Steve's knuckles ached, cracked and bleeding under the protective leather of his gloves. The muscles of his shoulders and legs screamed for rest. An endless stream of metal faces that laughed with one voice mocked their efforts and demanded blood. A body with too many bullets and not enough breath in its chest lay on the floor of the carrier's transport.
The massive structure composed of endless toils of impoverished people and the technological dreams of all the worst parts of man trembled in the sky as engines shuddered to a halt and it slowly yielded to gravity. Beyond his reach, beyond his control, beyond saving, the city would fall.
Falling.
A hole in the sky that tore through all expectations of dimension and reality, pouring out nightmares and swallowing friends. Aching and exhausted, pushed to the edge of survival and finding no more rope left to give, Steve could only watch as another moved to make the ultimate sacrifice. "Tony!" Steve yelled through the radio, hearing only devastating silence as he stared at a distant figure plummeting to the ground. Too far, too fast, too lifeless, he could feel the sick horror rising in his throat.
Falling.
"Bucky!" Steve reached until the tendons of his shoulder screamed at their limits, "Take my hand!" Fingers brushed his cold steel gave way and he caught only the barest glimpse of fear mixed with hurt as he just missed saving his friend. Too late, too slow, too weak to make a difference he could only squeeze his eyes shut and screw up the already weeping place in his heart as his friend vanished into the icy grip of death.
Falling.
Falling inside himself, into himself, muscle shrinking away as his identity atrophied from misuse or abuse. Someone was pasting up papier-mache limbs on the outside of him to build him up again, painting a patriotic smile on his face and nailing a shield to his arm. Music built up around him and drowned out the cries and protests, muffling and muzzling him. He tried to move the arms but they moved in different ways, following commands he couldn't hear and just dragging him along for the ride.
It is impossible to imagine-
Steve snapped awake violently as he fell out of bed, catching himself before his face hit the floor but not before the sheets wrapped around his legs and prevented a more graceful landing. Sweaty palms slipped against the smooth floor but a quick grip of an area rug made for easy recovery.
Breathing heavily, Steve lowered himself slowly to the floor and rolled onto his back. He rubbed his palms across his face as he kicked off the sheets wrapped around his legs, wiping away sweat that stank of fear.
He sat up and rubbed at his eyes. "Lights on."
Friday brought the lights up slowly as Steve surveyed the damage to his bed. The too-fluffy bed had been nearly destroyed in the night; covers and pillows strewn throughout the room and a heavy scent of his nightmare clung to the air.
Ready to be rid of the reminder in the air, Steve pulled himself together and rolled to his feet. He pulled the sheets off the bed and stripped the pillows, collecting the linens into a neat pile before placing them in the linen chute in the corner. He knew the building's automated system would whisk them away and have them returned, freshly laundered, by the afternoon.
Steve pulled the spare sheets from a cabinet and went about making his bed, tucking the top sheet into tight pleats at the corners with a top surface flat enough to bounce a dime. Fluffing the pillows a little in their new cases, his bed made a pretty picture as he finished; no evidence at all of endless nights without restful sleep.
A hot shower that he regretfully switched to lukewarm halfway through helped clear the last of his senses. Alice had offered to make him an herbal soap that was supposed to soothe and ease his mind, but he honestly preferred the modern soaps that smelled nothing at all like his memories. He needed it to help separate his present from the past that clipped at his heels in the night.
Clean, calm, and completely collected at four-thirty in the morning, Steve knew he wouldn't be going back to sleep anytime soon. He dressed for the day and collected the stack of manila folders from the floor that usually lived at his bedside on his way out the door.
'Coffee, Captain?' the ceiling asked him as he walked, the volume respectfully low for the early hour.
"Yes, please," he replied, trying to organize the stack of papers to make more than haphazard sense. He'd upset the collection at some point in the night, leaving it on the poor side of jumbled as a result.
The bitter smell of coffee welcomed him into the compound kitchen, but it took a little longer than usual for him to find a coffee mug. The previous shift had done some rearranging in the cabinets and nothing was where he usually left it.
Rotating with a collection of on-call Avengers sometimes left the compound feeling more like a public house than a military base, but they had made it work even though there were still kinks in the system. Tension seemed to live in the air - waiting to be called to assist in a transport, or apprehend a newly-discovered enhanced, or accompany a diplomat through compromised territory - they were always just waiting for the next alarm to go off.
The high-pitched keening wail of the "Kovy Alarm", as Sam and Rhodey tended to call it, had absolutely no regard for personal lives or sleep cycles. Summons to attend to the requirements of the Sokovia Accords, whatever shift happened to be available in their 48-hour cycle dropped everything when the government called. How high, Sir?
Waiting for his coffee to reach a drinkable temperature somewhere under third-degree-burn territory, Steve did his best to reassemble the folders' contents. Some folders were more difficult than others depending entirely on the content that was available in the file itself - or rather, how much had been redacted.
LUKAS RUSSO 0-7-3-9 : ACHLUOKINESIS: [REDACTED] participant under the [REDACTED] pursuant to [REDACTED] subsection [REDACTED] paragraphs [REDACTED] through [REDACTED], clause [REDACTED] of the Sokovia Accords. Fled assigned posting at [REDACTED] and apprehended. Recommendation - permanent detention and suspension of constitutional rights on S.A. Vessel 'The Raft'.
Staring at the mostly blacked-out page, Steve sipped at his coffee a bit too soon. He hissed in pain as it scorched the roof of his mouth and set the mug down.
"Friday," Steve addressed, knowing the computer was always listening, "where was Lukas Russo's original posting?"
'That information has been classified.'
"Yeah," he murmured, "I can see that. Can you do some digging?"
'Is this an open or off-books search?'
Steve considered it. "Off-books. Friday?"
'Yes, Captain?'
"How many sections of the Sokovia Accords include subsections with multiple paragraphs?"
The computer was silent as it ran a quick search. 'Three hundred and seventy-one.'
Steve tested his coffee, finding it more temperate. "And how many of those also contain clauses?"
That search was faster. 'Fifty-three.'
"Would you please have those printed for me?"
'Sure,' the computer replied, 'what are you looking for?'
"I'm not sure yet." Steve's reading was interrupted by the violent screech of an alarm.
"Who's on duty?" he barked, losing his grip on the mug as he tried to quickly set it down in the sink. The porcelain shattered and he winced, but there wasn't time to clean it up.
'Wilson, Rhodes, and Romanoff.'
Steve was already jogging down the hall, headed for his suit and shield. "Tell them to gear up and meet me in the hangar bay in five."
Right at five minutes a collection of footfall signaled his small team had arrived at the jet, exchanging a range of tired comments and guesses as to the cause for the alarm.
"Fucking Kovy," Sam swore as he buckled his harness, looking all the world as though he was still fighting off sleep. "I was having good dreams."
"Don't be such a baby," Natasha chided, looking completely normal as she glided into the copilot's seat, checking fuel gages and confirming that the jet was prepared for takeoff.
"There's been a breach on the Raft," Steve briefed.
"What kind?" Rhodey asked.
"They're not sure yet. The Box is showing multiple sensors have gone dark." The Box. The quietest, deepest, darkest part of the Raft where terrifying powers went into solitary confinement.
"Anyone in particular?" Natasha asked as she took over control of the jet to handle takeoff.
Steve released his controls, switching to communications and dialing Washington. "De Léon."
Sam groaned. "The Aztec; great."
Trees zipped past as the heads-up display popped up in front of Steve, showing the interior of Secretary Ross's office before the man himself stepped into view. "We're not receiving anything from the Raft. I'm recommending that we sink it to depth remotely."
"Dropping the Raft will make it somewhat difficult to board and confirm on arrival," Steve tried to insist.
Ross was less than convinced. "All due respect, Captain, but you're not the one in charge of these prisoners."
Steve clenched his jaw to keep back the sharp retort that nearly jumped out of his mouth, settling for a more reasonable but still sharp middle-ground. "But you are asking for our help and I'm telling you that if you drop the Raft there'll be no way to know for sure that there was a breach; it will be unrecoverable."
There was a long, crackling pause in the connection as Ross mulled it over. "Alright, Captain. If this goes sideways it's on you."
Steve nodded. "We'll meet your men at the Raft."
"Negative - meet the helicopter at the midtown landing pad. If there's been a breach we don't need to give him multiple avenues of escape." Ross tapped something on his end and new coordinates popped up in front of Natasha.
"Received," Steve confirmed.
"Don't be late," Ross barked, severing his connection.
The tense silence inside the jet would have been unbearable if not for the roar of the engines accompanying it.
"Is it possible to be late at six in the morning?" Sam asked sharply.
"Sam," Steve started, but the reprimand fell short.
Natasha's mouth twisted into her typical sly smile. "We're ten minutes out."
"Ten, copy," Steve said, turning his head. "Rhodey - this is your first trip to the Raft, right?"
"I studied the schematics, but yeah. Why?"
"I want you to stick with Sam - it's easy to get turned around down there, and I don't want you anywhere near the Box if they do choose to drop it."
Rhodey's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What does that mean; 'drop it'?"
"It means some egghead in D.C. pushes a button or two and the ballast tanks get blown, flooding the Raft and dropping it to the bottom of the ocean," Sam said.
Rhodey was alarmed. "Why is that even an option!?"
Still going about the process of getting ready, Natasha flicked a switch on the jet to switch communications to their portable units. "Radio check, channel two."
"Two, confirmed."
"Two, check."
"Two - this place is still somewhat safe, right?"
Sam clapped him on the shoulder. "Relax, Rhodes; all the prisoners wear suppressor bands, so it's exactly as safe as a regular prison."
Rhodey rolled his eyes. "Oh, that's very comforting, thank you."
"Hope you're alright with getting a little wet," Natasha warned.
"I swear to God, if we have to swim-" Rhodey exclaimed as he unclipped his harness.
Natasha punched the ramp control and her warning became instantly clear as they walked down to the asphalt. Whatever weak rays of early sunshine might be attempting to peek over the horizon were beaten back by angry winds and driving rain.
Steve had to yell over the howling wind to be heard as the Raft Tactical team approached, heads lowered to walk into the freezing sheets of water. "Is your transport here?" he barked, not seeing the helicopter yet.
"Not yet, sir! It's having trouble landing in the storm!"
"Captain! Captain America!" A thin man in a yellow raincoat stumbled across the open asphalt, holding a recorder in front of him and likely getting rain pouring down the inside of his sleeve. "Can you tell me why the Raft has gone 'radio silent' for the last two hours?"
"You can't be back here."
"Actually, Sir, I have special permission from Secretary Ross himself so yeah, I can." The reporter flashed a press badge. "I'm with the Post-Standard. Hunter Jansen."
The chop of helicopter blades thankfully interrupted.
"Mister Jansen, I'm going to need you to step off the landing site so we can get this bird down."
"I'll get you on the way out, shall I?"
The heli-transport was far, far less than comfortable. The howling wind shook and battered the reinforced aircraft, using its bulk against it in stomach-churning fashion. Wet, cold, and on the only slightly better side of miserable, the group kept receiving odd looks from the tactical team.
Steve glanced at Natasha to see if she'd noticed as well. She returned his glance with a sidelong look of her own.
She'd noticed.
Natasha reached above her for one of the integrated headsets built into the transport - the only way to be heard over the combined fury of the engines and the storm outside and shot a friendly smile to a tac-team soldier across the transport. He pointed to himself in a 'who, me?' kind of confusion and Natasha nodded with a soundless laugh.
Poor man had no chance, Steve thought to himself, hiding a grin behind one hand. She'd worked her charms with less time than a thirty-minute chopper ride to work with. Even without being able to hear a word of their conversation, the aura of her charm was palpable. He'd seen it up close, back when SHIELD had fallen, and even then it hadn't been directly intended to charm him but do misdirect the Strike team hunting them down.
As quickly as she'd turned on the charm it switched off as the helicopter slowed, hovering over the slowly opening bay doors of the Raft. Leaning to one side, Steve could see out the small window and see sheets of rain replacing the waves of seawater trying to enter the facility.
The helicopter shuddered as it descended, fighting against gusting winds and powerful rains to make a safe landing on the launch pad. Steve was not the only one to breathe a deep sigh of relief as they finally landed.
Steve nodded to Sam and Rhodey and they disembarked with the rest of the team, giving him and Natasha the briefest of moments to talk before they would be noticed missing.
"What time did the Kovy sound at the compound?" she asked under her breath.
"Just before five."
"That tactical team has been waiting at the midtown launch pad since four." She looked up at him, her lips pursed. "So why did the Secretary wait until five to sound the alarm?"
Tense voices from outside the helicopter cut their discussion short. Steve jumped out of the open transport door, shield at the ready and Natasha right behind him. He'd been ready for a fight. He hadn't been ready for the collection of arguing officers that seemed beyond confused and irritated that they'd landed on the Raft.
"Major Thomas!" Steve barked, interrupting the rising voices.
The Raft's commander looked beyond confused to see him. "Captain Rogers? What are you doing here?"
Steve approached, and both his team and the Raft's guards moved swiftly out of his way. "De Léon's transponder went dark - did he escape the Box?"
The Major spluttered. "Escape the - the Aztec was transferred to gen-pop, sir. Transferred yesterday. He's been a model prisoner. You could have called, Sir, and we'd have told you that."
Steve was quickly developing a headache. "D.C. has been calling you nonstop for the last three hours, son."
"I'm sorry, Sir." Major Thomas gulped nervously, suddenly aware of the relevance of the sudden visit. "I'll have someone check the relays immediately. Can I… can I get you somewhere to sit down? Maybe dry off?"
Steve shook off the rain, regretting not clipping his helmet on before stepping off the helicopter and onto the open landing pad. "Where is De Léon right now?"
"In the dining hall having recreational time with the others." He was certain - no doubt at mixed in with his concern and confusion.
"Show me."
The Major waved down a guard. "Pearson, take the Captain directly to the mess."
The others stayed completely silent as they were led through the maze of halls into the depths of the Raft, bypassing two new checkpoints that Steve didn't remember seeing before.
'Captain, you're receiving a phone call,' Friday reported in his ear.
"I'm kind of busy at the moment," Steve said.
'Caller identification lists it as a favorite contact; Mab.'
Steve stopped short of the dining hall entrance. Water dripped from his shoulders and tumbled through open metal grating into the depths of the Raft. It was raining in New York. "Put her through."
He waved the others on as he stepped to the side of the doorway. Natasha raised an eyebrow and stayed behind as Rhodey and Sam continued inside. "Hello?" he asked as the comms switched over to a connection with his cell phone.
"Steve?" Mab's hesitant voice seemed quietly apologetic.
Head ducked as he tried to keep his conversation relatively private, water rolled off his helmet and tickled his nose in an unpleasant way. "You don't think I could convince the weather to rain tomorrow instead, do you?"
She laughed. "Probably not; but you never know in New York. You're busy, aren't you? I'm sorry, I'm shouldn't have-"
He stopped her short. "No, I told you to. Listen I'm… on assignment right now."
She seemed to understand. "Ah, secret military contractor stuff."
A guard seemed to notice his distraction and moved to intervene, raising a commanding hand. "Captain Rogers, you can't make calls in here-"
In a flash, Natasha had stepped between them, even advancing with enough confidence in her face to make the guard take a step back. "No no," Natasha warned, finger to her lips.
Grateful for the assist but mindful of his mission, Steve tried to wrap up the call quickly. "Mab, are you at the library now? Because I can have someone meet you."
"No; it's early and I'm still at home. But… I just checked and the weather report does say there's a fifty percent chance of rain tomorrow?" In most other circumstances it might be odd to hope for rain.
"I'll be there," Steve said.
"Okay." Piped directly into his ear, was he imagining the clarity with which he could hear a smile in her voice? "I'll see you tomorrow."
"Okay," he could feel the corner of his mouth lift into a weak smile, "Ten?"
Some paper shuffled. "Eleven? I've got a thing downtown at nine."
He nodded even though she couldn't see him. "Eleven it is."
"Okay," she said again. "I'll see you. Bye."
"Bye." Phones didn't click when a call ended now; the line just went dead or a little beeping chime might remind you that you were now just talking to yourself.
Steve lifted his head, finding that Natasha looked like the spider that had caught the canary. "So…?" she asked, nearly purring in satisfaction.
"Don't start," Steve warned, leading her through the open doorway into the dining hall.
"What? I'm just curious," she defended, "I thought you were too busy for dating."
It figured that Rhodes and Sam hadn't gotten far, and managed to pick up on the conversation at exactly the worst time for Steve. "You've got a date? Congrats, man," Rhodey slapped him on the shoulder. "Is it Sharon?"
"I bet it's Sharon," Sam agreed, looking smug about it.
Nat shook her head. "Mm, it's not."
"Bet?" Sam asked.
"Twenty bucks," Nat shook on it before Steve could stop either of them.
"You're both wrong - I'm not dating anyone; just meeting a friend."
Natasha considered this, turning to Sam. "Twenty bucks," she demanded, holding out her hand.
The Raft was an odd place to be detained. It wasn't technically a prison, since they weren't afforded the same rights as a prisoner of the United States, but whatever expectations Ginny might have had about being there had fairly swiftly been thrown out of the window.
Ginny didn't exactly 'make friends' with the other prisoners of the Raft, but she was careful not to make enemies. Her slightly-rounded mom-look had served her well; she benefitted from reminding more than a few people of their own mothers. Sure, there were the usual brawls as people locked involuntarily into tight quarters and given the barest of food that counted as nutritious are always likely to need, but Ginny was always excluded. Nobody had beef with Mom.
In fact, the threat of a fight had seemed particularly bad only the day before during rec time. Ginny had pressed herself into a far corner as the room locked down and warnings from the guards above could barely be heard over the yelling within the dining hall.
Someone new to the general population that Ginny hadn't exchanged a single word with moved between her and the angry, milling crowd; towering far above six feet and reaching for seven, he was a very effective barrier. Back to the crowd and giving her a friendly smile, he had spoken in a low and calming voice.
"What are you reading?" he asked, not bothering to give the brewing conflict any attention.
"The Emperor of All Maladies," she'd answered hesitantly, holding the book out a little further from the tight grip she'd had against her chest.
"Is there a library?"
Ginny could have laughed. "No, but I can put in a word for you if you'd like? Geneva Ellis; Ginny." She held a hand out for a shake without really thinking about it.
"Miguel De Léon." He said his name with a smooth latin roll, and took her hand slowly, carefully. A cup thrown from across the room beaned him on the back of the head. He hardly seemed to notice.
She liked Miguel. She waved him over to her table as she settled in for morning rec and waited for the mess line to open for breakfast. The waters of men parted for him, some moving in a skittering motion to get out of his way. They acted as though Miguel was a man with a bad reputation, though the man himself barely acknowledged it.
"Breakfast is late," he commented in greeting, sitting on the table instead of the bench. The mental image of him trying to fold his big legs under what would be a very low table for him was quite funny, and Ginny smiled.
But her friend was right. The disruption in the ordinarily iron-clad schedule seemed to be putting people on edge. She looked around, taking in shifty looks and twitchy hands all around. All, it seemed, save for Miguel and one always-calm Russian.
Ginny stood, stretched her bad knee, and walked slowly over to the Russian. His two larger companions paid her no mind. To them, at least, she had clearly been classified as harmless. "Good morning, Mr. Volkov." She noticed he kept his gaze fixed up at the guards' catwalk above. "Are you expecting someone?"
"Not necessarily, Mrs. Ellis," Ivan Volkov greeted, also nodding to Miguel who had followed Ginny without a sound. Impressive, for such a large man. Volkov's large companions had clearly not classified Miguel as harmless and took wary steps forward. Volkov waved them off with a benign smile.
The doors opened and two guards entered, followed by two men she didn't recognize. "Holy shit…" she murmured, sitting up straighter on the bench. She did recognize them, but only from the news.
Ivan Volkov's attention drifted to a clock on the wall. He rubbed together the thumb and first two fingers of his left hand but soon twitched his suppressor wrist irritably. "Interesting," he said smoothly with a smile.
"What's interesting?" Ginny asked.
His smile broadened, deepening the crow's feet at the corners of his eyes. "Breakfast is late."
"Right…" Ginny murmured, not quite believing the answer.
"You behave today, Mrs. Ellis. I don't believe our friends will be in a giving mood for a while." He nodded to Miguel and calmly clasped his hands behind his back, meandering off and leaving a very confused Ginny behind.
Miguel sighed. "Geneva, you are a trouble magnet."
Ginny made a weird face. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
"You cannot be a mother to Ivan Volkov; he's at least twice your age." Miguel hummed as someone else in the crowd caught his eye. "Russo, on the other hand, could use a motherly scolding once in a while. He spends too many days in the Box."
"He's just having a hard time lately," Ginny defended automatically, and Miguel laughed heartily.
"There! Do you see? Mother hen looking after ducklings not her own."
"Two-eight-eight!" A guard yelled, advancing with a tasing rod already in hand.
"¿Si?" Miguel asked calmly, managing better than Ginny would have not to flinch.
The guard threatened Ginny briefly with the rod and she stepped back, arms raised. She hadn't been tased in a while and had no plans to relive the experience anytime soon. "Suppressor check, two-eight-eight."
Miguel tilted his head, holding out the arm with his suppressor band. "¿Quieres comprobar esto?"
"Yes, you big fu - I mean… yes, two-eight-eight." The guard glanced up to the observing Avengers, their presence seeming to unnerve him.
"No es mi culpa que no hables español," Miguel muttered as the guard inspected the band.
Any time the large man breathed out of rhythm or shifted his stance, the guard flinched. It took several minutes for him to inspect all of the external components and confirm all the right lights were blinking, and Ginny believed the poor guard nearly had a heart attack at least twice.
Satisfied at last, the guard backed away. "Back to your rec time, Aztec."
"¿Que?" Miguel asked.
The guard gestured with the tasing rod, twirling it a little. "Tiempo de juego, two-eight-eight."
Miguel nodded emphatically, smiling warmly. "Ah, Si. Espero que desarrolles tacto en algún momento y al menos me preguntes si hablo inglés."
"Whatever." The guard retreated quickly and Miguel sat back down on the table. Where Ginny would have been exhausted by the exchange, Miguel seemed entertained.
"So do you do that for fun, or…?" she trailed off.
He leaned back, tapping a finger absently on the steel table. "They never asked."
Ginny looked around for Ivan but the Russian had vanished already. "Is that like exploiting a racist stereotype in reverse? They assume the Mexican can't speak English, so you don't correct them so they leave you alone?"
"Something like that."
Ginny straightened as a familiar star-spangled form walked out onto the guard's catwalk, followed by a familiar redhead. She lifted her hand a little to wave, thought better of it, and put her hand down.
The Captain seemed to find her anyway, and from a distance she could see him offer her a nod and a small smile. Ginny smiled back, returning the familiar nod.
Glancing around, his avenging friends seemed to be discussing something at length and not paying attention to the Captain, he lifted his hands and made a book-opening gesture, the question on his face. Done with the books?
Ginny lifted The Emperor of All Maladies slightly, then set it down. She wasn't quite finished, so she held her fingers slightly apart in a pinching gesture. Little bit left.
Steve nodded, and held up two fingers slightly, tilting his head. Two more?
Ginny shook her head, then tilted it to Miguel while still looking at the Captain, and held up three fingers. One more for my friend.
Steve's shoulders shook with a mild laugh she couldn't hear at her distance and he shook his head in disbelief, but nodded. Sure.
"Arranging contraband, Geneva?" Miguel asked, amusement evident in his tone.
"Something like that," Ginny replied, and Miguel laughed.
A/N: Hi again, my wonderful readers! I hope you are all hunkered down safe and sound in these trying times. May I offer you a chapter in these trying times? I'm also trying so hard to resist the urge to point at a few lines here and there, chapter by chapter, with a wink and a nudge, because I don't want to ruin anything for you if you didn't notice it on your own.
My outline for this story is a chonky boi - reminders to myself to add foreshadowing and content and notes on flow and character development as plot lines go forward and back in how forcefully they're pushed to the "front" of a chapter. It's probably the most complicated I've ever written and it's still growing and developing as I feel out these first ten chapters.
I love my reviewers! Cameron1812, tuckerjnp1, huffle-bibin, LIsaPark, cHoCoLaTe-RuM, nekokairi, xEarthAlchemistx, Victoria650, and K Lynx!
PLEASE REVIEW!