Chapter 3

The panic attacks had taken me by surprise.

The first had occurred less than a week after the Triskelion battle, as my memories began to return more freely without the restraint of regular wipes. I had learned to avoid lying on my back that week, because apparently my mind didn't care that I was alone and definitely not strapped down to an operating table. The fear had been just as real.

I'd discovered more triggers over the next couple of months, but the attacks had become less frequent as I learned to avoid stirring up certain thoughts and feelings. I had started to believe I might be more or less in the clear.

Until this morning.

It was the bathroom mirror, of all things, that had triggered the attack. One moment I had been standing half-dressed in front of the basin, drying my hair after my shower. The next I had looked up at my blurry reflection in the fogged-up glass.

And then suddenly the glass panel was shrouded in ice instead of warm steam, and I was in a small metal chamber instead of the bathroom, staring at my reflection as the agonizing cold stole away my ability to move or think.

The next thing I became aware of was finding myself on the bathroom floor, sitting with my knees drawn up to my chest in the corner furthest from the mirror. Blind panic clawed at me, stealing my breath, even as I tried to tell myself that it wasn't real, that I was safe in Avengers Tower and not back in HYDRA's clutches.

As the fear slowly crept away, anger replaced it – anger at myself for being scared of even my own reflection, and at HYDRA for making me that way.

A glint of red drew my gaze to the star on my metal shoulder and disgust rose like bile in my throat. I reached over and raked my human fingernails over the brand that told the world I belonged to the enemy, trying to scratch away the paint.

It wouldn't come off that easily though, so I pushed myself up off the floor with arms that still shook slightly and walked out of the bathroom into my adjacent bedroom without a glance at the mirror.

My room was nice – large and modern, with a soft king-sized bed, a set of leather sofas facing each other across a glass coffee table in one corner, and shelves along one wall to hold whatever books or trinkets I might have. They were almost empty except for a couple of nonfiction books and Steve's diary.

Steve.

It had been two days since I talked with him in the park, since I'd read his letter and made the decision to move on with purpose. I hadn't told anyone else about the meeting – not that there was anyone here to tell at the moment. The others were either living in their own homes, away for work, or off-world. That left me alone in the tower, but I didn't mind the silence. It was better than the sideways looks I got walking down the street.

People recognized me from the news coverage of Thanos' attack and last year's SHIELD collapse. I might have fought to protect their planet, but they weren't about to trust me on the same footpath as their toddlers. There was a long list of crimes attached to my name, after all, including the death of a U.S. president. They weren't about to forget it.

And neither was the government.

After the battle against Thanos, I had been reviewed by government officials. They'd sent me to a bunch of doctors who said I needed counseling. The government agreed and made it mandatory, requesting full reports on my therapeutic progress, and warned that any lack of cooperation on my part would lead to arrest.

I'd been going to counseling sessions for the last two weeks. My psychologist was pretty decent, and together we'd started making progress towards untangling some of the stuff in my mind – going over what triggered my PTSD, talking about some of my experiences and memories, and stuff like that. But it was pretty obvious to both of us that while I might not have been a total basket case, seventy years' worth of torture, death, and mind control was not gonna be a simple fix.

And she only knew what the HYDRA files and doctors' notes told her. My biggest problem was not something I could admit to without being locked up.

Because when HYDRA took control of my mind, they didn't erase my memories. They simply locked them away in the back of my mind where I wouldn't be able to reach them under normal circumstances. Then they filled my head with a new set of values and beliefs, changed my allegiance, and taught me everything I needed to be their top assassin.

Coming back into contact with Steve during the Triskelion mess had made some of those old memories resurface. My past life started coming back to me a little at a time, enough to override HYDRA's brainwashing. Then Thor's brother Loki used the Mind Stone to return my memories to me in full.

But everything HYDRA had put in me was still there. I couldn't get rid of it. It was like having two of me inside my head, and I had no way to separate them. Every now and then I felt the pull of that other part of my personality – the Winter Soldier trying to take control once more.

It had happened just yesterday. I was walking down the street on the way back from my morning run and a middle-aged man going the other way had pulled his phone from his pocket as he passed me. I had nearly attacked him, thinking it was a gun. Only a sudden snap back into reality had stopped me from killing an innocent man.

I stayed in the tower after that, shaken by my lack of control over my own mind. The Winter Soldier was too close to the surface. I felt his presence every time I forgot that I needed to eat or woke up mumbling Russian during the night. If my therapist or the government found out how unstable I really was, they'd throw me in a psychiatric prison – or worse.

I tried to push those thoughts aside as I moved to my walk-in wardrobe and grabbed a T-shirt from one of the shelves. I pulled it on as I moved back into my room, gazing out the floor-to-ceiling window in the eastern wall. The sun was just starting to rise and the view over the city from this high up was spectacular.

Once dressed, I left my room and treaded through the silent hallways of the tower's living suite level to the stairs. The tile floors were cold against my bare feet. I always took the stairs here. It was usually faster than waiting for the elevator to arrive.

I reached the lab level and entered Stark's haunt. The lights turned on automatically, reminding me that JARVIS was still here even if no one else was.

"Good morning, James," he said in his formal British accent. "Can I help you with anything?"

"I'm good." It felt weird talking to a computer, and somehow using JARVIS to make the simplest parts of life easier seemed wrong. Back in the 40's, you found stuff in a workshop without the help of an A.I. I moved to the shelves against the far wall and began searching them for a solvent that would remove paint.

"Would you like me to play your phone messages from last night?" JARVIS inquired.

"Okay." I hadn't been aware of any messages coming in, but I'd also been trying to make up for too many late nights as I grieved. Forcing myself to sleep when I knew I'd end up having nightmares was a challenge. I'd resolved to move on from Steve's death, but I couldn't forget it – or anything else that I'd been through.

JARVIS responded to my assent by projecting a holographic screen from one of the workbenches. It displayed the time and date of the voicemail messages as well as several other superfluous details, including a graph that moved with the changing volume of the caller's voice.

I leant against the wall and fiddled with a small piece of circuitry that had been left lying around while JARVIS played the first message. It was from Pepper, explaining that her and Stark's flight back to NYC had been delayed, and then apologizing for calling at such a late hour.

The second and last message was from my therapist, reminding me that we had another meeting on Friday.

"Shall I play the message from the Tower's secure line now?" JARVIS asked as my therapist's call ended.

I frowned. I hadn't known the Tower had a secure line – not that it didn't make sense. "Go ahead."

When the recording started, I recognized the voice instantly as being Natasha's. It was fast and low. "Hey, if anyone's at the Tower, it's me, Natasha. I'm in Miami and I'm pretty sure someone is trying to kill me. I–" She broke off abruptly and I heard the sound of a muffled voice calling out.

Natasha swore in Russian. "Track my phone," she said, and the message ended.

I stood still, the sound of Natasha's voice ringing in my ears. The time of the call was 2:38am, about five hours ago. Anything could have happened in that time. My mind raced. Who was after Natasha, and what was she doing in Florida? Why was someone after her?

I looked at the holograph screen. "Give me the phone's current location."

"Of course, sir."

The screen changed to a map, and a little red dot appeared in southern Florida. I gritted my teeth. Why? Why did this have to happen now, right when I couldn't afford to make any mistakes in front of the government?

But I couldn't do nothing. Not when part of the team – Steve's team – needed help. I was just going to have to take my chances and hope the Winter Soldier kept his head down.

"Download that tracker onto my phone," I told JARVIS. "And put a call through to Clint Barton."