The Russians were the best the Winter Soldier could do. His handlers had warned him: they wanted this mission to stay as low brow and quiet as possible. No loud scenes, no one held at gunpoint (unless necessary), no taking over any vehicle—land, sea, or air—that would attract the attention of any authorities. "This one is too important," he had been told. He still didn't see what was so important about this weak, cowering girl, but he wasn't one to question orders so he complied.

The good thing about Russians were that they were so easy to mold. They didn't have any political or religious agenda as the rogue Irish. They didn't have any superiority/god complex the way the Americans did. They were motivated by whoever had the most money or power—or both. The Winter Soldier didn't have money but he quite clearly represented those who did and power was something he was not short on. At all. So he had made the necessary arrangements for this boat full of illegal Russian thugs to take him and the girl to Cuba. From there, a plane waited to take them to their final destination.

The problem wouldn't be leaving the U.S. The government only cared about who was entering the U.S., not so much who was leaving (unless they were fleeing fugitives—but even then, it was much easier to go to Cuba than it was to come to Florida). The problem was the Russians. Even though they were effectively equal parts cowed and impressed by the obvious danger he represented—they could hear it in every word of quiet, cold Russian he spoke to them—they were also fickle humans. Ones who could be swayed by others. No one was more powerful than Hydra in its totality but the Winter Soldier knew that if someone else—someone blatantly wealthy and flagrant in waving about money and weapons—had approached them in between his last talk with them and now…they could easily sell him out.

And even if they didn't do anything that drastic…they were still men, depraved and weak inside. The Winter Soldier obviously didn't care about the welfare of the girl—but she did need to be delivered safe and sound. He was the only one allowed to use violence against her. And this boat was full of violent, immoral men who had probably been away at sea and away from women for far too long. He would need to keep the girl safe from them, lest one decide he wanted to have his way with her.

Not that he couldn't easily kill every single man on this boat, of course. But he would rather have avoided that. Guns would be drawn and she might be killed in the crossfire. Either that or he would have to then sail them to Cuba himself. Which he could do…but he didn't want to. It was much easier to sit still and let someone else do the work while he carefully watched their every move. He could stay more easily in control that way. Given that the girl had now tried three wild escape attempts, he wouldn't have put it past her to throw herself overboard or something like that. He needed to keep a close eye on her.

It was astonishing, really. She kept trying to escape but she seemed to lose more heart with each attempt. He hoped she had worn herself out by now to the point of not trying anymore. It was getting wildly irritating going after her and she was truly testing his patience. She was lucky that he was blessed with the ability to control himself for extremely long periods of time—after all, he'd had to spend hours sitting frozen before, sniper rifle ready in steady hand—because had he been a lesser man, he would have murdered her by now. '

So after speaking with the leader of the crew in a low, measured voice, and making it clear that he and the girl would stay below decks alone and would not be disturbed (the "or else" was hugely obvious to every man on board), he grabbed the girl's upper arm tightly, his whole hand encircling it, and yanked her roughly down the teeny, tiny stairs to below decks, not caring that she almost fell down the last two steps. He stepped back up the stairs and slammed the trapdoor in the ceiling shut, blocking the top deck completely. He didn't lock it; there was no need when he was around.


He pulled Sophie down the stairs so roughly that she slipped on the last two, twisting and almost landing on her butt. He pushed her away from him roughly. She collapsed on a tiny bed—one fit for a child more than an adult—and watched as he closed the hatch that led to below deck. Then he stumped back down the stairs and stood there for a moment, looking around. The only place to sit was beside Sophie on the tiny bed. She wished she could see his face, see his expression. Was he cursing the lack of available seating? Or did he not really care?

Finally he went and sat down on the floor, leaning against the opposite wall. The space was so small that he was only about five feet away from her. Sophie, gratefully that he hadn't decided to sit on the bed next to her (she didn't know what she would do if he came that close to her but it probably wouldn't be very pleasant), pulled her feet up on the bed. She drew up her knees against her chest and wrapped her arms around them, burying her face into her knees. The ship was gently rocking to and fro and she felt the beginnings of motion sickness rising in her gut. She hoped there was a bucket to vomit in somewhere because things could get pretty ugly later on.

The only light came from one tiny circular window set into the wall behind him and a dim, flickering bulb on the ceiling. Otherwise the place smelled moldy and grimy, stale with dust and sea water and a greasy, fishy smell that turned her stomach. The walls were a faded white, the mattress a dinghy yellow color. A blue anchor was painted onto one wall but it was faded and peeling. The whole boat had the air of a once-handsome vessel gone to seed. She wondered who it had been stolen from.

She wanted desperately to lay down but she didn't want to touch any more of the mattress than she had to, so she stayed upright. As it turned out, this was a mistake. Once the boat got moving, the rocking got worse. They were going at a relatively slow, steady pace to avoid attracting any attention—sliding silently through the sea, lights totally dark now except for the one below deck—but the thing was, the slower they went the more the rocking of the ocean was noticeable. And it was a calm, steady night but even that was too much for Sophie, who had never been too steady on her feet on even land.

She tried taking deep breaths to quell her nausea but the pressure kept building behind her eyes and in her stomach until she knew she was going to throw up. "I'm going to puke," she gasped, a sheen of sweat on her face from the nausea and heat inside the room. She slid forward off the bed just as the boat rocked towards the Winter Soldier's side. She fell off the bed and hit the floor, getting up and looking for a bucket or pail of some sort—

Too late. She bent over, gagging. She wanted so badly to throw up and feel that relief that came after expelling the vomit—but she had nothing in her stomach. She hadn't had a chance to eat any of the new food he'd gotten from…wherever the hell he'd gotten it from. She looked desperately up at him, wiping spit from her mouth, eyes streaming—but he only stared impassively in her direction.

Her heart seemed to fail. Just when she thought he couldn't get any crueler—or emptier on the inside—he surprised her and did. He was just sitting there and watching her get sick. He didn't even have the decency to find her something to throw up in. Her anger at him made her cry even harder (she'd always been an angry crier, to her intense embarrassment). She retched a few more times and then collapsed on the ground, taking deep breaths and trying to calm her stomach down. The ground felt sticky but it also felt cool against her hot and sweaty cheek. She closed her eyes and tried to turn the rocking sensation of the boat into something comforting. Think of it as a lullaby, she told herself, taking deep breaths. It's gentle. It's nice. She didn't feel convinced at all but laying on the floor made her feel more…solid, somehow, and her stomach felt more steady. So yeah, she was definitely staying on the floor.

She fell into an uneasy sleep, done out by hunger and pure exhaustion.


She lay on the ground for a little while and he watched her. It seemed she had fallen into a restless sleep, her face drawn, expression almost frowning. He waited a while and then picked her up and put her on the bed. This wasn't out of concern for her; he was just worried that the rocking would make something fall off one of the shelves around them and clobber her in the head. The last thing he needed was her skull cracked open now.

She felt too light in his arms, he noted as he put her on the bed. Of course she was light—she looked like she weighed nothing, perhaps 110 pounds max—but she felt…bony. Her clavicle looked more prominent and her skin looked stretched tight over her skin. He suddenly felt a frisson of irritation crackle through him. He had been careless—he hadn't fed her enough. He would be punished—and appropriately—if he delivered her like this. He didn't know what Hydra wanted with her but she would be no use to them malnourished. It would affect her physically and mentally.

He clambered up the stairs, yanking the trapdoor back, to go in search of some food for her to eat. There had to be something on this godforsaken vessel that he could eat. He closed the door after him and the men sitting or standing around gave him furtive, suspicious, almost fearful looks. He understood and accepted it. It was only common sense. Standing there with his cybernetic arm and face mask and combat gear…he struck an imposing figure. They would have been total idiots not to see the danger that radiated off of him.

"Where is the Captain?" he asked in Russian.

"Top," one of them replied almost resentfully, pointing to the small cabin with glass windows lofted above the stern of the boat. The Winter Soldier launched up the stairs and entered the tiny space, slamming the door open with so much force that the glass shuddered. He didn't look behind him, knowing full well that the men were too intimidated by him to do anything.

However, even the smartest and most lethal of men could make mistakes. And humans could be so very stupid. A dark figure silently opened the trapdoor and slipped down the stairs, unbeknownst to the Winter Soldier.


Sophie woke to a heavy hand pressing down on her mouth. Her eyes flew open in alarm and at first all she saw was the dark, muscular silhouette leaning over her, pressing her down into the mattress, covering her mouth so she couldn't scream. He clambered onto her, straddling her. She thought it was the Winter Soldier and faintly thought, So he is going to do this, right before he forced her legs apart and her mind positively exploded with panic.

"NO!" she screamed but nothing came out because his hand was covering her mouth so tightly. She could barely breathe because of it. Her head spun and she was aware of a dirty, fishy, body odor smell wafting off of him—and the fact that both of his hairy arms were human flesh.

It wasn't the Winter Soldier.

In that moment, Sophie wanted nothing more than the Winter Soldier to appear. He constantly showed up when she wanted him gone and yet the one goddamn time she needed him, he had to disappear?!

The man was hissing, "Shut up—shut up or I'll kill you, cut your pretty little face—" in broken, heavily accented English, while trying to yank on the waistband of her bands. He was strong but not Winter Soldier strong. She could hurt him. I can do this. She steeled herself and then smashed her knee upward as hard as she could. She missed his groin—NO! Dammit!—but still hit his inner thigh and he let out a swear and groan. His hand slipped a little and she screamed as loudly as she could before he quickly covered it again. She tried to bite his fingers but she could barely open her mouth. She'd hurt him but not enough to force him off, because he was clawing at her shirt now while pressing her down so hard she was afraid he was going to suffocate her by accident (or perhaps on purpose).


The Winter Soldier heard her scream and knew instantly that he'd miscalculated. He'd overestimated these idiots. Clearly they weren't afraid of him enough to listen to his commands. Well—now they would be. He launched himself out the door, skipping the steps completely and landing on the deck so hard his heels made half-inch crushed dents in the floor. He did this on purpose, for impact, and knew it had worked when every man on deck froze and watched him. Weapons were immediately drawn but he didn't notice or give a damn. He had already thrown himself down the stairs to below deck.


One minute the disgusting man was there, on top of her, close to ripping her clothes off—and the next he was flying, hitting the wall so hard Sophie swore the entire boat shuddered. She lay there in a daze for a moment, the silhouette of the Winter Soldier standing over her as he assessed in a nanosecond that she hadn't been harmed—and then he swung around and smashed his fist into the man's face, who had lunged at him. The man slammed back into the wall again and then the Winter Soldier grabbed him by the neck and dragged him up the stairs. He stopped and looked back at Sophie and she cringed back into the wall. He looked terrifying, standing there and holding this man, mask on, his metal hand clenched around the man's throat. The man who was currently turning purple and spluttering and choking.

Sophie didn't care.

"You," he told her. "Come upstairs. Now." And then he was gone, dragging the man after him.

Sophie didn't want to go at all. She wanted to burrow herself into the mattress and hide for forever. But she was afraid of what he would do if she didn't come so she went up the stairs, wincing with every step. She emerged to find the Winter Soldier standing in the middle of the deck, holding the man almost casually. Every man on board had a gun pointed at him but the Winter Soldier didn't seem to notice or care. Sophie thought that was pretty ominous.

He said something slowly in a foreign language and then he spoke in English. Sophie suspected it was for her benefit. "I told you," he said slowly and carefully, "to stay away from me and the girl."

"This one didn't listen," he went on. His voice was quiet but deadly. Slow. Careful. "Let me show you what happens when you don't comply." He moved so suddenly that no one could even blink, suddenly snapping the man's neck with a sickening snap, almost twisting it all the way around. Sophie let out a shriek and some of the men swore. Some let out startled cries. And some just looked shocked but grim, as if they had expected this.

"I can take out every single one of you," he promised and Sophie could tell he meant it. "But I don't have to. This was his mistake—and his punishment. Put down your guns and stay away from the girl and everything will be fine."

There was a long, drawn out silence. It was clear that the men were angry and afraid, and some of them wanted revenge for their fallen comrade—but it was also clear that the Winter Soldier was deadly, ruthless, and meant every word of what he said. So one by one, guns were slowly lowered and the Winter Soldier nodded once. Then he kicked the man's broken body aside and pulled Sophie back below deck.

This time he locked the trapdoor shut.

The silence this time was a hundred times more awkward. It seemed to swell between them. Maybe he didn't feel it, since he never spoke anyway, but Sophie certainly did. He was horrible—he had kidnapped her, attacked her, and murdered whoever got in his way—but he had also just saved her. She wasn't naïve enough to think he did it because he cared about her. She knew he'd done it to preserve her for whatever it was he needed with her.

But still…he'd saved her. And Sophie was a polite person. Politeness was ingrained in her as much as avoiding people was.

"Thank you," she said, slowly lowering herself onto the bed. He had settled himself onto the floor again and slowly raised his head to stare at her through the mask and goggles. "For…saving me," she said.

He didn't respond but Sophie allowed herself to hope that perhaps something had changed. She got off the bed and walked towards him slowly, warily, waiting for him to make a move or punch her. He didn't. He just watched her approach. She knelt by him, her heart pounding and mind screaming, WHAT ARE YOU DOING? THIS IS INSANE! She slowly reached out towards his face—if she could just pull his mask off and see what he looked like—perhaps reason with him as a human, face-to-face, with eye contact—

"Stop." He grabbed her wrist in an iron grip before she could touch his mask. She let out a tiny squeak of pain and his grip tightened until it felt like her delicate wrist bones might snap. "This doesn't change anything. Shut up and stay in your place." And then he shoved her away from him.

Her face burned with a million things all at once: anger, humiliation, the sting of rejection (rejection was never pretty, even if it came from a murderous psycho). She swallowed once and her mouth tightened into a flat line. You were an idiot, Sophie.

She walked back to the bed and pulled herself onto it.

He can't be reasoned with.

She curled up into a ball and faced the wall, turning her back on him.

He's a monster.