Not far behind Bucky's answer, Steve could hear another rap and thump, indicative of one of the others coming back on the line. Inwardly, he was tapping his foot, waiting for the word as he outwardly drove his fist into the face of one of the hired soldiers. The National Guard operatives moved in behind him, sweeping through the battalions in black and driving them further up the block. The United Nations buildings were in sharp detail now, plumes of smoke and the rattle of gunfire ringing it.
"Cap, Cap! This is Romanoff!" Natasha crowed, and a flush of relief went through him upon hearing her voice. She was still alive, at least. "We've got a lot of trapped civilians inside the main chamber, and some in the underground levels."
"Rescue and evac is coming in hot behind us, just sit tight," he grunted, elbow plowing into an an enemy as he took another few steps forward. It seemed as though every step he took towards the Assembly Hall, there were five or six more soldiers ready to fight in the place of their fallen comrades. Rescue would not be simple, despite his own assurances.
"You sit tight," the redhead barked back, understanding the situation outside better than he'd thought she would. "I got a dirty, nasty bastard with a skull face to find and deal with here."
Off the description, Rogers could only assume she was speaking of Rumlow. Gritting his teeth, he mentally reviewed possible plans as he executed an aerial kick, his shield coming down as he landed on top of a mercenary. Chapman's team was already hard at work dispatching the outer defenses, but his own team was scattered around. Better that they were put to separate tasks, and then meet up later. The data that had been sent to them in the quinjet resurfaced. The blueprints of the building itself flitted through his brain; they had revealed that nearly forty years ago, an extension of the nearest subway line was meant to run under the building itself. Though it had been carved out and some pieces of track had been laid down, it had never been completed. Currently only a thick wall separated the lowest halls from the abandoned project.
"Rhodey, Wilson, are you still there?" Waiting for affirmatives from both, he cleared his throat and started laying out the plan. "Start to round up the members, move them down to the abandoned subway track underground. Vision, I want you to go down and cut through to the lower halls, with Quicksilver and Scarlet Witch helping ferry people out. T'Challa is in charge of their general safety, as well as any security left onsite."
Even with the underground escape, the nearest station was still well in the territory of the renegade army. The prince would be capable of getting the others out, away from the danger, if they took them in intervals. Understanding this, confirmations of acceptance reached his ears, a blur of white and blue streaking by with a dot of red in his arms. Violet and gold cut a swatch through the sky, cottoning onto the idea and descending swiftly into the subway systems.
"Jacques, Bucky, we're approaching the front steps," Steve went on, reflecting a spray of gunfire with his shield. Tilting it just so, the volleys were thrown back at the assailants, screams and cries ripping through the air as the attacking soldiers were hit. Rising from his crouch, he glanced over at Ant-Man, the fellow suddenly morphing back into his typical size to drive his knee into the crotch of one soldier. Unable to stifle the wince in sympathy (it had to be done, but it still was a dirty trick to deal any man), he shook his head and issued his command. "Either put the mercenaries in their places or start driving them out. And Romanoff?"
There he paused, taking a moment to catch his breath before speaking again.
"Do what you gotta do."
He could practically hear the smirk in her tone as she answered him. "On it."
Tipping his chin to the sky, he witnessed the trails following Iron Man as he circled in the air, the shudder and grind as he landed bodily on some of their foes.
"Forward," he said, he and Lang moving in tandem along the street, running and meet adversaries as they went. The National Guard's command were directly behind them, the war zone of the city slowly becoming theirs with each passing minute. It took some doing, but soon enough they were within sight of the front doors, the flags of each nation represented still snapping in the breeze (the ones that were still on upright poles, at least). A flood of mercenaries were streaming out the doors towards them, and he braced himself for another forward assault. However, even as he was blocking and slamming his shield as he went, he noticed a pack of them had broken off to the right, pulled up short by something he could not spot directly. While he could not spot it, though, Tony definitely could.
"Is that...oh, no," Stark breathed, and Steve looked over in time to watch a red and blue blur swing between overhangs. Webbing shot from his wrists, balling up around the hands of the mercenaries before he dragged them to the ground. Landing solidly, he tied them off around a couple of the flag poles, swinging deftly between them to avoid the shots now directed at him. More webbing, this time over the eyes of his enemies, and he left them screaming in horror and disgust before literally falling onto them. His punches and jabs were still a little sloppy, but soon enough the concentrated force was out cold on the ground.
"Holy crap," Lang exclaimed, eyes large behind the red glass of his helmet. Steve merely shot him a look, but he inwardly concurred as the kid did a twist and spin, his webbing catching on a pillar and launching him away from the fallen enemies. Fluidly, he landed on the concrete wall, crouching and directing a wave over at the Avengers near him.
"Hey, just your friendly, neighborhood Spider-Man dropping in to drop some bad guys!" he announced, false cheer in his voice as they stepped closer to him. The zoom and screech of repulsors zinged through the air, plowing into the chests and guts of several of the soldiers still standing, the settings lowered enough to merely stun them. Touching down to the ground, he joined the other two men, all of them slinking closer and out of range of any assailants nearby. They needed to regroup and discuss, and it needed to be done quickly.
"First part worked. Might want to lose the second part, or at least get rid of the ending," the tech genius declared, his tinny voice reflecting no small amount of concern. "So much for the staying-out-of-it edict, huh?"
Though it was impossible to tell with the mask on, the captain had no doubt that the teen was sporting a less-than-deferential expression.
"With all due respect, Mr. Stark, you're not the boss of me."
That earned him a sharp chuckle. "You quitting, kiddo?"
"Self-promoting, more like," he mumbled, dipping his chin briefly before looking in the captain's direction. "And I did wait for you guys to move in first, so I technically didn't break any rules."
The captain blew a sigh out his nose, his expression stony. Peter being there was about the last thing he wanted, purely for the kid's safety. It was a literal war zone, and while Parker did have some training, it was limited.
"Pa...Spider-Man," Steve corrected himself swiftly; it wouldn't do them any favors if they gave the game away regarding his identity at that moment. Particularly if the fight went sideways. Gesturing with his shield arm, he remarked in a deadly serious tone. "You shouldn't be here. This is dangerous."
Stiffening briefly, the kid hopped off the concrete wall, landing at his feet. Meeting his gaze directly—or as directly as he could, given that the older man couldn't really see his eyes through the white lenses of the mask—Peter drew himself to his full height. The unyielding posture and determination of his stance nearly threw the captain for a loop, the familiarity so poignant in those few seconds.
"I know that, sir. But just because it's dangerous doesn't mean I shouldn't do what I can," Parker stated simply, as though offering to defend others at the risk of his own life was nothing. And perhaps it was, to him. His fingers clenched into fists at his sides, his courage drawn upon as he pointed out, "It's what I need to do. You can't stop me from doing this."
At the petulant-sounding stinger, Rogers smirked humorlessly.
"I could by knocking you out."
A snort shot out of the kid before he could stop it. "No offense, Captain, but I'd like to see you try."
The silent stand-off between them lasted for several long seconds, the crack and crunch of volleys and rebuttals pervading the air around them. Exhaling sharply, the captain looked to his nearby companions, both of them shrugging and leaving the decision to him. Wary blue eyes darted away back to the battle around them, and his lips thinned.
"You're already here...it'd be too difficult trying to get you out now," he mused, almost to himself. Unfavorable conditions as they were, they would have to make the best of them, coupled with the teenager's headstrong decision to join the fight. Squaring his shoulders, he jabbed a forefinger in the kid's direction, his tone brooking no refusal. "Stick close to Stark and Lang, and you will do what I say, when I say it, got it?"
Bleakly, the teen looked to Tony in mute appeal, but even the billionaire was not about to buck the command. Not when his safety was now in question, along with everything else.
"Sorry, them's the breaks," he murmured, faux lamentations falling from his lips. Tipping his helmeted head towards Rogers, he spouted, "When you're out here, it's captain's orders. He might be a pain in the ass, but he knows what's going on."
Resigning himself to his fate, Peter nodded once, tapping at the side of his head to connect the earpiece within his suit to their communication line.
"Got it," he intoned, unwilling to push his luck in that regard. He was allowed to stay, allowed to help. He was not going to squander the opportunity to do so over rules and regulations. Steve waited until he nodded once more in confirmation and understanding before doing so himself.
"Alright, back to work, fellas," the captain said, his gaze ricocheting past the kid to the battle beyond. With that, the captain darted ahead, vaulting over the stand of a broken statue to launch himself into an oncoming group of soldiers. The remaining three jogged behind him, preparing to do the same.
"Okay, bug buddies, play nice for a bit," Stark said, reaching out and slapping both Lang and Parker's shoulders. "I'm gonna get a little higher, do some call-outs if I see 'em."
The boosters in his boots fired, and Iron Man rose up, leaving them in the dust. Scott spiked an eyebrow, though it could not be seen clearly.
"Actually, arachnids and insects aren't—" he started, a gloved hand waving to cut him off.
"Just let it go, dude," Peter replied dully. Scanning the field, the actively moving bodies still littered it. There was a lot of work still to be done, and they needed to get to it. With a small gesture, he allowed the Ant-Man to lead the way back into the fray, doing as the captain had commanded.
xXxXxXx
Responding to orders, Sam assisted in the evacuation of the United Nations members after their liberation from the posted mercenary guards. After the counterattack Natasha and the others had come up with on the fly, Rumlow had retreated with his men, focusing on bottle-necking the people inside in case they tried to escape through the doors. However, that had failed the moment a beam cut through the back wall, rendering the locked doors useless as the Vision stepped in beneath the giant seal. A blue and white blur rushed past him, Pietro Maximoff directing a few tables at a time to get up and follow him out. The next group was encumbered by the red auras of Wanda, her scarlet eyes searching out T'Challa and her calm voice telling him he was to be in charge of getting the refugees to safety once in the subway system. Nodding woodenly, the prince did as he was told, a long stare spared for his father's body before he reached and hoisted it off the ground. Looping the slack arms over his shoulders, Sam could see that it took everything in the young man's power to not sob as he chose to step through, his commands to the next group to follow heeded implicitly.
It seemed to take hours, escorting the groups down the hastily cut path and through the lower levels to safety, but Wilson and Rhodes had confiscated weapons in hand, and the United Nations members not rendered mute were smart enough to keep their movements quick and quiet. Back and forth, back and forth they moved, the chamber emptying as the minute hand wound around the clock. The empty train tunnel reflected the sounds of the pattering feet, the glow of light from cellphones and smartphones bouncing along the ground as they were directed to follow it down to the nearest station. The National Guard and other Avengers would be there to help them on their way. Beyond the chamber, though, the stirrings had ceased, something that Sam did not like one bit. A few hushed words passed between him and Rhodey, telling the older man that he would sneak out to see what was going on. With Natasha having long since run after Rumlow, both of them disappearing in the fray, and Barnes and Jacques who knew where, it was up to him to check it out. Cautiously, he tried one of the side doors first, the squeal of its hinges making him cringe as it opened.
The halls were deserted, at least the lower levels were. No doubt the remaining mercenaries were called out to join the battle with their fellow hired soldiers. They had to be counting on the U.N. representatives to be too frightened and too stupid to take the opportunity to liberate themselves; that seemed to be the only logical explanation for it, but he kept his stance curled, the rifle in hand clenched as he edged his way slowly through the corridors up to the back stairwell. It would take time, checking out each floor, and he groaned under his breath.
"Could really go for my wings right about now," he muttered to himself, noting the light feel of his gun and knowing his ammo supply was low. If he had his wings, his spring-loaded guns would be at his disposal, fully-loaded and ready to pierce his enemies. However, those thoughts were halted as he rounded a corner and barely avoided the butt end of a rifle coming at his head. Dropping to his knees, his eyes widened as Rumlow's weapon fell from his fingers, his back foot planting on the wall behind him for leverage. The pair was alone on the floor; the other mercenaries must have been sent on to perform other tasks, but that was hardly something to complain about at the moment.
Currently, Sam was just concentrating on how best to avoid getting clocked by the guy.
"You're not going anywhere," the older man growled, using the wall to propel him forward, a leg extended to kick him in the head.
"Damn it," he spat, rolling on the floor and narrowly avoiding the kick. Pushing himself up and flinging his useless gun away, he adopted a defensive stance, his knees bent and fists up as Rumlow recovered. Doing the same, the scarred man started to circle, a deranged smile pasted onto his mouth.
"Round two, two years in the making," he murmured, the rough grumble of his voice bringing back some very unpleasant memories for Wilson. He could only hope that this building wouldn't collapse under him that time. Rolling his eyes, he focused, refusing to be distracted. The mercenary was a walking arsenal, with a bandoleer and cartridges still strung up around him, guns on his hips and knives everywhere else in between. He did not know if it was overconfidence in his hand-to-hand combat skills, or if he would rather bloody up the Avenger the old-fashioned way, that stayed his hand, but Sam knew that he could not be allowed to change his mind. He had to get those weapons off him first, and then take him down.
At least he'd already dropped the rifle, he mumbled inwardly. The belt would be trickier, and the bandoleer, but if he could get one knife...
"Good to see you haven't been obsessing about it or anything," he replied aloud, dodging as the mercenary let a fist fly.
Rumlow's expression morphed, the hidden fury cutting across the scars. "You going to accept your punishment?"
"Just as soon as you shut your mouth," Sam mockingly promised. "So that's never gonna happen."
That was enough to get the older man to step up, step closer, a right hook firing off from his shoulder. Blocking it with his forearm, Wilson retaliated, hand snapping out and plucking at the handle of a knife momentarily. It took some doing, a long bout of rotation, kicks, and punches, with Rumlow cottoning onto his plan as they moved. More remarks and biting comments were passed, the scarred fellow just as much a talker as he was back during the helicarrier disaster (pissing off Sam to no end). However, he could not prevent the deft clench of the Falcon's fingers, the single knife manipulated on each pass. The bandoleer fell to the ground, kicked away before the mercenary could retrieve it. Next went the gun holsters, though it took more time and allowing Rumlow to get him in a headlock before those fell away. He made sure to keep himself positioned between the weaponry and the man, leaving minor nicks and cuts on his arms and legs as distractions. Rumlow paid him back in full, with hard hits on his chest and back, forgetting the lost equipment in minutes as his hatred for the fellow crested inside him.
"Waited for so long, and for what?" he mumbled between swings, the jabs and hooks flying as his rage increased. "Being pinned in between politicians and rules and patience...this is too long in coming."
The knife was knocked from his hand, and Sam watched as Rumlow began to palm the remaining one on his belt, when a new voice rent through the air.
"Wilson!" Both adversaries turned at the shout, and Sam could barely repress the smirk climbing onto his lips. Bucky rushed Rumlow from behind, planting his foot solidly on the banister of the balcony and pushing himself into the air. His metal fist came down to crack him hard in the jaw, the mercenary stumbling back from the force of it. Working together, the two Avengers traded off attacks, driving the mercenary away from the stairwell and back towards the wall-length pane of glass at the end. Rumlow, too occupied with fending them off, stepped further and further back, holding his own as best he could. In fact, he did manage to get his hands around Wilson's throat for a moment or two, before two sharp chops at his shoulder and side made him let go. A couple of feet stood between him and the window, and with a final glance to Sam, Barnes took advantage of the opportunity.
With a well-aimed kick to the gut, Rumlow was launched backward, straight through the plate glass window behind him. Following his trajectory, the two remaining men rushed over to the pane, looking down to see the mercenary land squarely in the decorative shrubberies in the garden below. For a moment, his face contorted in ill-concealed pain before his head lolled back, out cold in moments. Considering that it took a lot to fell him, they had to conclude that his head had impacted hard on the ground when he landed, compacting atop the other injuries he'd sustained thus far. Wilson and Barnes shared a glance, the blue-eyed man snorting as the other huffed out a breath.
"God, he really needed to stuff a sock in it," Bucky grumbled, walking away from the window and shaking his head. Bending, he began to scoop up the weaponry left on the floor, securing the appropriate cartridges and long-range rifle for himself. The gun, the bandoleer, and the stunner devices he handed off to Wilson, who accepted them with aplomb.
"You heard all of that?"
"I heard enough."
"Then you know you did the next best thing," Sam retorted, tipping his chin back to the frame and broken glass. Securing the goods taken from Rumlow on his person, he caught Bucky's gaze, single nod sufficing as his thank-you. The other man returned it, before striding ahead.
"Come on," Barnes commanded smoothly, Wilson drawn into match his pace as the two ran across the floor, eager to finish the battle.
xXxXxXx
Natasha Romanoff stepped warily around a flaming police cruiser, the vehicle overturned and on the fringes of a hastily-built shelter. Within was, supposedly, Johanna Jensen: doctor, engineer, and third head of the renegade army tearing up a portion of New York City. As her lead on Rumlow had turned into a dead end (almost literally, given that she had been caught by a couple of guards and shoved back into the wall at the end of a lower hallway), she chose to make her way out of the Assembly Hall, dedicated to using her skills to aid those outside. Alongside her counterparts, she was able to maintain the fight, closing in on a section of street that had been impregnable since the start. A seeming fortress made out of the parked cars had been constructed, a wide circle concentrated on the center of the street with openings between the wedged vehicles allowing snipers to go to their work. The soldiers and mercenaries at the doctor's command were well-trained, and well-equipped; given her experience in Sudan the previous year, Natasha would have been remiss to not notice the other woman's mark left on the weapons they carried. None of them had the power and energy of the ones made by the manipulations of Loki's staff, but she had engineered better bullets, lighter rifles, and thicker armor for her men. She was determined to win the fight, even if she had to do it in a shelter.
Well, Natasha was not about to have that. Utilizing the flickers of flaming cars and their shadows, she crept up upon the fortress, her pantsuit long since scuffed and dirtied. A ceasefire happened every few minutes, giving the soldiers with time to reload, she supposed, and she knew that would be the best time to strike. Not with the whole of the National Guard behind her, no; that would only frighten the hired soldiers and force them to act quicker. But that did not mean she did not have a plan. Carefully, she waggled her fingers forward, signal given as she hooked her hands into holds and started to climb up. Nearly silent footsteps and boot treads had met her ears, barely discernible beneath Jensen's screaming.
The woman was irate, as her contact inside the Assembly Hall had been lost. Neither Zemo nor Rumlow were answering, and while they were stocked for the moment, she knew her men could not hold up the fight indefinitely. Even less so, now that the National Guard was closing in around them and the back-u mercenaries unable to be pulled in. Oh, that news pleased the ex-assassin very much. Almost as much as the minute creaks and groans from the vehicles in the ring as others secured their hold as well. Taking the opportunity, she leaped, her hands wrapping around the lip of an opened window of the sedan above her, her feet providing enough momentum and grip to push her all the way up.
"Hey, hope you don't mind," the Black Widow crooned, hopping atop the roof of the trashed car and crouching low. Another shriek, and she met the gaze of an outraged doctor and the raised weapons of her dark-armored guards. Nodding to Jensen and he personal ring of soldiers surrounding her, she let her smirk widen slightly. "Brought some friends to this party."
The spoken cue given, the others rose up, circling the small party. Finesse executed a front hand spring, her batons materializing in her hands as she landed. To her right came Crystal, her black-streaked hair wafting in the breeze as she pushed herself over the barricade of vehicles. Her hands cupped up, dirt and stone of the street rising up to form steps, should she wish to descend into the crafted hidey-hole. Two arrows landed at the doctor's feet, forcing her to glance up at the next set of arrivals. Two brunettes, one wielding a bow and a knife strapped to her belt, while the other merely stared at her as if she was plumbing out the secrets of her soul. Risking a look at her men, who had not acted, she could see that all attention was turned to the empty-handed one, as if awaiting her signal. Wanda, having been called away from her escort duties just for this purpose, hovered to the right of them, having finally mastered enough control over her auras to allow herself sustained flight for long periods of time. Her eyes glowed unearthly scarlet as she stared down at Jensen, her eyebrow arching slightly as she glowered back. The woman's mud-colored eyes burned them, the dirt and sweat upon her brow fading in the face of her rage. Upon her back were twin canisters, much like the ones she had last year. However, instead of harnessed energy, the redhead did not doubt that they instead contained accelerant. The nozzles with the sparking devices strapped to her wrists confirmed it.
Well, she did not think it would be anything other than a challenge, she mused privately. But she would still act against the woman, dragged her pixie-cut ass through the dirt behind her as she did so. Natasha, rising from her crouch, lifted her chin and extended her hands, stunner discs filling them. Flicking her gaze from one female Avenger to the next, she nodded. They had answered her call, approved of her ambush idea from the start, eager to join in and eradicate the third menace on the street before she could rally her men back to her side.
"Ladies' choice," she announced, just as Kate Bishop thumb the button on her bow and the embedded arrows popped, stunning smoke filtering and disorienting their enemies. Pushing herself off her perch and leading the attack in, Romanoff held her resolve. Jensen would not get the best of her this time, and she would not let Clint take her revenge away from her. This time, it would be the women Avengers who would settle that score.
xXxXxXx
The fog of consciousness drew Rumlow out more and more, his back aching as he shifted on the ground. Shards of glass littered the dirt around him, and he had twigs and branches digging into him as he laid there in the garden. Over his crackling comm link, he could hear the screams, the shrieks, of the hired soldiers. The battle was turning in the Avengers' favor, as both his trained mercenaries and Zemo's acquired hands were falling left and right. The commanders within the ranks spouted off one after another, streets given over to the National Guard little by little. The members of the United Nations were getting away, led on by the prince of Wakanda to safe destinations beyond the blockades, their leverage disappearing in the wind. Within those calls, the screech of Jensen rebounded in his ear, her central command being overrun by the she-wolves of the teams. He ground his teeth in irritation, the fury in him climbing to newer heights. For all his promises, it seemed that Zemo's plans were coming to naught.
He should never have agreed, should never have listened to him. In the end, there was only one person Brock Rumlow could trust to get the job done, and that was himself. With a strangled moan, he rolled onto his side, hissing as tiny pinpricks of glass managed to bite through the weave of his gloves. The trickle of blood at the corner of his jaw flowed a little more freely as he rose up onto his knees, pushing himself up onto his feet. Another voice came over the link, on the secure line between him and his personal guard of mercenaries. Evidently, his own second-in-command was still alive, still free, and he was ready to be utilized again.
"Sir, Zemo is not responding," he reported, grunting as muffled thumps and shouts snapped on his end. Huffing, he continued, "Should we move on?"
Eyes darkened as Rumlow strode forward, ready to complete his mission, his way. It was overdue, and he would not wait any longer.
"Yes. Move to Contingency Plan A," he commanded, the rough grind of his voice piercing as he stepped onto the path of the garden. Locating the exit, he began to hoof it, determined to find his next target with all swiftness. "Place 'em and blow 'em!"
The directive given, he concentrated on distancing himself, momentarily content with allowing his last men blowing the place sky-high. At least they would get the last stragglers inside with the explosions of a few bombs. Gritting his teeth, he broke into a jog, ready to make his final stand.
xXxXxXx
A ring and a clang, and the shield embedded itself in the nearby wall after barreling into the chest of one of his assailants. Jogging fast, Steve managed to pluck it up in time for the next hired soldier to take a swing at him. A small frisson of pain jolted through him as he slid, a shot taken earlier at his leg making him hiss. It matched a similar injury on his right arm, both shots made with special, piercing rounds developed and distributed among the enemy soldiers. However, the adrenaline high he was still riding completely shoved the hurt down, packed it away as it had so many times in previous battles. What was his focus at the moment was the fight at hand. Things had stalled out for him and the small band of fighters with him on the steps of the building. As he'd promised, Parker had stuck to Ant-Man's side like glue, the both of them moving with the captain in the forward press and taking down enemies as they could. The remaining mercenaries were not about to surrender their claim, so the Avengers had started to chip away at their control. Chapman had regrouped with Duquesne, Union Jack and the Swordsman taking on a leftover squadron to the south with the Guard backing them up. Quicksilver was hard at work with the prince, the last stragglers of the United Nations under their protection as they were brought beyond the barriers to safety. The Black Widow and the hastily assembled troupe of the women Avengers had secured the blocks controlled by Jensen, the antagonist down and in their custody. Still, he needed to make another call in.
"Progress?" he requested from the others, rolling to the side and kicking at his assailant's hip, making him drop unceremoniously to the ground. Chapman responded at once, stating how he and the others were close to securing the outer perimeters. Another buzz and shift, and Tony started to report as the captain landed a solid punch to his adversary's temple.
"Sweeping up deserters on the fringes. Looks like we've got a few darting around the building still, keep an eye out."
"I see them," Sam growled, spotting them from his current position. Having locked down the upper floors, he had procured a few guns from the fallen inside, making final sweeps along the balconies.
"Got another set of eyes up here, too," Bucky replied, and Steve darted his gaze upward. The ex-assassin had taken point upon the rooftop, a rifle in hand and his sharp gaze examining the terrain expertly. "I'll snipe anybody who tries anything funny. They're good for one thing, at least: abandoning equipment when it's needed."
A few taps came over the line, the rapping indicating Barnes's hold on the stolen equipment, and Rogers merely smirked to himself.
"Cap, the civs are all either in the underground levels or beyond the border," Rhodey called out, the huff of his breath as he ran crackling over the line. "I'm making my way out to you."
"Good, got a suit queued and ready for ya," Tony cut in then, the arc of his blasters overhead following as he circled the building. "This one is coded specifically for you, I promise."
A muffled groan tore out of the colonel's throat. "Oh, God, what did you do to it?"
"Nothing...it just may or may not be hot pink," the billionaire returned, the ghost of a chuckle at the back of his voice. Unable to help himself, Steve felt the corner of his mouth curl at the exchange. Off Rhodey's unimpressed grumbling, Stark shot back, "Hey, I paid for the paint, I wasn't gonna waste it."
"Captain Rogers, Captain!" a desperate voice called through, the brief joviality lost to them. Frowning, Steve plucked up his shield from the wall it was embedded in.
"Viz?" he queried. The android had been relieved of his escort duties after the remaining members of the United Nations had gone down to the lower levels, locking up the doors behind them and joining Stark for aerial call-outs and assaults. Thus far, he'd been occupied with some thugs around the back, easily able to handle himself. What had happened to make him sound so distressed?
"The remaining mercenaries have been placing bombs around structural supports while you were alternately engaged," he explained, and the captain's stance went rigid. At once, his eyes began to sweep around the nearby supports, trying to spot anomalies there. "I've managed to disarm some, but not all. If triggered, they could—"
The android's report was stalled, the distant sound of clicking and beeping heard. Lang and Parker looked to him, anxiety rippling through their forms. Distantly, he could hear Tony affirming that the bombs were active, his HUD spotting them and marking them so that he could swoop in fast to disarm them. Frantically, Rogers called down the line to the android, hoping he could confirm that he was completing his task.
"Viz, what's happening?" he crowed, pivoting on his heel as he continued his own sweeps. The absolute fear and concern in the android's voice made his blood run cold, made him stop short in his forward press.
"Oh, no," the Vision breathed, and before another word could be spoken, distant pops could be heard, the ground starting to rumble and shake under his feet. Suddenly, a wave of mercenaries shot past them, and Steve finally caught sight of blinking boxes at the front doors. Spying them as well, and noting the placement of his and Parker's physical bodies, Lang jerked back in horror.
"Oh, shit!" he screamed, the blinking of the boxes pausing, the last few seconds counting down. The captain sprang forward, determined to get to them before the bombs went off.
"Watch out!" he yelled, just as the counters clicked and bright fire spat out. The force of the blasts rocked him backward, threw him and Lang to the ground. Shattered supports and concrete rained down, chunks spilling and rolling around them as they were loosed upon the steps. The metal sculpture of the twisted gun was dented, swaying precariously as the ground shook for several long seconds. Plumes of dust and smoke rose into the sky, marring the blue with the wafting black and gray. Soon enough, the percussive and physical assault of the explosions wore off, and Steve lowered his shield, pulling himself up from the crouch he'd dropped into for safety. To his left, Lang pushed himself onto his knees, shaking his head and brushing the concrete dust from the sleeves of his suit. Tony, having tried to zoom down before the bombs went off, was projected backward by the blast, pushing him squarely into the middle of the fight with the remaining mercenaries in the field. He would get to them as soon as he could. A signal wave glinting off the metal hand of his friend from the roof told Steve that Bucky had survived the crumble of the building beneath him, his position maintained for the most part. Still, he felt the clawing nails of nervousness dig into him as he failed to locate Peter. Screaming out his codename, it took a few moments of the smoke clearing to spot the kid.
Parker was trapped, the layers of the upper levels having collapsed upon him. His hands were held above his head, holding a thick chunk of wall and roof laced liberally with glass up as he stood.
"Ow," the teenager groaned, shaking his head wearily. Though his strength had tripled since his alteration months ago, bracing against pieces of a collapsed building landing atop him was no sinecure. His arms shook a little, and he shuffled in his stance, trying to keep his footing and not bend to the pile of fireblock and concrete pinning him in place. Plaintively, he croaked, "It's heavy. Really heavy."
Noticing his struggle, Steve dipped his chin, beginning to move forward as Lang sprang up from the ground.
"Hang on, kid, we'll get you out," he promised Peter, swinging to lock his shield onto the harness. They had to move quickly, before the boy was crushed under the weight of broken stone and steel.
"ROGERS!" The unwavering, furious cry echoed across the small courtyard, across the steps, and pulled him up short. There stood Brock Rumlow, his scarred face contorted in rage and his eyes blazing with hatred. The stare of curiosity from Scott was obvious, but he did not remark upon it. Instead, he watched as the mercenary, the man with a grudge and no outlet, stride woodenly forward, the tight coil of his body threatening to snap the closer he got. There were no barriers between them now, no rules, no code of conduct. It was real, it was personal, and it would happen. Pointing to him, Rumlow snarled, "You're mine."
"Go," Steve commanded in a low tone to his compatriot. Spotting the flicker of defiance in Lang's posture, he shook his head and jerked his chin towards Peter. "Go help him. I've got this."
A last glance was directed between him and the mercenary, and then Scott heeded the demand, running over to Parker to protect him while he was incapacitated. Circles wound around the steps as the two opponents sized one another up. Precious seconds passed, cold resolve facing flaming ferocity. With an unholy roar, Rumlow ran towards him, and Steve rushed forward, shield retrieved and raised in time for the mercenary to land on it bodily. A flurry of punches and jabs were taken at one another, Rumlow's rebounding off the shield more often than not. However, the mercenary was not deterred by its presence. Grabbing onto its edges, he forced the captain to twist and flip over, forcing him to keep his balance at the expense of loosening the hold upon the defensive item. A sharp kick to the hip, and Steve jerked to the right, pushing him to detach from the shield or risk breaking his arm in the process. Rather than take up the shield for his own use, Rumlow threw it away contemptuously; he didn't need to hide behind a disc, his battle prowess was too great for that. A knife came to hand, the last weapon upon his person after losing the rest in his earlier bout with Wilson. Flipping it in his palm, he brought it down at an angle, attempting to catching an evading Rogers in the shoulder. He was a little too late in his swing, the captain able to dodge it and work his way behind the scarred man. Wrapping one arm around his torso, he forced the fellow up off his feet, hurling him into the stone steps and rolling partway down the flight with him. Ignoring the sharp pains in his back and limbs, Steve got himself upright, kicking away the knife at Rumlow rose, too. It became a match of strength, each man unwilling to give an ground or hold back as they punched and kicked. A blow to his left eye caught Steve off-guard, but he managed to give his own back to Brock as he kneed him in the gut seconds later. More twists and leaps at each other were executed, footing unsteady on the layered steps and the debris of the blast. Using it to his advantage, Rumlow managed to roll his way behind Rogers after falling, springing up and wrapping his arm around the captain's neck from behind. Struggling against the constriction, Steve roughly shoved them both backwards to the wall in the hope that the impact would break the mercenary's hold on him. It failed, and instead Brock clung on harder, like a demented koala determined to kill. As he slapped and pushed against the forearm cutting off his air supply, the captain froze as the mercenary bent his head, his cruel voice dripping with unmasked loathing.
"First you, and then her," he hissed in his ear. His elbow tightened around his throat, a dark promise at the back of his voice as he continued to hang onto him. "Screw Zemo and his rules. Your bitch is gonna regret the day she met you when I find her, after I'm finished here. She'll be begging for the end, for her and the little bastard of yours. I'll make sure of it."
The haze in Steve's eyes cleared, and all he could see was red. Rumlow threatening him was one thing, but his wife? His son? Any hope that he could be spared for detainment and justice went completely out the window; Rumlow would be brought to his knees. Focusing all his power into his own elbow, the captain drove it back, catching the mercenary hard enough in the side to grunt, his hold loosening slightly around his throat. With that bit of leverage, Steve drew in a fast breath, his foot smashing hard into his opponent's, causing him to yelp and release him further. Wedging his arms up and over, he pushed off Rumlow, his onslaught becoming ferocious. Every jab, every punch, every kick launched at the mercenary was filled with the dark fury that was seated deep within him. The pain of the wounds in his arm and leg had dissipated, and he felt nothing but purpose flowing through him. For his part, Rumlow returned the blows as best he could, but he was no match for an outraged, righteous Captain America. Driven from the side of the building back out towards the short flight of stairs, Steve maneuvered the other man closer and closer to his shield, where it had landed earlier. If he could grab it, it could turn the tide of the fight completely. The bodies littering the steps were no more than mere obstacles in both their eyes, their worlds narrowing down to one another as they went. However, in Brock's case, that would be a fatal mistake to make.
Shuffling backward, the mercenary was too distracted by both the captain's unending waves of hits and his own pride in returning them that he failed to be aware of his surroundings. His boots tangled in the legs of one fallen soldier as he tried to move swiftly backward, and he tumbled down, landing solidly on his back. Scrabbling to right himself, to get himself in a less favorable position, his fingers flicked over the concrete, brushing against cooling metal. Unable to subdue the manic glee in his sudden smile, he palmed the hand gun that had been dropped and brought it up, aiming it at the captain's head as he lurched up. The barrel of the gun pressed between his eyes, and Rogers brought up his hands slowly, stance still wide as he all but dared him to follow through. Clipping the other man in the head would be all too easy. Too easy, and therefore too good for him. Instead, he huffed out a wheezing laugh, lowering the pistol so that it was aimed somewhere it would do far more damage. The chest plating of the uniforms provided for the Avengers would no doubt be strong, but at the joins where cloth was weaved with the other materials, it would not be. One shot, and he would watch Captain America bleed out. Thus resolved, he wedged the gun there and moved his finger over the trigger, rotating by turns so that his back was towards the building, towards his means of escape after it was all over. It had to be done, before Rogers worked out a way to disarm him.
Bucky, on the roof, had the pair in his sights the entire time, watching out for Steve as he picked off any other approaching enemies. When his friend was being strangled, he did not have a clear shot, but now, he did. Squeezing the trigger, the kickback plowed into him, and he felt his breath go ragged as both Rumlow and Rogers jerked. The gun in the mercenary's hand had spit fire within those brief moments, one last blow dealt before a bullet pierced through one side of his head to the other. Gracelessly, Brock Rumlow slumped to the side, eyes seeing nothing and jaw slack, succumbing to his death as he fell to the ground. Over him, Rogers braced one hand on his uninjured leg, bending at the waist as the other pressed to his chest. Taking his hand away, he seemed almost surprised to find it stained with blood. Spying the action through his scope, Bucky felt ice invade his veins. His shot had been for nothing. He hadn't acted quickly enough. Somewhere in the background, cheers cut through the air, echoed in his comm, the battle won and the army surrendering as the last leader fell to Natasha's hands. He couldn't hear it, however, over the truth pounding in his brain.
Steve was shot.
Yet somehow he was still moving, despite that. Albeit, he had only made it about two feet away from the dead mercenary, falling to the ground as he tried to numbly pick up his dropped shield. Failing that, he settled for crawling a ways, towards where Ant-Man (Giant Man, really, given how he had to enlarge to do as he was tasked) was helping clear the last of the debris off of Peter. Both of them halted in their endeavor, staring in horror as blood drips followed along with his movements. Above him, Stark hovered, zooming down and landing just beside him.
"Rogers," he barked his leader's name, the barest flicker of a blue eyes at him worrying him far more than his posture. At once, Tony removed his helmet, letting it crash to the ground as he knelt beside him. Tugging on his shoulder, he crowed again, "Cap, Steve!"
A hand weakly slapped back at his, but it was entirely ineffectual.
"Okay...'sokay," Steve slurred, the breath in his throat rattling as he tried to inhale. Looking up, he narrowed his eyes on the white pieces of Peter's mask, as though he thought if he concentrated hard enough, he could see them clearly. "Pete, you alright?"
The stricken look on the teenager's face was not visible, but the rigid set of his body more than made up for it. America's first Avenger was shot, bleeding, and still he asked if he was okay? Carefully, he nodded, tipping his head once to Scott as the older man stared on.
"I'm fine."
"Good," the captain said, the word riding on his exhale just as he collapsed onto his forearms. Staying upright was painful, so painful that he wanted to scream or cry, and he couldn't take it anymore. The adrenaline that had sustained him throughout the battle was draining away, leaving him to deal with the wretched tear and pull upon his body. That, in turn, caused him to tip to the side, more blood dribbling over his uniform. It seemed to trigger some form of uproar, as suddenly voices and hand flurried around him, shoving him back up into a sitting position. His head lolled back, a hard swallow bobbing in his throat. It hurt, and he was so tired...a metal-encased hand tapped at his chin, rousing him.
"Steve, come on, don't do that," Tony instructed, his tone flat as he kept the other palm between his shoulder blades, propping him up. A swish and a grunt echoed in his hearing, Bucky being flown down by the Vision as he had requested after the shot was made. Both man and android had joined the ring of stunned onlookers, electric blue eyes scanning over him swiftly.
"The bullet, it didn't exit," the Vision reported, a tremor of worry lacing his voice as he examined the captain. "Though it was a clean shot between the front plates, it is stuck in the back ones. Entry and exit wound are clear. However, there's also the arm and the leg wounds to contend with."
Those wounds were bleeding as well, but not at the rate the chest wound was. There were also potentially cracked bones, a split lip and bruising around the face to contend with, but there was no question about where the priority lay.
"Let's worry about the chest first," Stark recommended, his own dark gaze peering at the injury. "He's gonna bleed out if we don't do something."
Given his personal knowledge of chest wounds, one would be hard-pressed not to take his word for it. The spoken thought should have made Steve at least a little nervous, but all he could feel was muted pain and his labored breathing. Out the corner of his eye, he saw the Vision's head bob up and down.
"Applying pressure will staunch the flow of blood for a time, but not long."
The course decided upon, Ant-Man lurched forward to help as they began to wrestle off his helmet and plating, back to his normal stature. Gauntlets were peeled away, and another hazy thought came to mind as Steve let them do it.
"Help others...call..." he muttered, his hand reaching up and tapping his ear. Someone had to call in the rescue crews, now that the battle had turned and was won. With the others so occupied, Steve stared hard at Bucky, urging him to do what he could not. Taken aback by it, he managed to act immediately, tapping into the channel and giving the commands as Stark and Lang began to tug off the rest of the captain's upper armor.
"Evac teams, you are go for entry! We need medical onsite immediately, we have civilians and team members down. Anyone still on their feet, start doing sweeps," he said, barely waiting for confirmation to be parroted back at him before kneeling on the ground. With the armor off, the blood began to flow heavily for a moment. With the reinforced strength of his suit, Stark pressed his palms hard against both exit and entry wounds in the chest and back. Sacrificing his jacket, Bucky and Scott tore off the sleeves to use as makeshift bandages around the injured arm and leg, the kid going with the Vision to signal the medics when they came. Glancing up, he gasped, "Hold on, Steve."
This wasn't supposed to happen. Not to America's Golden Boy, not to him. Not to his friend. If anybody deserved to be shot, Bucky reckoned it should be himself. God, Rogers had to make it. In turn, Steve merely grunted, head drooping and eyelids fluttering shut.
"Focus, Rogers," Tony said, the desperate edge in his voice sneaking out. Weary blue eyes blinked open, staring at nothing as his head slowly tipped back up. Not liking that one bit, the billionaire cleared his throat, issuing another command. "Look at me, look at the face that irritates you the most and watch it intently. Count all the gray hairs if you have to, there's a ton of them now."
To his credit, Steve did his best to follow the instructions, a weak laugh coming out as he lolled his head to look at him. His gaze cleared enough to the point that it looked like he was concentrating, but it did not last. Soon enough, his focus wandered, and Stark's heart gave a terrible thump.
"Sorry, Tony," he muttered, and a startling flash of sorrow seared through the billionaire.
"You can't do this right now, man. Not you, too," he whispered, his palms pressing in hard enough to draw out another hiss of pain from his friend. No matter how far they'd gone, no matter how terrible things had gotten, he never wanted to see this happen. He didn't want his friend to...he couldn't allow himself to complete the thought. The thickness in his throat caught up to him, and he could barely clear it. "Your kid needs his stick-in-the-mud dad, come on."
At that, Steve's eyes shut, and his jaw gritted hard. His free hand clenched, his body doing what it could to fight back. A stray tear or two leaked from beneath the lids, the throb of pain intensifying. It just hurt so much, and he was so tired...the din and wail of sirens melted away, fading along with the voices of his friends as he listened to his own labored breathing. In, and out. In, out. New voices cut through his awareness, but he did not look up.
"Captain Rogers," someone called out to him, and he could not make himself answer back. So tired, so tired...
"Holl," he murmured, the name on his lips like a prayer as the world filtered around him, graying and blurring just as an oxygen mask was slipped over his face.
A/N:...So how many of you hate me right now?
I know some of you have been waiting for the other shoe to drop for awhile now...how big of a drop do you reckon that was? Steve's about in the shape that he was in after the helicarrier disaster...instead the wounds are a bit deeper than before. Just bear in mind, the story isn't over yet. We still have a ways to go. Still have to find out what happened with the rest of the teams...and how Holly's going to take the news.
I own nothing from the MCU, nor do I own any pop culture references made in the text (Marvel comics, etc.).
Thanks for reading, please review, and I'll see you all for the next one.