March 17th, 2003; Abandoned Mining Town…

That morning, under Rumlow's supervision, Ellen sharpened her skills of deception. The key to HYDRA's survival and growth ever since World War II was stealth. Everyone thought they'd died out, which allowed them to freely operate in secrecy. Every operative, no matter their position or rank, had to master the ability to lie. To pass themselves off as someone innocuous and not a threat.

She'd been practicing for weeks. Rumlow and the others were experienced agents and infiltrators. They knew how to spot a lie. Every time Ellen failed to convince them, she had to spend an hour in a hotbox on the roof of an old house. She hated the box, and despised Rumlow each time he put her in it. Eventually, she picked up some tricks to make the lies more convincing.

One of her instructors was a former CIA agent who'd retired, now working for an independent firm that performed background checks and polygraphs for the government and corporations. Her lessons were simple, but effective. "No matter how perfect you fabricate something," she'd said, "your mind still recognizes it as a lie. Someone with training can recognize the micro-expressions on your face and body language. The best way to lie is to add elements of truth. It's easier to remember, and easier to pass off."

So, on the morning of March 17th, Ellen sat down on a folding chair in front of Rumlow. They sat in an emptied classroom in the high school. He regarded her with cold disinterest, staring into her eyes. Resting a foot on her knee, she stared right back. Neither of them said anything for what felt like an hour. This was part of the test; most people were uncomfortable with long silences, and would fidget or speak in response. Rumlow boasted of how he'd broken enemy agents in the past by sitting across from them and staring for hours at a time.

Finally, he asked, "What is your name?"

"Portia Richardson," Ellen replied. Her middle name seemed a good choice for a fake identity, at least in this practice scenario.

"When were you born?"

"February 26th, 1977." Right birthday, and the year Star Wars came out. Easy to remember.

"Do you or anyone in your immediate family have any known ties to terrorist organizations or criminal activities?"

Ellen rested her chin on her hand. "Well, I do have an uncle that I don't see all that often. He moves around a lot, and tends to keep some pretty…weird friends. But I can't say what he's been up to. Honestly, the guy's a bit of a creep. Keeps staring at me whenever we're together and touching my arm. I don't know if you know him. His name's Brock. Brock Richardson."

Rumlow narrowed his eyes, and Ellen had to restrain from grinning. "So, your first name's Portia," he said after half a minute of glaring. "That's an unusual name."

"My dad picked it out. His favourite Shakespeare play was Merchant of Venice. Mo…Mom wanted to call me Diana." In reality, it had been the reverse. Her mother had adored Shakespeare, and wanted to use Portia for Ellen's first name right until going into labour. Her father eventually compromised, and they agreed to use Portia as her middle name.

"You hesitated when mentioning your mother," Rumlow said. "Why is that?" Shit. Depending on how Ellen answered the next question, she might fail.

'I'm not going back in that fucking box,' she thought.

"My mom died when I was eleven. Plane crash. I still find it difficult to talk about her." Close enough to the truth.

Rumlow sighed, leaning forward in his chair. He stared at her, idly rubbing his hands together. "Well, Princess, this just might be the first time I believe you."

Ellen exhaled, releasing the tension she'd been holding in.

"You still slipped up," he reminded her. "Your feelings got in the way, and it almost cost you. Stow that shit deep, and never let it out. Because if you screw up out there, it doesn't just affect you. It affects all of us. And if that happens, I don't care who your daddy is or how much influence he's got; I will put a bullet in your skull. Understand?"

"Yeah, I got it."

"Good." He opened his mouth to say something else, but then his earpiece chimed. Tapping it, he said, "Yeah, what?" A moment, then, "Good. Bring him over to the gym. We'll meet you there."

"Mind filling me in?" Ellen prompted.

"Your next instructors just arrived. Hurry up, I don't have all day." He stood from his chair, and she followed him out into the hall towards the gym. The doors were open to the basketball court outside. A Quinjet –a S.H.I.E.L.D.-designed aircraft with state of the art weapons, engines, and sensors– sat parked on the court. In the gym itself were a dozen new HYDRA agents, three men dressed in lab coats, and…

Ellen's face broke into a wide smile as she saw her father speaking with the agents. He turned to see her approach, and smiled back. "Hi there," he greeted as she hugged him.

"I didn't know you'd be coming here."

"I thought I'd surprise you."

She chuckled. "Consider me surprised. So, what's the scoop? Are all these agents going to be my instructors?"

He shook his head. "Not so much, no. These new agents are simply acting in a support capacity. Rumlow and the others you've been training with need to return to their assignments; they're leaving on the Quinjet."

"Aw, already?" Ellen asked mockingly, looking at Rumlow. "We were getting along so well."

"Kiss my ass, Princess," Rumlow bit out. Her father flashed him a glare, and he wisely shut his mouth.

"Why aren't they leaving yet?" she asked.

He jerked his head to indicate the Quinjet. Two more agents wheeled a large metal tank of some kind down the ramp. The three men in lab coats walked over and followed it to the portable structure in the field, monitoring whatever it contained. Then, a lone figure stepped down the ramp. They wore a suit of midnight blue tactical armour with orange and white highlights, a bone white helmet stylized like a skull, and a grey hood. Ellen noted a pistol holstered on their right thigh, and a large knife sheathed at their boot. The figure entered the gym, nodding to her father.

"Ellen, I'd like you to meet Taskmaster," he said. "He'll be overseeing the next phase of your training."

"A pleasure to meet you," Ellen greeted.

"Likewise." Taskmaster's voice sounded garbled, modulated. The effect made it impossible to tell their identity, or if it were a man or woman. By the general build, Ellen assumed male, but anything was possible. "I look forward to working with you, Ms. Pierce."

"And what about that tank? What's in there?"

"A highly valuable resource," her father explained. "It's no exaggeration to say that the asset inside that tank is HYDRA's greatest weapon. It will hone your combat skills to the absolute peak of human ability. Just remember: everything we do is in service to HYDRA. There is no better world without us. To make that happen, we have to do a lot of unsavoury things."

She nodded. "I understand."

"I'm sure you think you do, sweetheart. Ideally, you would be spared having to experience this ugliness. But you got a sneak preview at a young age, and it would be irresponsible of me to spare you from something you already know exists. It's better for you to learn everything about what you'll be facing, what the organization will ask you to do."

Ellen gulped. "I promise, dad: I'll do what needs to be done."

He smiled. "I know you will."

Tony paced around the empty gym. His new student, Ellen Pierce, had gone off to practice at a shooting range. Right now, his instructions were to wait for a second student. So, he waited. He flipped and twirled the tactical knife in his right hand, keeping his hands occupied.

"So what's the deal with this 'other student'?" he asked. "I was told it'd just be Blondie."

The agent standing in the centre of the room, a bald, dark-skinned man with the physique of a linebacker, gave him an unimpressed look. "Who he is doesn't matter. You weren't hired to make friends."

"That's too bad. I was hoping we could exchange bracelets when this is over."

The agent grumbled. "Look, the terms of your contract are clear: you're to supervise Ellen Pierce's continued education. Combat, espionage, tactics, everything. She's been training under the supervision of one of our own for a year now. So toss her in the deep end. Don't be gentle."

He nodded. "And let me guess: Chuckles back there was her teacher?" While the agent didn't respond, Tony already knew the man's identity. Brock Rumlow was a well-known field agent, infamous for his near-perfect mission record and cocky attitude. Tony had never met him in person, but he didn't have to; he could tell the guy was a prick from one glance. It came as no surprise that someone like that would be a member of HYDRA.

"You could say that. As long as you do your job, you'll get paid. HYDRA has no use for defective assets."

Ever since he agreed to take this job, that little nugget of information kept gnawing at the back of his mind. According to the history books, HYDRA had been the Nazi Science Division in World War II. After a long, brutal campaign across the European theatre, Captain America and his allies had killed or imprisoned every last HYDRA member by the war's end.

And like so many other things, history proved wrong. It seemed they'd somehow survived the war, and by all appearances, were thriving. That much Tony could tell by the size of his paycheck and the resources they could spare. All to teach one angry young woman how to be a killer and a spy. A part of Tony couldn't help but feel rankled that a group founded by Nazis could be alive and well in the 21st century. But as he kept pacing, one undeniable truth came to mind:

He'd thrown morality out the door the moment he decided to become a mercenary for hire. So for his own sake, and that of his family, he suppressed his private revulsion for this group and remembered the code he lived by: Honour the contract. Money had exchanged hands, and he had no choice but to see this through.

Sometimes, you had to do distasteful shit.

Finally, after a long enough wait, the other student arrived. Tony watched him step out of the portable structure and cross the grass field before entering the gym. The man wore thick Kevlar and a black half-mask that covered the bottom of his face. And he had a goddamned metal arm, one that gleamed from the overhead lights. How much power did that thing have in a fight? One look told Tony everything about him. The newcomer didn't move like a regular person, more like a programmed machine. He moved with unnatural precision, with a demeanor that conveyed maximum lethality.

The dark-skinned agent turned to look at him. "Your primary focus is training Ellen Pierce. But the Secretary also wants you to handle the Soldier."

"He looks pretty effective already," Tony pointed out.

"He's effective, but based on everything we've seen of your exploits, the Secretary wants you to…sharpen his skills. Make him an even greater weapon. You have a chance to make a real contribution here. The work you do will impact the world, help HYDRA craft a better future for everyone. Hail HYDRA!"

"Hail HYDRA!" the other agents and scientists echoed. The Soldier stood in place, saying nothing as he stared at the wall.

Tony rolled his eyes behind his mask. "Look, if you want me to teach Daddy's Little Killer out there, fine. You want me to spout your cult mantra to her, fine. You want me to teach the T-1000 here, fine. But get this straight, Nazi Boy: this is just a paycheck for me. I'll do my job, but don't expect me to drink the Kool-Aid. And if you even think of double-crossing me, you'll be dead before you have the chance to blink."

To demonstrate his promise –and to test a theory– Tony gripped the knife between his fingers and threw it at the Soldier's head before the other agents could react. The Soldier caught the knife mid-air by the handle with his flesh hand. He didn't even look. Expected, but the response time and reflexes were even more impressive than Tony realized.

"We'll start with knife work."

March 18th, 2003…

"Alright, let me see what you got," Taskmaster said. He leaned against the far wall, crossing his arms.

Ellen stood in the centre of the gym, hair in a bun and wearing a sleeveless top with shorts. One of the new batch of agents stood across from her, a squat, muscular Pakistani man with a thick mustache. They assumed ready stances, and after a moment's pause, the fight began.

The agent threw everything he had at her, forcing her to rely on speed and evasion. Twice he landed a punch, one to her stomach and one to her face. The blows hurt like hell, but Ellen pushed through the pain. After dodging the next series of strikes, she moved in and kneed him in the crotch. He squealed, and Ellen used the opening to climb onto his back and wrap her arms around his neck in a rear naked choke. The agent tried to throw her off, but within seconds, he passed out as she constricted the blood flow to his brain. Panting, she backed away.

Taskmaster clapped a few times. "Not bad." He stepped over the unconscious agent as he approached her. "You've got skills. But you're focusing too much on trying to overpower your opponent with brute force. You should've been able to avoid those two punches, but instead you put yourself in a position to get hit because you were focused on breaking his defense. Let me guess, your old teacher taught you its kill or be killed? Some fake Viking hoo rah bullshit?"

Ellen nodded.

"Hm. Sounds about right." He gave her a once-over. "I don't have to tell you this, but you're short and small. That gives you speed and agility. Use it." He demonstrated by showing off a rapid series of impressive spin kicks and Capoeira moves. "Come at me. I'll show you what I'm talking about."

She did as instructed, attacking him with everything she'd learned. Taskmaster moved at blinding speeds, blocking or avoiding every one of her moves like an old master in a Wuxia film. Ellen even tried to pull his hood down over his mask to blind him. He twisted out of her grip and had her on the floor before she could blink.

"Try again," he said, stepping back. Ellen huffed, clenching her jaw as she got back on her feet. "You've gotta start thinkin' laterally. Surprise your opponent, move where they don't expect. Sun Tzu said, "Be where your enemy is not". If I come at you from the front, you come at me from the side. If I go high, you go low."

Ellen nodded, committing his words to memory. This time, she elected to circle him and conserve her energy. He did the same, then made the first move as he lunged at her. She hopped back, avoiding his initial punch, then sprang forward with a quick trio of her own punches. Taskmaster then threw a roundhouse kick at her face. Ducking low, Ellen swept his other leg out from under him. Rather than slam onto his back, he somehow caught himself with his hands and performed a kip-up back onto his feet.

So transfixed by the incredible move, Ellen nearly let herself get hit as one of Taskmaster's armoured gauntlets came rushing towards her face. Dodging, she felt the air blow on her skin as his fist flew by. Rather than trying to force an opening in his front, she threw herself to the floor behind him and kicked out at his helmet.

He jerked back, chuckling. "Nice!"

Ellen smirked, facing him once more. "Not bad, if I say so myself."

"Don't get cocky, kid." Emboldened by her improvement, she made the first move this time and aimed a kick at Taskmaster's chest. He dodged low as –before Ellen knew what was happening– a knife appeared in his hand. He jabbed the tip into her outstretched leg so fast all she felt was the pain of the cut. She grunted, her momentum faltering. He then shoulder-checked her in the back, knocking her down.

"What the hell was that?" she demanded.

Taskmaster twirled the knife in his hand, a drop of scarlet on its sharpened tip. "Next lesson: weapon incorporation. "One mark of a great soldier is that he fights on his own terms or fights not at all". When you go out into the world, you're not gonna be fighting everyone in fair sparring matches. You've gotta use everything at your disposal. If you don't have the advantage, then it's best to retreat until you got the edge and your opponent doesn't."

Ellen winced when she touched the cut on her leg.

"My instructions were clear," he added. "I was told to throw you in the deep end. This is the deep end. Every time you learn a lesson, I give you another. Adapt and thrive. Now from what I've seen, you've got what it takes to go all the way. The only question is: are you gonna prove me right, or wrong?"

Taking a deep breath, she cracked her neck, then narrowed her eyes as she entered a ready stance.

Taskmaster chuckled. "That's more like it."

Taskmaster proved to be an exceptional teacher.

Skilled in just about every form of martial arts in existence, his style felt far more refined and precise than Rumlow's. He gave clear, concise instruction, and his critiques of Ellen's performance were analytical and informative. Gone were the petty taunts and personal insults that she'd gotten used to over the last year.

Ellen found it refreshing.

In one-on-one sparring lessons, Taskmaster refined her knowledge of martial arts. He taught her not just how to strike or move, but to master the techniques so she didn't have to consciously think about them. He treated combat like an intricate puzzle or high-speed chess match, and Ellen delighted in committing his lessons to memory. Rumlow was a brute, an animal. Taskmaster was a true artist.

As the days continued, Ellen noticed something odd about him. Whenever she used a particular move against him, he'd perform the exact same move against her later on. Somehow, he committed everything she did to memory and flawlessly repeated it minutes later. 'Maybe that's what made him such a sought after mercenary,' she thought.

He taught her to make herself unpredictable in a fight. "Never use the same move twice. Combine styles. Incorporate different weapons at different times. The goal is to keep your opponent off-balance. If they're too busy reacting, they won't be on the offense. That's when you go for the throat."

Ellen also learned to speak different languages. She knew a bit of Spanish from her time in Colombia, along with a few lines of Russian from the cheesy action movies she grew up watching. But the goal here was to become as fluent as possible. As with fighting, Taskmaster seemed to have memorized almost every language ever invented. The lessons were long and tedious, and the days tended to blend together. The key was repetition, Ellen realized. Repeat something enough times, and it would get sorted into long-term memory.

Then the day came when they decided to test her loyalty.

March 27th, 2003…

Ellen took the Glock 17 Taskmaster held out, then entered the decrepit diner. She wore a Kevlar vest over her shirt and a pair of jeans, but nothing else. No other guns, and not even a knife. That was the point of the exercise: clear the assigned course with only what she could scavenge or take.

Cardboard cutouts had been placed behind the counter and in a few of the booths as targets. Opening the door, Ellen took aim and shot the three behind the counter, once in the heart and once in the head. Clean, efficient, deadly. Her aim had improved leaps and bounds over the last year, but her shots were still off the mark more than she'd like. Out in the field, the real world, a mistake could get her killed. She couldn't afford to make any.

Shooting the two targets to her left, she spun, got down on one knee, and shot the rest. Tossing the empty Glock onto the floor, she hopped over the counter and grabbed the shotgun taped under the register. Shoving a cardboard target out of the way, she cautiously passed through the back door. Checking her corners, she moved through the alley and approached the rear entrance of the general store.

One of the HYDRA agents charged her from behind a dumpster, brandishing a large knife. She fired her shotgun into the wall beside him, casting pulverized pieces of brick. He flinched from the shot and the debris impacting his face; that gave Ellen enough of an opening to deliver a sharp kick to his knee. It crunched, and the agent stumbled. She smashed the butt of the shotgun across the side of his head, knocking him unconscious. Taking the knife, she secured it in the empty sheath on her vest.

Kicking the door open, she stepped inside the general store. The empty shelves, darkened lights, and dirty floors gave it a sad, lonely feeling. Once upon a time, a local family might have kept it running. Now it sat empty and in shambles, unable to keep up with history.

Ellen noticed movement a fraction of a second before a muzzle flashed.

Acting on instinct, she threw herself behind the counter. Any slower, and the bullets her latest target fired might have hit her. Gripping her shotgun tight, she peered over the counter and fired a couple shots back at her attacker. The agent, dressed in more tactical gear than the last one, took cover behind an overturned barrel. When he started shooting again, Ellen took cover.

Just as she would have returned fire, she paused, hearing something beyond the roar of gunfire. Tap, tap, tap. The sound came closer, and she thought it sounded like footsteps. Another agent trying to flank her while his friend kept her pinned. He should be reaching her right about…

Now!

Sure enough, a dark-skinned agent appeared around the corner. Ellen charged before he could take aim, tackling him into an empty frozen food shelf and shattering the glass door. Stepping back, she shot him in the foot. He screamed, falling to the floor as blood began leaking from the shredded boot. She knocked him out with the butt of the shotgun, then discarded it in favour of the agent's M4A1 Carbine. The first agent appeared near the front of the store ahead of her. Kneeling, Ellen fired a quick three round-burst into the man's vest, staggering him. She then sprinted towards him, dropping the carbine.

Ellen jumped at him, kicked his rifle aside, grabbed him by the shoulders, and spun until she clamped her legs around his neck. He tried to dislodge her by punching her in the thigh, but her grip never faltered. Drawing the knife she'd taken earlier, she stabbed it into the agent's shoulder. He screamed, his arm going limp. A series of quick punches to the head rendered him unconscious, and Ellen rolled onto the floor as he fell.

Knowing he'd bleed out if she removed the knife, she left it in his shoulder. Grabbing his carbine, she checked the magazine before walking out onto the street. She looked to the right, then the left in search of the next part of the course. First, clear the diner. Then the alley, and the store. After that, clear the courthouse.

There, down the street and to the right. Ellen started walking in that direction. So far, so good. Something pinged as it struck the asphalt an inch beside her foot just before the crack of a sniper rifle echoed through the air. Ellen flinched, aiming her carbine up at the roofs of the buildings. She couldn't see anything from here; it might have been Taskmaster, or one of the agents kept in reserve. Another shot whizzed past her head and struck the asphalt, and she stumbled in the direction of the courthouse. Whoever it was, they were quite the marksman.

She got the message: get moving.

Taking off at a run, she soon reached her destination. Carbine at the ready, she kicked the door in. All nine of the remaining agents attacked her, and the small courthouse chamber erupted in a massive firefight. It took every bit of Ellen's training to clear the room, and an enormous amount of control to avoid killing any of them. Even accidentally. She kept her shots focused on their body armour and extremities, anything non-lethal. This course was meant to test her skills, and she didn't want to deprive HYDRA of any useful personnel. That wouldn't serve the greater good.

She emptied the magazine of her carbine quickly, and had to take weapons from the others. No doubt Taskmaster put that stricture in place to force her into close-quarters fighting. Ellen guessed he had cameras installed all over town, monitoring her progress. She supposed every teacher wanted to know the student took their lessons to heart.

One of the agents managed to dropkick her into a table, which broke from the impact. She broke his leg for that. Her chest throbbed from the kick, and it hurt to breathe, but Ellen didn't think any ribs were broken. A few minutes later, she approached the door at the back of the room. All nine agents were strewn around the court room, in various states of unconsciousness or too injured to be a threat.

The door led to the judge's chambers. There were no bookshelves, no desk, not a single piece of furniture or decoration. Just like the rest of town, it was covered in dust, and the smell of mold hung in the air. The windows were covered with nailed plywood, and the only light streamed in from the court room.

Ellen froze when she saw a man tied to a chair in the centre of the room.

He had a bag over his head, and wore a simple shirt and jeans. Even though she couldn't see his face, she knew he wasn't one of the HYDRA agents. She'd memorized their faces and builds, and to her knowledge no one had entered the town since her father brought Taskmaster. The man turned his head, sensing her arrival. He tried to speak, but the words were muffled; he must have been gagged or had duct tape over his mouth.

"Eliminate the target," Taskmaster's voice projected from speakers overhead.

Frowning, Ellen asked, "What? Who is this?"

"He is your target. Eliminating him is the final challenge of the course."

"You expect me to just execute him without knowing anything about him?"

"All you need to know is that he is your target. HYDRA requires absolute conviction, and you need to prove you can do whatever is required of you. The only way to pass this course is to eliminate the target. Fail, and there will be consequences."

The only way to pass. Ellen hadn't killed anyone since the rapist at Princeton. Even though she'd sought him out, killing him had been an act of self-defence. An act of desperation in the heat of the moment. This was different. If she went through with this, it would be her choice. No self-defence, no struggle.

She thought of her father's words the last time she saw him. "Just remember: everything we do is in service to HYDRA. There is no better world without us. To make that happen, we have to do a lot of unsavoury things."

Ellen knew working with HYDRA would involve violence and death. This was what she'd signed up for. Wasn't it? Sighing, she drew the pistol she'd taken from one of the agents and aimed it at the man's head. He struggled against his restraints, making muffled cries. Ellen pursed her lips. Her training had brought her to this moment. She willed herself to pull the trigger, but her finger wouldn't move. In the back of her mind, she wondered if this man deserved to die. She'd agreed to work with HYDRA to kill people the world would be better without: terrorists, human traffickers, other kinds of scum. This man might have been her target, but how could she know–

Her ears popped as –BANG– someone fired a gun. The man's head jerked to the side, the bullet tearing a hole in the bag as blood sprayed out.

As her ears rang, Ellen felt like a thirteen year-old girl again. She stood in her father's office in the embassy. Instead of a stranger with a bag over his head, she saw her bodyguard, Gregory, shot in the head when the ELN stormed the building. For all her training, all her devoted willpower to change, she felt like a terrified child. How the hell could she make the world a better place when she couldn't even master her own fears?

A figure emerged from the shadows, holding a pistol with a smoking barrel. He was tall and well-built, dressed in a black Kevlar vest, black pants, and combat boots. His shoulder-length hair resembled a lion's mane, his face covered by a black mask and red goggles. A high-powered sniper rifle was strapped across his back, meaning he had been the one who shot at her in the street. Ellen registered all the details of his appearance in seconds, but there was one thing in particular that boggled her mind.

He had a freaking metal arm. It gleamed, even in the dark room, with a red star emblazoned on the shoulder. It reminded her of Arnold Schwarzenegger in Terminator, only this wasn't a movie; this was real.

The man regarded her with cold precision, dropped his gun, then lunged.

Ellen barely had time to react. She aimed the pistol at him, but he closed the distance before she could shoot and batted it out of her hand. She ducked to avoid a vicious right hook, then retaliated with an uppercut. Her fist connected with his mask, knocking his head back a bit. She blocked the next few attacks, then the man threw a punch at her head with his metal arm. Ellen thought she could hear gears and hydraulic servos whirring, and gasped as she moved her head out of the way. The arm punched through the wall as if it were made of balsa wood. She guessed it would have turned her head into chunky salsa at full power.

Ellen spun away, creating some distance. The man fixed her with a calm, stoic gaze and tore a gaping hole in the wall as he freed his metal arm. He was fast, she realized. Freakishly so. And much stronger than any normal human. Between that and the titanium extremity, there were probably few who could present a serious threat.

Narrowing her eyes, she felt her fear dissipating. Her earlier feeling of helplessness made her angry, and she focused all that rage at her attacker. The whole point of this training was to make herself strong so she would never feel helpless again. Throwing herself into an attack, she punched and kicked and struck with everything she had. The man effortlessly blocked or avoided most of her moves. When she tried to spin kick him in the chest, he caught her leg with his metal hand, grabbed her vest with his flesh hand, then spun and hurled her across the room.

She crashed into the far wall, then fell to the floor, coughing. The man came at her quick as the wind, straddling her and locking her legs with his. He wound his metal arm back, and Ellen thought this would be the end. This was how she'd die. Instead, he punched into the floor beside her head.

"That's enough," Taskmaster said, entering the room through the open door.

Ellen panted, her entire body shivering even as it ached. She stared into the stranger's goggles, wondering just who the hell was this. The way he acted, he seemed more like a machine than a person. A demon wearing a man's skin.

"Get up," Taskmaster ordered. The man complied, pulling his hand from the floor and standing up. He stepped back, allowing Taskmaster to loom over Ellen's prone, bruised body. "Like I said, kid: there'd be consequences."

"So, I guess I failed," she huffed.

"Yeah," he replied. "But to be honest, I expected this outcome. Absolute conviction sometimes has to be beaten into someone before they can realize their true potential. You can't allow yourself to be held back by sympathy or morality. Your enemies will exploit that and destroy you."

"Combat is life or death," Ellen said, remembering Rumlow's earlier lessons. "Don't just fight your enemy; destroy them."

Taskmaster nodded. "Exactly."

She sat up, grimacing as her chest hurt. Her back ached from being thrown into the wall, and both forearms felt tender from blocking the stranger's metal arm. They were probably bruised, but she didn't want to roll her sleeves back in the presence of others. "So what happens now?"

"This is the next step. You can't reach your full potential until you learn to kill without hesitation. Every time you fail, you'll fight the Soldier." Ellen looked back at the stranger, who stood as still as a statue. He didn't even have a name. Taskmaster turned on his heel and, as he walked out, said, "You'll try again tomorrow, and every day after that." The Soldier followed him out, leaving Ellen alone with her failure. Blood ran down the side of the dead man's body, staining the dusty floor scarlet. The air tasted like copper and sweat.

That was the first time Ellen met the Winter Soldier.