He'd left the river.

The only clear thought in his head was to reach the extraction point, the only other part of the mission he could complete. It was eight miles away so he ran at a light jog, careful to avoid being seen, the pain in his arm a reminder of future punishment. Every few minutes, emergency vehicles raced past and forced him into alcoves and alleys. Behind him he heard the occasional explosion, some large enough to shake the ground. There were no civilians in the street but he could see people watching through windows as he maneuvered down side streets. He ignored the jumbled thoughts in his head and the hot pinch behind his eyes. Orders mixed with words he didn't understand. Familiar words from unfamiliar faces. The man on the bridge.

When he'd finally reached the industrial district he vaulted over a series of fences. Each time he landed, the hard cement jarred his ribs and his breath stuttered. It was a familiar feeling so he held onto the pain and used it to push through to the warehouse, his next objective. The confusion and jumble of thoughts spinning through his head were a distraction so he shunted them to the back of his mind. Ahead he avoided any and all cameras and was careful to watch for wayward employees as he followed the memorized route. His hands itched for a gun, missed the weight of it in his palm but his holsters were empty so instead he slipped out one of the few knives he still had left, ignoring the pain from the broken limb as he stalked towards the large building in the distance.

Sided in corrugated steel and patterned with rust, he picked the lock and slipped inside only to find the place deserted. Windows covered in dirt filtered a dim light inside and piles of scrap wood lined the walls, obscuring sight lines. A rickety staircase in one corner led up to an office but the place was deserted.

He froze in place and scanned the area, hand tight on the knife. The only reason for the extraction point to be abandoned was if it had been compromised. No visual cues stood out and he couldn't hear any sign of human life: breathing, heartbeats, footsteps. Without waiting he turned and left, retracing his steps in the dust on the ground.

His retreat from the district was decidedly slower as he paused every few minutes to take cover and ensure he wasn't being followed. With no backup, minimal equipment and no extraction vehicle, he was vulnerable. The pinch behind his eyes grew sharper the closer he got to the road as did the sound of sirens.

The last fence snagged on his tactical uniform as he jumped down. He yanked at the chain link and it ripped up the sleeve. For a moment he stared at the hole in the leather and fought the involuntarily flinch that wanted to snap out of him. His handler would be angry at the damage but more so if he reacted.

Up the street he could see a number of men and cars setting up a roadblock. He slipped behind a parked vehicle and watched. Most spoke amongst themselves. They were neither alert nor observant, only looking down the road when they heard an explosion. Instead of trying to push past them he snuck further down the block and ducked into the nearest alley.

He jumped up to grab the nearest fire escape. It rattled as he climbed the 12 stories to the roof. Eager to dry off he sat down in the sun against the leg of a water tower. Every breath pulled at his ribs. His arm was no better. Held tight to his torso he could only hope it would heal as there were no doctors here to fix him. All he had was time and sunshine.

With a view of the warehouse below he rested and watched for anyone approaching the building. Hours passed and by the time his uniform was dry there had been no movement. So he assessed the rest of his surroundings. The plume of black smoke that marked the Triskelion was miles high now and covered half the sky. Throughout the day a dozen helicopters headed in that direction and sirens were constant.

As the sun set he watched the streetlights flicker on one by one. Thankfully he was able to see well in the dark but there was still no one coming or going from the warehouse. Protocol for a compromised mission was to wait at a safe house for future orders. The rule fizzed in his head like a lit fuse. But there was no safe house and he had no radio to receive orders, nor did he have any way of contacting HYDRA. So he sat and waited. And waited. And. He waited. When the sun rose the next morning he was still waiting.

In the chill of dawn he found his arm and ribs stiff. Full range of motion hadn't returned yet and he could tell he'd require maintenance. His ribs itched and his chest ached when he took a full breath and the pinch behind his eyes had grown overnight as he looked from the warehouse to the road and back again. Despite his vantage point there was too much air surveillance to wait and watch for HYDRA to retrieve him. He shouldn't stay in one place for too long either.

So instead he waited for the cover of night before he left and snuck down an alley. As he moved away from the warehouse the orders from his Handler echoed in his head, a loud voice always angry and demanding. When he returned to HYDRA there would either be punishment for failing the mission or punishment for disobeying orders regarding extraction from the warehouse. Either way it came to the same result. Pain, in the form of water, fire, fists or batons decided on by his Handler. His hand shook at the thought. He clenched his teeth at the tremor. If he ignored the malfunction he could pretend it didn't happen. Then he wouldn't be lying to his Handler when reporting back. His Handler didn't permit lying.

He tried to plot out his location from street names and addresses from among the shadows. The map in his head only encompassed the area around the Triskelion and as he moved outside the boundaries of his mission he occasionally felt a flash of pain slice through him, his head full of threats. His vision blurred occasionally. When that happened he ducked into alleys, his back to the wall. Mapping the area from scratch was slow work as he paused to push against the rules burned into his brain and find another secure location to spend the day.

The second night was spent on a fire escape with a different vantage of the warehouse, farther away but within sight. There was still no sign of movement but here he wasn't exposed on a roof. Still unsure of how to complete his mission and moving away from the map in his head, he was increasingly unsure of where he was. But it wasn't his only concern. He could tell that he'd require sustenance soon. And water. Another day passed and he was forced to watch the road, analyzing each vehicle for signs of the extraction team. The smoke had all but disappeared from the sky and while there were still emergency vehicles in the area, regular traffic was now permitted past the check point he'd noted previously. The officers stationed there had developed into an annoyance. Every night he heard them loudly complaining about the cold.

On the third night as he moved towards another vantage point, a high-pitched ringing started in his ear. It was quickly accompanied by an increase in the pinch behind his eyes. His vision blurred a moment and in his mind's eye he saw a flash of the man on the bridge. His image fuzzed once and he was wearing blue, then again and he was in green. Confused and alarmed he moved to regain his equilibrium but he found himself confronted by a man in tactical gear. Close behind, rounding a corner were three more men. All looked equally startled but the lead man raised his gun.

"Stop!"

Mission parameters were clear, no witnesses. But he'd failed his last mission and had no standing orders. Hand on the knife, he faltered. Unsure of himself for a moment he simply stood and waited. The other men had no such problems and took cover.

"Drop the weapon and get down on the ground!"

With impaired vision and his head half full of strange images, he chose to retreat. He would likely incur more damage in a fight and lose the knife in using it as a projectile to kill one of the men. The risk unworthy of the reward he turned, ducked into a nearby alley and jumped up to the nearest fire escape. The men followed close behind and popped off a succession of shots. One ripped through his side, like a slice of fire. Another clipped the side of his head. He stumbled but kept moving up, hand tight to the knife, teeth clenched.

As he mounted the roof he looked for the nearest egress. The next closest building was 10 feet away. The wound in his side pulled with every step so he put the pain aside and ran towards the edge of the roof. The jud of the landing pulled a heavy grunt from his throat but he was already off and jumping to the next roof to put distance between himself the gunmen.

Minutes later, when he couldn't hear his pursuers behind him anymore, he descended back to the ground into a parking lot behind a building and nearly sank to his knees when he landed. His whole side was like molten metal. And the visions. They flashed through his head unbidden and each felt like a nail to the skull.

He stumbled, aware of how vulnerable he was and moved towards a dark corner of the parking lot, unable to see any further. His disorientation forced him to sit and try to quiet the heartbeat in his brain. A fence to his back gave him a sense of protection, no matter how false. Through the night he waited for them to find him, knife at the ready. If he'd been able to think clearly he would have run through the disarming techniques he knew. But instead he was stuck with pain and confusion.

At one point he drifted off, unable to keep his eyes open any longer. It was only for a moment but as his head snapped up from his chest he expected to feel the weight of a baton against his ribs and the voice of his Handler at his ear, demanding perfection and obedience. The lack of this was… concerning? Confusing? He was unsure. The routine was familiar. He understood routine, could follow it and learn from it. His current situation was...an unknown. As the hours passed he watched the moon fade and the night end, leaving him with questions and no answers. By the sun it had been four days. The mission, failed. The target, alive. His mind...

The sounds of the city made his head ache and on ground level everything smelled of gasoline and garbage. Every time he heard a siren he tensed and aggravated his side. Without the necessary materials he was unable to repair the wound so he simply left it to heal on its own. As for the graze on the head, a touch felt like lightning and it started to bleed again. He listened to the comings and goings of civilians with their cars and their loud talking. Few approached where he was and none discovered him.

At some point it began to drizzle, then rain, then pour. He tipped back to the sky and tried to drink what rain he could as thirst had turned mouth and throat to sandpaper and needles. The attempt left him dizzy and nauseous.

He lost more time and woke in the dark. It was still raining but the moon was lost behind clouds. A distant streetlamp was a hazy halo in the dark. He was cold and numb, likely a combination of the night and rain. But he didn't mind. The pain in his side was gone and therefore one less thing to worry about. When his head stopped aching he'd leave and move to another location. But as it was he still heard a distant ringing and wasn't sure how mobile he would be until his side healed.

At some point he heard a door screech open and the lot was illuminated. Someone walked towards him, slow and sloppy. They stopped only feet away and pulled open the dumpster lid. He adjusted his grip on the knife, ready in case of attack. There was a sneeze and a heavy bang that rattled around in his brain. He heard a voice and then they were in front of him, blocking the light.

They stood for a moment watching and so he waited and watched in return. He could see when they made to leave, even in this dim light. The shift of their weight, the twist of their torso, the turn of their head, the micro-movements all at the birth of decision. He couldn't afford to be found so in one fluid motion he stood and grabbed their arm. For a moment his vision blurred and so did his mind.

He looked down at her, felt her tremble under his hand, saw her eyes widen, heard her heart speed up. Was she a target? A mark to protect? His new Handler? He blinked, unsure of his orders.

No witnesses.

Protect the mark.

Obey your Handler.

Before he could sort through the miasma in his mind a siren pierced the air. It snapped him into motion and before he knew it he was inside the building, moving to a secure location. It was a blur, all muscle memory and protocol, repetition and recurrence. When he was sure it was safe he would more fully assess the situation and his injuries.

The bathroom was his best option. No windows, one door, usually interior walls. Once on the floor against the exit, he tried to catch his breath. He was tired and reeked of blood and his head hurt so badly he thought it would crack open like an egg. When he looked up to the woman seated on the bathtub he couldn't place her. Was she one of the doctors? He tried to remain still at the thought that she was here for research or experimentation. But he couldn't help the question that fell out of his mouth.

"Who are you?"