soldier shuts the door behind him and the Swiss violin music becomes muffled again. We silently make our way through the corridors and up a flight of stairs. At the top, Alexei unlocks a metal door and opens it into a large garage. Inside are two tanks, three trucks and a dark green windowless van.

We make our way over to the van and Alexei opens the back doors. "We have a twelve hour drive ahead of us. Let's get going." He climbs into the front seat and the five of us remaining jump into the back. I take a seat on the bench attached to the right side of the vehicle. Three of the soldiers take their places across from me, and one sits down on the same bench next to me, towards the front. The only light is coming from the windshield and front windows through a glass barrier between the front seats and where we are sitting. From the driver's seat, Alexei takes a quick glance behind himself at us and then starts the engine.

We exit the garage and it gets a little bit brighter, but it is still only dawn. After a short drive we reach a gate and stop. Alexei cranks the driver side window down and signals at the guard sitting in a booth. The gate opens and we continue down a long stretch of road. We're in the middle of nowhere.

My heart starts beating a little faster. This is the first time I remember ever being on this side of the gates. I have never left the facility before, and now we are driving away with it disappearing behind us like it's nothing. Each of the soldiers is staring me down and looking very serious. I try to relax a bit and place the back of my head on the wall of the van behind me.

I shut my eyes. Focus. Today is a mission and the objectives are all that matters. I start drilling the facts of my cover in my head over and over. Sergeant Charles Fowler. Birthdate March 17, 1926. Born in Brooklyn, New York. Grew up in Detroit, Michigan. Father killed in action in Okinawa. 22-year-old sister Katie. Widowed mother Helen's a waitress…

I wake up without realizing I'd even fallen asleep. Judging by where the sun is, we've probably driven four hours since I started rehearsing my cover. All of my comrades are still awake. The two closest to the front are looking out the windows, one is cleaning a pistol, and the soldier sitting on the end of the bench across from me is leaning back with his arms crossed and his eyes fixed on me.

I stare back, because there's nothing else to do. The soldier unfolds his arms and reaches underneath the bench. He pulls out a black briefcase and places it on his knees. He glances at me and then back down as he scrolls the code into the lock and snaps the case open. Then, he turns the contents toward me.

The case contains a billfold, a passport, a military identification card, some other papers, a folded map, a watch, and a forage cap.

"You will carry this with you in Berlin," the man informs me, "the lock code is 21870." Then, he slips his fingers along the sides of the case and lifts the bottom, revealing more contents beneath. A Tokarev pistol and silencer, two of the magnetic sabotage charges, and the detonator are hidden inside. After a moment, the soldier replaces the false bottom, picks up the watch and tosses it to me. I catch it with my left hand and check the time. It's 0905 hours. I haven't been aware of the exact time in weeks. There are no clocks in the department. I do what I'm told, when I'm told to do it. Now I have to rely on myself. I put the watch on my right wrist. There's about eight hours left of the drive to the drop point.

The drive continues with little variation. A few cars pass on the other side of the road, and we stop once to refill the gas tank in a tiny town with no people in sight. At around noon the soldier sitting next to me pulls out a deck of cards and he begins playing with the two across from us. The officer who showed me the briefcase takes out a small package and tears it open to reveal two strips of jerky. He takes one out for himself and hands me the second in the wrapper, and we both tear away at the food with our teeth. After he's done eating the man ends up taking a nap and I spend some time studying the sabotage devices, their manual, and the operation's file.

The rules of engagement are simple. Stick to your cover story. Speak English and German only. Keep the briefcase on your person always. Leave no evidence of tampering. Use the pistol only if absolutely necessary. No witnesses to direct involvement around any "accidents." I take the passport and military ID out and place them in my left breast pocket for easy access. Then I stick the billfold in my right pants pocket.

We hit the city in the late afternoon. Some soldiers wave us down when we get to the edge of town. Alexei stops, opens the door and steps out. He says a few things to the armed men and soon enough everyone is laughing. He gets back in the van and we continue the drive through town.

My heart rate starts to escalate again and I try to concentrate on staying calm for a minute. This is going to be easy. It's just a field test. The only real importance is testing the devices. My personal success isn't the priority.

The van comes to a stop. Alexei gets out a few moments later and comes around, opening the back doors. "Welcome to East Berlin," he announces. I grab the briefcase with my right hand and place the peaked cap on my head with the left. The other soldiers jump out of the van and I exit last. Alexei closes the doors behind me. We are in an alleyway between two rows of buildings facing opposite directions. I check my watch. It's 1710. Right on schedule.

"The border checkpoint is two kilometers directly West of here. Remember, it is most important that you appear American to the Soviets at the gate more than to anyone else. It will be very difficult to get past them quietly if you seem to be a defector," Alexei reminds me.

"Understood."

"When you have completed your mission, report to the established rendezvous point by 0100 hours for extraction. Do not be late."
"Yes, sir."

Alexei places his grip on my right shoulder and gives me a piercing look. "Do not screw this up, Winter Soldier. We have waited a very long time for this," he says.

"I won't let you down, sir," I assure the man I've spent most of my life with.

"If you are successful you may not be calling me 'sir' for much longer," he says with an undertone I've never heard in his voice before. Was it warmth? No. It was hope. He releases my shoulder and we shake hands. One of my other comrades hands me my combat boots. I run through the checklist in my head and know I have everything. So, without further ado, I start heading West.

Right now, avoiding citizens as much as possible is the first concern. I stick to walking in alleyways as much as possible and stay off of the main street until I'm close to my first intended destination. Once I'm a block away from the checkpoint, I exit the alleyway and start walking down the street. Luckily I'm on the edge of town in a spot the residents tend to avoid unless they're looking for trouble, and I don't attract any unwanted attention before reaching the checkpoint.

There are two lines at the border gate. One is a short queue of about 8 people on foot, and the other is a trail of vehicles which goes on for about half a block ending at the inspection point. I make my way to the end of the line of people standing. I watch as each of the men crossing hand over their passports. The guard checking them looks mostly bored and does very little vetting before returning their documents and letting them pass. After about fifteen minutes it's my turn.

The guard looks me up and down. "Reisepass und Militär I.D." - Passport and Military ID.

I hand him my passport and army identification. He glances at the papers and back to me. "Was ist Ihr Geschäft in Westberlin?" - What is your business in West Berlin?
I respond with as much of an American accent as I can muster. "Ich kehre von meinem Einsatz als diplomatische Eskorte zurück." -I'm returning from my assignment as diplomatic escort.

The guard looks me over once more, shuts the passport with the I.D. inside, and hands it to me. I take the documents and return them to my pocket, then I pass through the gate into enemy territory.

A/N: First off, my sincerest apologies if you received a million notifications about this chapter being published. I had to deal with some annoying technical issues that you would think that I, as millennial, would know how to avoid.

This is the first chapter of the fic which has been written entirely from scratch (as opposed to having first been drafted years ago, which was the case for all of the previous chapters.) All of the coming chapters will also be all-new content (that is, they have only existed in my head and not on 'paper'.) Because of this, publication MIGHT slow down a bit.

That being said, I'm very excited to continue the story because things are truly only just getting started now, and the most exciting events are still on their way.

Thank you for reading!