The graph looked impressive, labeled with names and functions and dates and places she drafted on a spread-out party size pizza box. It was a collection of all the info she gathered so far, laid out in a visual form to help her think and she spent an entire evening working on it. It was still something to do.
There was quite a bit of it, now: unit names, lines of command, operations and locations, spanning all over the world. But it was still all loose change, with no rule or order. No motive, no modus operandi, no purpose. She traced the lines leading from regular soldiers and low tier agents and techs, to commanding officers, to department directors and then up to the big question mark at the top.
There had to be someone who coordinated this. Perhaps without full authority, but with enough of it to keep the entire show rolling, a person who knew the reason for all of this, who could pull the strings and point the machine in the right direction, someone with high enough position in the ranks of SHIELD to make it all even possible. She scrambled all her resources, queried every source, scoured every available bit of intel. But no matter how hard she insisted, how much she pushed, the spot at the top always came up blank. As if no one knew who it was.
It wasn't the last piece this puzzle was missing but it was unquestionably the most important one. Without it, the picture remained what it currently was – a tangle of disjointed data. Without it, all her work was useless. And sure, perhaps making it public as-is would put a nick in the great plan, whatever it was. Send some people to jail. Make some resources harder to reach. But as long as the collapse wasn't pulling those that truly mattered along with it, it would be just that – a hindrance, not a full stop. It would make those in power bury themselves even deeper, make them even harder to reach, make the other question marks on the board even more of a mystery.
There were a few of those too. The gaping maw of the SHIELD and Council bureaucratic machine was great at swallowing resources. Where did it all go? What were they building towards? The Council forces snatched Fury's unfinished research and it never popped anywhere on the radar again, despite a steady trickle of financial support going to the research divisions all across the states, both from the government and from private contributors that spanned well across the list of the richest, most influential people in the world, American billionaires, Russian oligarchs, Indian tech magnates, Middle Eastern oil potentates, some royals, too. Then there was the scepter and an unanswered question about its current whereabouts. What Clint said in his briefing has checked out – it was in DC for a while, being experimented with, although the data she was able to obtain was murky about the results of those tests. But then it just… vanished, without a trace. No single handling report or inventory note, nothing. A powerful weapon, a mystical object from before the beginnings of the universe… and it was just gone, like it never existed.
Just like Loki.
Except, she knew it existed. He did, too. He wasn't just some figment of her imagination and there was a wisp of magic that connected them etched into her mind to serve as proof, even if there wasn't anything else.
She pulled it forth, like countless times before and it appeared, like it always did. While the other links grew fainter over time or crumbled away from her memory completely, like bruises that healed and faded away, this one stayed and was now a bright stroke on the firmament of her mind, constantly there, even when she wasn't looking. An ebb of magic and it lit up with shimmering light, spanning from horizon to horizon and she wrapped it around herself like a blanket made of stars. The cavern of her thoughts rippled and changed, bright, white sky replacing the void above, the outline of snowy peaks appearing on the obsidian walls…
Her instincts warned her a split-second earlier than her senses. She dropped flat to the ground, the vision fading from her brain. The window shattered and the chest of drawers behind her exploded into a flurry of splinters. She grabbed her gun and crawled, then hid behind the sofa. Another bullet hit the solitary lamp, bathing the room in darkness. A red dot of a laser sight traced a line on the wall, steady and deadly.
There was someone on the roof on the other side of the street. Their mind glistened in the dark like a wild tangle of colorful strings, fuzzy and swarming and… wrong. It wasn't a mind of a person, not truly, more like that of a wild animal, ferocious and feral, but lacking deeper awareness.
She leaped to the window and peeked outside and immediately dropped back down, as another projectile flew above, exactly where her head just was a moment ago. Okay, bad idea.
The person was still there, and she reached out again, brushing against the teeming psyche, trying to establish a connection. It was pliant and bent under her wishes, but she couldn't force the connection to ignite and stay in place, it felt unfamiliar and it was made even harder at that distance, with other people all around. She had to get closer, but there was no way to get to the other roof without being noticed or spooking the target. Well, the perp, she was the target in this scenario.
She focused again, sending out one clear command. Stay. It splashed against the brightness and the tangle curled and shifted and she couldn't say what the reaction meant. The person didn't move from their spot on the roof though.
Let's find out, shall we?
She crawled until she reached the door, then got on her feet and ran. She should've added 'and do not shoot me' to the mental command.
She ran down the stairs and through the backdoor, then slowly crept along the wall until she reached the street and peeked out, then immediately retreated. There was no gunshot, and the shooter was still where they were before, away from the edge of the roof. She couldn't see them, but that also meant they didn't see her either. She dashed to the other side of the street and into the side alley, then jumped on a trash bin and grabbed onto a fire exit ladder. It rattled as it slid down and she froze. They must've heard it, there was no other way. Yet, when she checked, the gunman was still in their old position. The command worked better than she expected.
She still tried to keep quiet as she climbed, not sure how long and how well it would hold, then stopped just at the top of the ascent. She peeked. There was a chimney, right between the edge of the roof and the place the person occupied. She crawled forth and hid behind it, considering. She could shoot them, right now. She should shoot them. It wasn't the first time they found her. It was the safest course of action, getting rid of the problem, once and for all.
Her hand stayed where it was, and she couldn't force herself to reach for the gun. There was something off about that mind. Something that scared her but also drew her in. Then she recognized that feeling, that irrational unwillingness to do harm. It was the same with Loki.
"You don't want to shoot me," she yelled and added a mental push to go along with the words. "I'm going to come out now, okay?"
The fuzzy mind swirled and changed, registering her words, but there was no response.
Counting to three didn't help to settle the doubt so she bit her lip and stepped out of the cover, trying not to think how grave of a mistake she could be making right now.
The man was holding his gun up and aimed at her and – when she looked down – the dot of the sight was now sitting firmly at her chest. "You don't want to shoot me," she repeated.
His metal arm glistened in the moonlight as he lowered his sniper rifle, just a bit. Enough for it to look like a deliberate gesture, but not enough for it to take more than a blink of an eye to bring it back up and fire. He had a mask on that covered his lower face from the nose down and long hair that fell over his eyes, obscuring the rest of his features. The gear he was wearing didn't look like standard-issue, but rather something custom-made. There was no insignia she could see on it, other than the red star on the metal arm.
She saw that mark before. Long time ago, in her previous life.
"You're the one who they call the Winter Soldier," she said, keeping her voice steady, not without effort. The man was a stuff from fairy tales. The old ones, that ended with anguish and death. A ghost. "We've met before, a long time ago."
He looked at her through narrowed eyes and his confusion was a palpable thing, squirming in his brain as it scrambled for answers and came up empty. He didn't recognize her, that much was obvious. He didn't even recognize his own title.
Panic spiked and she pushed back, smoothing it over. "It's okay, I'm not going to hurt you."
She was now moving forward, closing the distance, in careful, well-telegraphed steps. "How do they call you then?" she asked.
His mind flared up again, struggling for an answer, before settling on one. "An asset," he said. His voice was rough and muffled by the mask, but not beyond the point of intelligibility.
"You don't have a name?"
His brows furrowed, his scattered thoughts twisted around in his skull and he shook his head.
She was a couple of steps away now. "Why are you here?"
"I have an objective," he said.
"What kind of objective?"
He strained for an answer again and picked his mind for a while before he found one, sparkling with bright intensity, and clasped on it. She saw it coming before his synapses fired in the programmed order and she lunged just as he started to raise his weapon, knocking the gun out of his hands and tackling him to the ground. He grabbed her arm and threw her off then rolled into a crouch. She kicked him in the shin and threw herself on him when he toppled over, pinning him down. She reached for his head. His metal arm whirred, and he punched her in the ribs.
They rolled on the roof for a few seconds, each as eager to get on top as the other. She kicked him in the jaw and wrapped her legs around his neck. He arched his spine and threw himself backward, throwing her off. She dashed away, swerved and pinned his throat to the ground with her knee. He grabbed her leg and twisted it until her joint screamed in pain. She yanked free and scrambled away. He leapt, she dodged. His fist gripped her hair and brought her down, pressing her face to the surface of the roof.
Yep, definitely a haircut.
He sat astride her and pushed his metal arm to her neck. "To kill you," he breathed into her ear, answering the outstanding question.
A ray of moonlight reflected off the blade, just for a second, before she twisted under him, sunk it in his side and turned, then pulled it up.
He did not make a sound as he crumbled. His eyes grew wide with an utter lack of understanding and he collapsed, panting, blood seeping between the metal fingers pressed to the gash in his abdomen.
She bent over and pressed her palms to his temples.
His mind was… a mess. There was no other word to describe it, yet it felt insufficient, in a way.
Her first instincts didn't lie but didn't tell the whole truth. On the surface, his psyche was simple, single-minded, honed to kill, to follow an objective against all odds, not allowed to question, like a well-trained attack beast. Then, underneath that outer layer was… something. Flashes of light, of pain and screams stuck in his throat, tearing at him, remolding, breaking him apart. She pushed further and his memories spilled, torn to shreds and twisted, buried under the blanket of bright, hot agony and shouted orders. Then came the cold, the cruel kind that sunk its teeth in the bones and froze the blood in the veins and more pain, pain, pain, until she couldn't take it anymore.
She pulled out and let the visions fade. She could still sense the turmoil, swarming and pulsing inside his mind, the scraps of recollections bouncing inside his skull as he scrambled to comprehend their sudden existence where there was just blank space a moment ago. His eyes were on her, bright and bleary and utterly, completely confused. "What… what did you do to me?" he wheezed and coughed. He reached for the mask and pulled it free then wiped the blood off his lips with the back of his hand. His face reminded her of someone, in the vaguest of ways, but she couldn't truly place it and the weird smudges of dark face paint around his eyes didn't help. What was that? Some kind of urban camouflage? A fashion statement?
His breathing was growing more rapid and ragged.
Her hand rested on top of his metal fingers still clutching the wound and she probed. Her attack was effective, the gash ran deep and did a lot of damage, severing the muscle, rupturing his intestines, tearing his stomach and puncturing his lung, causing internal hemorrhage.
He was going to die if she didn't do something. But doing it right where they were wouldn't cut it. It was a complicated injury, and she would need to use all the energy she had for even a slight chance to heal it. Even then, it wasn't going to be perfect, so the best-case scenario was the sun rising on her lying unconscious on the roof with a half-dead Soviet-era assassin at her side and that could only end in a disaster.
"Can you walk?" she asked, not hoping for much. To her surprise, he nodded and started to rise, programmed responses taking over his instincts. He didn't even flinch. "No, press your hand to the wound, I'll help you."
This was bringing back all sorts of unwanted memories.
She grabbed him and wrapped his regular, fleshy arm around her shoulders, then led him to the exit. She ignored the fire escape, that wouldn't work, and headed for the staircase entrance. It was closed, so she just kicked it open, then guided him down the flight of stairs and into an elevator.
He stumbled a couple of times but other than that he was taking the 'suffering in silence' thing to a haunting level. What kind of training had they put him through if he didn't even think of crying out while walking around with his guts torn to shreds?
He collapsed the moment they reached her apartment then crawled closer to the wall and slumped, exhausted. She turned on the bedside lamp – the main was shot not that long ago, by the very man that was now bleeding out on her floor – and dug through her bag, until she produced the first aid kit and a pair of handcuffs.
"This is for later," she said, showing him the kit. She placed it on the floor, close enough for him to reach. She brought up the cuffs. "And this is for now."
His stare was blank.
"I'm sorry, but I have no idea what kind of conditioning you have in your brain and I don't want you to wake up tomorrow with a fresh desire to kill me and all the tools to do so as I lie here, out cold. So, if you want my help, play by my rules and give me your hand." He didn't argue and brought his metal arm up for her. "No, the other one, the one you can't detach as easily." She wasn't sure how much the cuffs would help if the conditioning snapped back into place (probably not much) but it was something.
He listened and didn't protest as she clasped one of the bracelets around his wrist and the other to the heating pipe above his head.
"Okay, now… relax, I suppose."
He didn't move an inch.
She tugged at the buckles of his vest then pulled it free. He wasn't wearing anything underneath. His skin was a motley of old wounds in various stages of recovery and the most prominent of them all was the ridge of scar tissue that ran around his metal limb. It wasn't just a tool, it was grafted directly into his flesh…
She shivered and took a deep breath. "Here we go."
Her core burst to life and she directed it, letting the power flow. She was more deliberate, focusing on healing the gravest injuries first, his lung, his stomach, his intestines. She could deal with the rest later, if he lived.
Energy seeped through her fingers slowly, with a guided intent. Her eyes grew heavy so she closed them, focused on the tingling tendrils of magic running through her and went on, and on, and on…
Her head was pounding like there was something malicious living inside her skull, her throat was parched, and every muscle ached dully.
Yeah, she definitely did not miss the feeling of magical overexertion. Given, it wasn't as bad as the first one, she was more careful this time around.
It was still rather awful.
She opened her eyes. Sunlight burned and she had to fight herself to keep them ajar. There was a bottle of water right next to her head. She gulped it down before she could spare it a thought. Did she prepare it? No, she would remember if she did…
Her eyes dashed to the spot by the window. It was empty. The radiator was ripped off its mounting plate, the pipe bent out of shape. The first aid kit was gone. Well, damn.
There was a knock on the door. She pulled on her senses and immediately crashed against a barrier of pain. Mhm. She pushed herself off the ground and onto her feet with a loud groan. There was another knock, more impatient this time.
"I'm coming," she yelled. "Geez…"
She cracked the door open, just a tad. There were two police officers standing in the hallway.
"How may I help you?" she asked.
"There's been a report of a shooting that happened during the night. Did you hear or see anything suspicious?"
The roughest part of Detroit and someone still called the cops because of some gunshots? And she thought that nothing could surprise her anymore.
"No, I slept like a baby," she said, "I mean, I had a bit of a rough night, soo…"
One of the officers sniggered, the other fought to keep a stern face. "Your neighbors said they heard some noises from your apartment. Are you sure everything's in order?"
"As I said, rough night."
The older, more serious one crooked his neck, peeking inside through the crack. "Can we come in and check if everything is fine?"
She glanced back at the room, at the shattered window, the ruined furniture, the destroyed radiator, the pool of blood by the window… "I would rather not, I have a bit of a mess."
"It's all right, we just want to…" he said and grabbed the knob.
She blocked the door with her foot. "I said I'm fine. If you want to search my place, get a warrant," she snarled.
He considered, then took a step back. "All right, mam." He reached to his pocket and pulled out a card. "If you remember something or see anything out of ordinary, give us a call."
"Sure," she muttered and flung the door shut without taking the card.
She leaned on the door and pressed her fingers to her eyes. She was bone-tired and wanted nothing more than eat a solid breakfast and fall back asleep for another twelve hours. She rarely got what she wanted these days and right now there was a more pressing matter to attend - she had to scram, pronto. The officers weren't convinced by her act and who could say what they would do, maybe they'd indeed get a warrant or drag someone more persuasive over. She definitely didn't want to be there when they did.
She could grab something to eat on the road. Coffee, too. A lot of it, black as night.
She packed her clothes and unplugged the charger from the wall then went to pick up her study aid. She had to shred it or else it could fall into wrong hands and giving them an exact idea of how much she knew was an act of terminal stupidity she wasn't going to commit.
Her eyes slid over the board. Just one last glance, to imprint it into her memory so she could work on it later. Then she noticed it. Writing that definitely didn't come from under her hand. The letters were skewed and wobbly, written with dark brown ink that looked suspiciously like blood, right above her big question mark at the top.
PIERCE, it said.
Well, damn.
She drove, paying the least required amount of attention to the road, her mind reeling.
Pierce. Alexander Pierce, the goddamned head of the goddamned World Security Council.
She couldn't be sure she could trust a man who couldn't even remember his own name, that much was true, but on the other hand – it made an awful lot of sense. And she would be lying if she said she didn't think about it earlier. But, as much as she wanted to grant herself brownie points for figuring it out earlier, Pierce was only one position on the long list of names she considered just as likely.
Then, assuming it was true, what did it change? It gave her a solid lead but didn't clear any other names. Pierce and Fury clashed often, but that could be just a game they played, a show, a façade. Fury could still be in on that. Hell, she would be surprised if he weren't, if not in then at least aware to some extent, it all happened right under his nose and came straight from the man directly above him.
A stray thought halted her musings. She should warn Clint.
She reached for her phone then stopped her hand in the middle of the gesture. She already gave him all the warnings she could, and he did not believe her. And sure, he did give her a head start and didn't rattle her out, it would take less time to confirm her betrayal and put a warrant on her head if he did, but that didn't mean it won't happen if she contacts him again. He was the kind of man who was fiercely loyal to his friends and held a grudge against his enemies for a long time and she couldn't tell in which group she fell, now.
She needed allies. Someone who she could truly trust at least as far as motivations go, someone who would understand what she was trying to do. Someone who could actually do something with what she gathered but would still give her time for finding Loki and wouldn't judge her for that aspect.
That, pretty much, set up a collection of parameters that were simply impossible to meet.
If only there was a…
She slammed the brakes and veered to the side of the road. A car behind her honked and the driver flipped her off as they swerved to avoid her.
The vision! How could she forget about it? She almost made it, she reignited the connection and was so close!
She had to try again, now. It would perhaps be wise to wait, recoup, but she couldn't, not when she was so close to finally finding him. She screwed her eyes shut and focused.
Tried to. She crashed on the barrier again, and again, until the tears of pain running down her cheeks made her stop. She was still too exhausted and had no reserves, even for such simple magic. She punched the dashboard in a fit of impotence and the tears that followed were of the regular kind.