A/N: Spoiler alert for Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Avengers: Age of Ultron, Captain America: Civil War, Ant-Man, and Spiderman: Homecoming.
As always, many thanks go out to CapriceAnn Hedican-Kocur for the Beta and Winter-Soldier-88 for the brainstorming.
Year Decade From Hell 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 88
Turning his head slowly side to side, Bucky used his amped up hearing to locate István and Zsofia. They had gone in opposite directions as a strategy to force him to choose one or the other to chase while the remaining one took him out. Good strategy. Pity it wouldn't work.
Melding with the shadows, Bucky made his way to the van where he could find what he needed. Luckily for him, the rear doors were open. Laying partially under the dead man, he found a coil of rope. He shoved it, and two other items, in his shirt and returned to where he'd left the two he'd already eliminated from the chase. Having some compassion for the married couple, he tied their wrists and ankles using elaborate knots, then laid them side by side. Should they regain consciousness, the first they would do is attempt to undo each other's binds, but again, that won't happen. Bucky knew his stuff and they wouldn't be getting away any time soon, unless they took the time to figure out the knots, which he'd purposely tied so they could get loose, if they really wanted to.
That accomplished, the rope returned to its place of concealment while he made a quick recon of István's location. Taking out Zsofia first, the most dangerous of them all, would have been the wisest course of action, but it wouldn't be nearly as much fun. This way, he had plenty of time to mess with her head.
Bucky almost laughed out loud as he slunk toward István because the man made it way too easy to find him. István obviously thought he was far enough away not to be heard relieving himself behind the dilapidated caretaker's shack. Feeling generous, he waiting until the deed was done and the man had zipped up before beginning his reign of terror.
While he waited, Bucky took out a piece of metal he'd taken from the van, bending it into a specific shape. Then, the zzzt of a zipper signaled it was time for the show to start. This one would be easy-peasy mac-and-cheesy.
Using the thumb and forefinger of his metal arm, he pried the mirror from the broken side mirror, that would reflect the moon into his eyes, a calculated move on his part, giving Zsofia his location. Or so she would think. He hoped so, at least. She was a tough cookie.
He breathed on the object and wiped the condensation off, leaving a clean surface. Well, close enough for government work, he thought, adding on a silent snicker.
With István's nearly silent footsteps to guide him, Bucky crouched behind a small shrine to the current occupant, laid the object on the ground, and waited. The timing had to be perfect.
Three… two… one…
Bucky slid the side mirror into István's path. His heel came down, breaking it with a tinkling crunch. István halted in mid-stride and carefully lifted his foot. Seeing the broken mirror, he gasped, and stumbled until he backed into a tombstone, catching himself on it, and nearly calling out in fright His eyes looking everywhere at once.
Making no sound, Bucky suddenly appeared behind him, sighing and shaking his head. "In Romania, it's said that misfortune comes in different forms. If you break a mirror, bad luck comes in big doses. Seven years bad luck, to be exact, pal."
István turned to run; Bucky's arm shot out and spun him around so they were face to face. He picked István up by the neck, careful not to block his airway or squeeze too hard. He wanted to scare him, but also didn't want to hurt him.
Bucky made a fist, cocked his arm, as if to deliver a killing blow, and a moment later, the poor man passed out. "Not much in the courage department, huh?"
Lowering the man to the ground, Bucky adjusted his position, and hoisted him into aa fireman's carry, taking his time, picking his foot placement so as not to alert Zsofia.
Taking great care, as he'd done with the other two, he laid István next to Bence, and used pieces of the man's shirt and his belt to tie him up. Either Bence and Elizabet were still unconscious, or they were very good at faking it. If he were a betting man, and sometimes he was, Bucky would say it was a toss-up, even considering their ages. People like them developed skills at a young age, gaining proficiency with time and practice, just as he had in the army, and as the Winter Soldier. But those days were behind him now.
He checked the bindings on all three one last time, mentally preparing himself to take on the most dangerous of the group: Zsofia. The first order of business was the SUV.
~~O~~
Confident that he was as alone as possible for the moment, Bucky went down on one knee to examine the undercarriage of the SUV, one hand on the ground for balance. Satisfied with what he saw, he stood, moved around to the front of the vehicle, reached under the bumper with his metal arm, and lifted.
~~O~~
From her hiding place, Zsofia watched Bucky place István with the others. Oh, yes. She'd located the married couple some time ago. She also knew better than to release them too soon, or their opponent would know she'd been there, and would be even more on alert. However, this was her avocation, her reason for living, and she would fulfill that position just as she had under the only true leader of Romania. Even if Ceaușescu hadn't been ousted and assassinated, and his supporters forced to go underground, she wouldn't have been able to stay in Romania under anyone else's rule. Life just wouldn't have been the same. She'd seen it time and time again, both before joining up and since being excommunicated, albeit voluntarily, from her beloved homeland.
She didn't believe in the old adage that unlimited power would corrupt the minds of those who possess it. True visionaries were almost always vilified by those envious of what another has to the point that they will do anything, even kill, to possess it.
A loud thump stopped Zsofia in her tracks, weapon raised, and free hand twitching in anticipation of using one or all of the knives secreted on her person. She spun around, eyes searching the area, cursing the moon that had already begun its descent behind the canopy of trees.
More sounds, seeming to come from all around her, stirred the nocturnal creatures, as did the breeze that had sprung up, rustling the trees, and making it more difficult to determine direction.
At this moment, she was in agreement with Shakespeare regarding the better part of valor being discretion. She had little fear, had always been that way, even as a child. However, perhaps it was time to make a strategic retreat to a more secure location to plan their next course of action. The Winter Soldier could not be permitted to continually involve himself in their day-to-day lives. Better to be finished with him now, thereby cementing herself in history as the one person who could challenge and defeat the world's most notorious assassin. A man most in the intelligence community.
Zsofia made her way back to her companions, only to find them gone. Good. They'd managed to release themselves, and would return to the entrance to the cemetery. On the heels of that thought, she heard the rumble of the SUV's engine.
Believing that she was about to be left behind, Zsofia broke into a run, no longer hiding. It was a long walk to the nearest town, and she didn't fancy the trip in any way, shape, or form.
She dropped down behind a stand of thick bushes, giving the area a quickly scan, but didn't see anything out of place, except for the SUV. The front end was no longer hung up on the rock. It had been moved onto the rutted path leading back to town, the driver's door open, and the engine running.
Making a crouching run to the rear, she peeked around the side, then crept toward the rear door, and looked inside. They were sitting side by side, seatbelts holding them upright, and still unconscious.
"Dimitry?" she whispered while looking over her shoulder. She didn't want to admit, even to herself, that the whole situation was finally getting on her nerves, bringing in a sliver of fear for the first time in decades. She opened the door and stopped at the sound of the safety being disengaged on a handgun.
"Drop the weapon," a deep voice said. At the same time, Zsofia felt the barrel of a weapon against the base of her skull. At pointblank range, there was no way she'd survive. She rushed to comply. Zsofia lowered her hand to her side and opened fingers cramped and achy, the handgun landed in the grass with a thud. No great loss. She still had her knives. "Turn around."
There was a fleeting thought of going on the offensive, but it died when she came face to literal face with the Winter Soldier for the first time, not the ineffective man kept prisoner in István's basement and later at the country house. Not the one who passed out from pain during his torture. And he absolutely was not the man who'd been so easily caught by one who had very little combat training beyond what had been required of them all.
No, this was an entirely different creature. This one oozed confidence, had straight back, square shoulders, all telltale signs of a true soldier. Coupled with the brooding visage, and angry, hooded glare, what was to come did not bode well for her and the others.
"The knives too."
Again, the tone that brooked no argument. The hesitation didn't sit well with him. His feet shifted and a round was chambered as she removed the knife strapped to her right forearm and the one taped to her left ribcage.
Self-preservation overrode her desire to fight. Without being told, she kicked the as hard as she could, sending the smallest into bushes where she'd just been hiding.
The gun aimed at her forehead gestured. His eyes flicked down to her legs and back. "All of them."
Holding in a sigh, Zsofia opened the front of her pants, letting them fall to her knees while unstrapping the knife laying against her thigh. The Winter Soldier's eyes stayed on hers without straying to the sight of her expensive silken panties. They were what the Americans called a guilty pleasure.
Holding it in both hands, she caressed the family crest engraved into the gold sheath tarnished with age, wanting nothing more than to grip the pearl and ivory handle, shove it into the Winter Soldier's chest up to the hilt, and twist as hard as she could. Instead, she wrapped the leather around the knife, and lifted it over her shoulder, intending to send it in the same direction as the others.
"Stop." The Winter Soldier held out his free hand, and reluctantly, she laid it in his palm. He gave it careful scrutiny-she could see the admiration of the craftmanship in his eyes as she pulled up and fastened her pants once more. Then, he surprised her by handing it back. "Keep it." He nodded at the open car door. "Go. Now. Before I change my mind."
Without their eyes losing contact, she slipped the keepsake into her pocket, climbed into the driver's seat, and waited for their interaction to continue, whatever the outcome. If he was going to kill her, she wished he just get on with it instead of this dance. "So, the Winter Soldier has a sentimental side."
The skin around his eyes and mouth tightened in anger. "I'm not the Winter Soldier. Not anymore."
Scoffing, Zsofia leaned back in her seat, arms crossed, feeling the vibrations from the engine. "You are what the Russians made you. A weapon to be used as they saw fit. Pity HYDRA failed in their bid to take control."
His chest expanded with a deep breath. He did this several times, letting each one out slowly, seemingly using it to calm his temper. "My name is James Buchannan Barnes, and I serve only myself. No one else."
One side of her mouth turned up. "If you say so," she told him in a tone meant to convey the opposite. Let's just finish this. It's well past my bedtime and I'm feeling a bit peckish."
The weapon's aim had dipped while they talked, as if he'd changed his mind about killing her. Now, it was aimed at her temple, and he pulled the trigger, clicking on an empty chamber.
His free hand came up, fisted, as if he intended to strike her. The fingers opened and one by one, the bullets fell into the patch of dirt at the edge of the path. "There are still warrants out for you and your friends for the war crimes you committed under Ceaușescu." He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper, "A few words in the right ears and the police will have you in custody faster than you can blink."
"That won't happen, Asset." She emphasized the last word in a last-ditch attempt to take control of the situation. "You would never be believed, and I and my compatriots will live the rest of our lives in peace."
The weapon vanished, likely into the waistband of his pants, and he leaned on the edge of the window. "If you say so," he said, throwing her own words at her with a smirk. "Tu esti faci din tantar, armasar." Stepping back, he crossed his arms, and shrugged. "But that's just my opinion." He pointed at his eyes, at her, and back to himself. "Behave yourself, 'cause I'll be watching. One wrong move and…"
The unspoken words hung in the air, and he began humming a song that was vaguely familiar. Then, he turned and vanished into the night as if he'd been a figment of her imagination.
Not wanting to press her luck, Zsofia put the SUV in gear, and drove on.
When she reached the closest town, she pulled in behind a darkened furniture store and parked just long enough to awaken her companions. She released István, passed him the knife, returned to her seat, and continued on toward Budapest, refusing to speak until they'd reached the relative safety of her home.
Queens, New York
School Hallway
Between Classes
As she did most days, Felicia ignored the majority of other students, keeping her eyes on the floor a few feet in front of her, though her ears were tuned in to the ambient sounds of the school's packed corridors. Up ahead, she heard stifled laughter and a whispered conversation between a herd of jocks. She recalled seeing most of them at the dance with their overly made up dates, naturally from the cheerleading squad. All of them tall, well-built, and immensely popular, though not with her. The only people she had any meaningful conversations with were Peter, his bestie Ned, and Ned's new girl, Violet, a former member of the popular clique, now one of those who didn't fit in any particular group. Some called them disenfranchised. Felicia called them friends.
One of the jocks separated himself from the others, a smirk on a face that some would call handsome. She found him and his cronies barely tolerable, overly confident, and undeserving of her time and attention.
Felicia pulled up short and stopped chewing her gum when a pair of expensive sneakers came into view, blocking her path. She knew who it was without seeing his face, groaning inwardly. Taking a step to the side to go around proved ineffective as he moved to block her again. More sneakers came into view beside and behind her, blocking her in, or so they thought.
Not wanting to make a scene, she ducked her shoulder in an attempt to use it as a wedge between the human obstacle and the lockers. His arm shot out, preventing an easy escape. Facing the fact that this wasn't going to end peacefully, Felicia brought her gaze up to his, her expression carefully neutral. "Excuse me," she muttered without inflection, showing no interest whatsoever.
The smirk that was his everyday expression faltered slightly, the skin around his blue eyes and thin lips tightening in a small show of irritation that she, or anyone really, wouldn't immediately fall at his feet. She knew his type. Had gone up against them in and out of the Cat suit, those who used sports as an outlet for their hostile tendencies. In the off seasons, that anger was aimed at the weak and defenseless, like Peter and his friends.
"What's your hurry, Phoebe?" His throaty grumble was meant to be seductive, but she found it annoying.
"It's Felicia, and I gotta get to class, so…" one eyebrow lifted and she gave a little shoo wave, but he didn't so much as twitch. Placing a hand in the middle of his chest, Felicia gave a small push, which only served to raise the level of his ire.
"First bell hasn't even rung yet," he told her. "Let's you and me have a little talk."
Both eyebrows creeped up her forehead. "And why would I want to do that?"
He added a swagger to the smarmy grin that was probably meant to be a sexy smolder, taking a step closer, and pointing at himself with a thumb. "'Cause I'm the most popular person in school." His eyes dashed over the attentive crowd. "Most of the girls, and even some of the guys, want to be with me." The smirk deepened. "But I chose you."
"Oh, lucky me," Felicia muttered sarcastically under her breath. The guy either didn't hear or chose to ignore the comment. Maybe he just didn't catch on to the sneering acerbity in her tone because he just kept talking.
"I wanna hear more about what happened at the dance." A phone appeared in his hand, as if she needed a visual nudge to understand a simple concept. "It's blowin' up Twitter and YouTube. Some of my homies even made a TikToc of it."
She feigned sorrow, "Oh, that's right. You weren't at the dance" Shaking her head and tsk-tsking, she added, "Too bad you couldn't get a date. It was quite the show-stopper."
A collective gasp went through the crowd. To halt the rumor mill in its tracks, he stated firmly and with more than a little pride, "I can get a date with the snap of my fingers," he demonstrated. "Went water skiing in Maui for the long weekend." Before Felicia could react, he snagged hold of her hand, dragging her after him, his friends following at a short distance, not bothering to hide their smiles and laughter when she dug her heels in, causing him to stumble.
Felicia bent her wrist and jerked downward where his fingers and thumb came together, effectively breaking his hold. "That's it! I am done being nice…" pausing with a pointed look, adding insult to injury by pretending to not know who he was. She remembered him from her first day. He and his buddies were making fun of those students who didn't fit in with the popular cliques, who gravitated toward each other for safety in numbers as well as friendships.
He looked down from his six feet plus height, using it to intimidate, and carefully enunciating, "Benedict Bainbridge IV." She continued the blank stare, not blinking, using awkward silence as her own form in intimidation. He scoffed and glanced at the crowd, "Everyone knows me. I'm the captain of the football, baseball, track, and debate teams."
Sighing in relief, she smiled, making sure to be heard even by those in the back. "Well, the debate team, I can understand, 'cause you sure seem to love the sound of your own voice." Felicia waited out the snickers and stifled laughter, even from his friends. "You see, here's the deal, Benny," she motioned him down as if to share a secret, stage whispering, "I only know the names of important people." Taking a step back, she lifted her arms and let them fall, "And you're no one of consequence. Not to me."
Fuming, he said through gritted teeth, "Don't call me Benny."
"Yeah, yeah, whatever." This time, the laughter wasn't muffled. Benedict's face reddened, his anger evident. Ignoring the warning signs, she continued, taking a step closer, "I know your type, Benny." Her backpack hit the floor, and Ned, bless his heart, rushed to take it out of the way. "You look down your nose at most people from this lofty pedestal you've put yourself on, filled with a skewed sense of self-worth, only associating with people who conform to your personal view on physical beauty or those you can use to further your own agenda, be it getting on a team, into an ivy league university, a date for Saturday night, or the best parking spot for your most recent joy machine."
"You-You don't even know me," he sputtered, trying to save face.
"We'll see." Felicia walked around him, examining him from head to toe. "You introduce yourself as a fourth, but you're really a junior. Your parents hit the big time when you were a toddler, kicking the family from middle to near the bottom of the top ten percent income bracket. In order to fit into high society, names were changed from Benny Sr. and Jr. to III and IV." She widened her stance, as if preparing for battle, crossing her arms, and looking him in the eye, ignoring the murmurs and whispered conversations around them. "Your mother, bless her heart, had everything that could be restored, reconstructed, and altered, then, of course, had to get a whole new wardrobe. These days, she spends her life either hitting up her rich friends up for charities, or working out" she grinned at the crowd, making air quotes, "with a personal trainer."
"Don't talk about my moth…"
She held up a finger. "Now, let's talk about you." Pacing a few steps away, Felicia turned. "As far back as you can remember, you were often bullied by the other kids because you were chubby, shy, and introverted, almost reclusive. Because of that, you were homeschooled until high school. Years of therapy made you more confident and assertive… cough, cough, narcissistic, cough, cough…" that comment caused a mass of snickering. "A strict diet and exercise regime, and several growth spurts, gave you," a hand waved up and down, indicating his athletic physique and height. "You want everyone to think your eyes are blue, but they're colored contacts to hide the fact that your eyes are brown. Same with your hair, but you have blond highlights put in to cover it up. Need I go on?"
Benedict stood ramrod straight, arms at his side, and fists clenched, eyes moving over the crowd, who'd barely breathed during her entire onslaught. Felicia waited patiently for a response.
The wheels in his head were spinning so fast, she expected to see smoke coming out of his ears and nose. He surprised her by taking the high road.
His stance relaxed, and he let out a self-deprecating chuckle. "You got me. It's true. All of it. Well, except for the part about Mom boinking her personal trainer. He's gay." Points to him for standing up for his mother, Felicia thought. "And we really did go to Maui for the weekend. Dad had a business meeting and I just broke up with my girl, so I went along." His lopsided smolder was back, but it left her cold. "Let's just forget this all happened and go out to dinner Saturday, you and me. Anywhere you want. Sky's the limit. What d'you day?"
Felicia pretended to think it over, spotting Peter standing between Ned and Flash Thompson. His crestfallen expression told her he'd heard Benedict ask her on a date. She graced Peter with a sweet smile, while speaking to Benedict, "Sorry to bust your overly inflated ego, Benny, but I'm seeing someone."
"It's Benedict or Ben. Not Benny. And I heard." Hoping to get back some of what he'd lost, he gestured at Peter. "What're you doing with a loser like Parker anyway?" The smug smirk was back as he towered over her. That intimidation thing again. "Girl like you needs a real man, not some pipsqueak who's afraid of his own shadow." He laughed, not noticing that no one had joined in, not even his friends. "What a ******* loser! He didn't even try to defend you. I'd never treat my girl like that." He leered, eyes lingering on her fully covered chest. "I'll pick you up at seven. Promise to show you a good time."
Felicia spied movement as the crowd parted to let Principal Morita through. Had he stayed away a few more minutes, she might've been tempted to take Benedict down via a few martial arts moves meant to humiliate without inflicting major damage.
The Black Cat can do the job. No sense in getting expelled this close to graduation.
Going to Peter's side, Felicia took his hand, pulling him close. "His name is Peter," she smiled affectionately. "And you didn't learn a damn thing from those videos, did you? Women don't want to be treated like sex objects. We want respect, kindness, emotional, and practical support. We want the men and women in our lives, friends and romantic partners alike, to take the time to recognize and acknowledge our strengths and respect us for all that we bring to those relationship."
~~O~~
All during Felicia's speech, girls had been slowly edging to the front of the group, shoving elbows into ribs and stomping on feet to get by. Peter didn't know what was going on, but knowing Felicia, it promised fun times for all. Well, accept for Bainbridge and his goons.
She released his hand as Ned came up next to them, still holding her backpack. She was highly protective of her property, so when she allowed Ned to take it, Peter was sure there would be a physical fight, after which, Felicia would be suspended or even expelled. He didn't think she would take the chance, not with graduation just a couple of weeks away. Plenty of time for Spider-Man and Black Cat to teach the jocks a thing or two while out on patrol.
Peter placed his back against the lockers, spying most of the girls, and even some of the guys, setting their backpacks and bookbags on the floor at their feet, their expressions expectant, anticipatory, dare he say breathless with excitement. He could feel it in the air. That's when he noticed they were all wearing white t-shirts under their shirts and light jackets. Being as inconspicuous as possible, they unbuttoned and unzipped, leaving the material pulled closed in the front, reminding him that Felicia had also given him a white t-shirt with instructions to not look at it or take off his jacket until he got the signal. He leaned close to Ned, who was helping Violet take off her jacket. "Think that was the signal?"
"It was," Violet answered for both of them, grinning from ear to ear that Felicia was taking Benedict and his pals down a few notches.
"…and it's bullies like you, Benny, who make life a living hell for people like Peter and his friends, simply because they're smarter and just plain better people than you. You torment those weaker or unable to stand up for themselves because it makes you feel like a man. Here's a new flash just for you: real men don't have to bring others down to feel good about themselves. Real men lift up those around him with kindness, honesty, empathy, integrity, and compassion."
The murmuring from the crowd got louder, even though Morita stood at the front, arms crossed, and a scowl so deep his face might actually get stuck that way.
"…there's a major difference in the school's dress codes for females and males. The girls are disciplined unfairly and unjustly compared to the boys, and this disparity must not be allowed to continue."
Felicia seemed to have forgotten why the crowd had gathered. That, or, and this was the more likely scenario, she was using it to her advantage, to allow her voice, and those of all affected by the biased and discriminatory dress code, to be heard loud and clear.
"…which states, in not so many words, but plenty of deeds by the staff, that certain articles of girls' clothing are prohibited because they distract the boys from their work." Benedict, realizing that he was now being used as a springboard to get Felicia up on her soapbox, backed up until he virtually disappeared. "Boys are seldom called out for what they're wearing, though they often break the rules. Apparently," sarcasm dripped from each word, "their education is more important than mine, and I am not the only one to hold this belief." A rumble of agreement went through those assembled. "And it's not just in the schools. It's everywhere we go. Women of all ages are body-shamed and blamed for promoting sexual harassment when it's men who are slaves to rape culture." She snorted and shook her finger in reprimand. "The girls in this school are between the ages of thirteen and eighteen. If we're being sexualized, that's on the men who are doing it, and you know who you are."
Felicia grasped the sides of her jacket and quickly removed it, as did the others, showing that what, at first, appeared to be plain white t-shirts, weren't.
Budapest, Hungary
Köztér Kávézó
Swinging one leg over the chair back, showing off just a little for the pretty girl to whom Clint was giving their order, Sam dropped lightly into the seat and took off his sunglasses. Clint slid into the chair across from him, leaving two empty chairs. Both graced the server with a smile, though Clint's was somewhat distracted, his attention mostly on the redhead speaking with a man sweeping in front of a shoe store. The man waved her away, turned his back, and returned to his sweeping.
Natasha joined them just as the server arrived with their order, three bottles of beer, and a tray of snacks: little pizzas with ham, cheese, and garlic, something that resembled fried mozzarella sticks with tartar sauce, crepes with a variety of fillings, and the usual fresh vegetables. From the tone of the girl's voice, Sam gathered that Clint's request was beyond the norm for the locals. A second wooden tray had a loaf of bread, cheeses, salami, and a sharp knife.
"Any luck?" Clint asked. He chomped a bite of the crepe thing and followed it with a sip of beer.
"None." Pushing the beer away, Natasha caught the server's attention, giving the girl a terse order before turning back. She picked up one of the pizzas, looking it over as if it were an uninteresting lab specimen. "Everyone we've talked to about Barnes, they're all lying."
"And you would know," Sam quipped, earning him a sharp glance, meant to annoy, instead of her patented death glare.
The server returned yet again, setting a glass of deep red wine in front of Natasha. "Köszönöm."
Assuming the word meant "thank you", Sam filed it away to, hopefully, use at a later date to maybe get a date now that May had broken up with him.
Natasha sipped the wine, her eyes constantly scanning the crowd. Clint was doing the same, but with more discretion.
"I know he was here and the people we questioned had seen and/or spoke to Bucky, but no one will admit it. And the ones that would talk, wouldn't provide any usable info."
Sam swallowed, wiped his mouth, and leaned back in his chair. "So now what? We just head on back to the compound after wasting time and energy looking for a ghost?" That earned him an even harder glare, this time from both companions. "How do we know he was even here? Couldn't Friday have been mistaken?"
His phone vibrated. He tapped the answer icon and put it on speaker. "I assure you, Mr. Wilson, my data is verifiable. Sergeant Barnes is, or was, in Budapest. It's possible he's moved on in the interim, though I doubt it. I, myself, observed him entering an apartment in the seedier part of town. I even have footage of him foiling several robberies, carjackings, and rescuing cats stuck in trees." All three phones pinged. "This address is central to the area in which each of the aforementioned incidents occurred."
The three of them stood at the same time. Clint tossed several bills on the table and drained the last of his beer. Natasha did the same with the wine. However, Sam was still hungry, so he grabbed as much of the portable food as he could, wrapped it in a cloth napkin, dropped another bill on the table with the rest, and caught up to his friends.
Clint and Natasha had a short, intense argument over who would drive, with Natasha winning. She gunned the engine and burned rubber down the street before Sam could even get his seatbelt on.
Watching the scenery was like seeing the slow decay of civilization. Well maintained buildings gave way to older edifices, which gave way to what could only be described as Skid Row-type buildings. A few even had signs posted that Sam assumed meant they'd been condemned.
Groups of people shuffled down the sidewalks, their feet automatically stepping over holes, cracks, and tufts of grass growing through the cement that would trip the unwary, indicating what Sam knew at a glance: the city didn't care what happened to the poor and downtrodden here like everywhere else, and it made him sad and angry at the same time, reminding him of home and his childhood. That's one of the reasons he'd accepted Steve's offer to join the Avengers.
The car came to a stop and the engine cut out.
"Where do we start?" Sam asked when neither of his companions moved a muscle.
Then, Natasha gripped Clint's arm and pointed. They all held their breath when a man with long dark hair stepped out of the shadows, a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. He cast a glance up and down the street before taking the stairs down to a basement apartment in one bound.
TBC
Romanian:
Tu esti faci din tantar, armasar = You are turning a mosquito into a stallion. Do you have a friend that keeps exaggerating everything? Well, it means that they're trying to turn a mosquito into a stallion. Seems impossible, but the Romanians are experts at doing so.
Hungarian:
Köztér Kávézó = Plaza Cafe
Köszönöm = Thank you
The food:
Lángos = a piece of dough pulled into a small pizza shape and served with your choice of toppings: cheese, ham, and garlic sauce
Rántott sajt = batter-fried cheese with tartar sauce
Alacsinta = a paper-thin crepe stuffed with a multitude of offerings for either a sweet or a savory light bite