warning: flashbacks, recovery, violence, temporary amnesia
Washington DC
April 10, 2014
Some people find it impossible to believe that a person can go to sleep and wake up as someone else, with a new identity.
But that is what happens to the Asset.
It goes to sleep as the Asset and wakes up the next morning as the Winter Soldier, and he (he, not it, because the Winter Soldier is a person, not an object) is angry.
The Winter Soldier, or simply the Soldier, was once the pride and joy of the Soviet Union's Red Room.
He can speak over seventeen different languages flawlessly, including Arabic, Bulgarian, Mandarin, Greek, Hindi, Gaelic, Japanese, Romanian, and Thai. He has built up immunity to over a dozen common lethal toxins, not just because of his enhanced biology. He can run up to a mile a minute, disable a bomb under three. He can make impossible shots with a rifle from over a thousand yards away, can take down dozens of men twice his size with only a knife or his bare fists.
Under the direction of the Red Room, he had over three hundred successful missions, less than fifty of those being kill missions. Even the strongest-willed men and women fell prey to his seduction. He spent eight months seamlessly undercover as a Croatian rug merchant.
The Winter Soldier is, was, the perfect weapon, one who could think for himself but one ruthless and without basic empathy, which made him almost completely obedient.
At least, he'd had a personality.
HYDRA ruined that.
HYDRA destroyed everything about the Winter Soldier.
They took him and wiped him off everything that the Soldier had. They crafted him into a less effective form, like a blunt knife.
They treated him as something less than a dog, stripped him of his mind and his dignity.
The Asset was not meant to be out in the world, alone, for more than a few days at a time. Its programming was unstable, uncomplete, unpolished.
No wonder it crumbled the way that it did.
The Winter Soldier may currently be extremely disoriented and barely able to function, but, if there is one fact he is sure of, it is that HYDRA is the enemy.
The Asset was right; they will not be returning to HYDRA.
Nor will be they chasing HYDRA.
They will be running.
XX
Washington DC
April 10, 2014
The memories flicker across his mind, fragments, stones thrown in a pond but cause no ripples.
the familiar feel of the cool metal of a rifle under his worn fingertips, sight focused on the target, breaths drawn in slowly, once, twice, thrice, the trigger pulled, the bullet finding its mark, the same action repeated countless times, in Russia, in Belarus, in Iran, in Estonia, in Bosnia, in Sovokia, in Egypt, in Libya
or
watching a blonde pirouette and leap in the spotlight, her body, the same body he has felt below his, moving with fluid grace to the sweet music
or
the same blonde as before panting sweetly in his ear
or
feeling the strength, the deadly elegance in her thigh, as they wrap around his neck, squeezing, constricting, as she twists, and suddenly he is flat on his back, metal arm reaching to thread in her hair and rip her off
or
countless men, women, children begging for their lives before-
-he jerks awake.
There is nothing but blankness now, but, before, there had been color flitting before his eyes, slippery fish that escaped from his gasp.
The Soldier is now sharply aware of his surroundings. He is still tucked in the alley, high exposed for anyone HYDRA to find him.
The Soldier knows that he has (or had, may still have) a dozen drop boxes across the country alone, circa 1975, and while all the passport and travel documents will be out of order, it is the simple matter of finding the right contacts.
The Winter Soldier can do that; he can do all that.
But there is one more thing, one last mission before that, one last task.
Nik.
The name his last target had called him on the helicarrier, the name the blonde Captain had addressed him with familiarity.
The Soldier must discover who Nik is to him before he can proceed.
XX
The Smithsonian Museum
Washington DC
April 11, 2014
There it is, the Soldier's own face staring back at him, imprinted on the smooth glass wall that takes up one corner of the Captain America exhibit at the Smithsonian.
It is indubitably his face, but it is also not.
The image before him is of a handsome man.
His face is narrow with sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw, and lips tugged into a perpetual smirk. If it were not for the black and white print of the picture, the Soldier knows that the man's hair would be dirty-blond, always in tousled curls unless teased back with pomade as it almost always consistently was, that his eyes would be dark blue, clear and crystalline.
He knows his own face, but he doesn't know why he shares it with this man.
The words embossed on the transparent glass tell a story, a story about two men from Brooklyn and an undying loyalty that made one follow the other from the playground to the battlefield.
"A Fallen Comrade"
When Nik Mikaelson first met Steve Rogers in the playgrounds of Brooklyn, little did he know that he was forging a bond that would take him to the battlefields of Europe and beyond.
Niklaus Ansel "Nik" Mikaelson
Born on March 10, 1917, Mikaelson grew up an elder brother to Rebekah Mikaelson (b. 1924). He was the first son of Mikael and Esther Mikaelson and soon first child after his elder sister Freya died of pneumonia in 1919. An excellent athlete who also excelled in the classroom, Mikaelson enlisted in the Army shortly after the attack on Pearl Harbor. After winter training at Camp McCoy, Wisconsin, Mikaelson and the rest of the 107th shipped out to the Italian front. Captured by HYDRA troops later that fall, Mikaelson endured long periods of isolation, deprivation, and torture. But his will was strong. In an ironic twist of fate, his prison camp was liberated by none other than his childhood friend, Steve Rogers, now Captain America.
Reunited, Mikaelson and Rogers led Captain America's newly formed unit, the Howling Commandos. Mikaelson's marksmanship was invaluable as Rogers and his team destroyed HYDRA bases and disrupted Nazi troop movements throughout the European Theatre.
Nik Mikaelson
1917-1945
The Soldier feels as if he should know something, remember something, understand something, but he doesn't.
He stares at the words made permanent on the glass, stares at them until his eyes begin to burn, begin to fill with water from the effort of keeping them open so long, and waits.
When nothing happens, he turns on his heel and exits the exhibit, abandoning the words in his wake.
Whoever Nik Mikaelson was, that is not who the Soldier is now.
XX
Miami, Florida
April 13, 2014
After three bus rides across the East Coast, from Washington DC to Raleigh, from Raleigh to Atlanta, from Atlanta to Tallahassee, the Winter Soldier finally arrives in Miami.
It's a simple matter of tracing the same path he had gone down over forty years ago until he stumbles upon the abandoned warehouse.
The Soldier is highly fortunate that the warehouse had not be demolished in the last four decades, but when he had chosen the spot, he had based his choice on the legends of bad luck that Miami locals associated with the warehouse.
He ducks through the rotting boards, punching termite- or water-damaged wood with his metal fist to clear a large enough hole. Most of the warehouse is vast, empty space, but the Soldier allows his muscle memory to guide him to a durable metal cabinet hidden by the shadows in a far corner.
With relative ease, the Soldier is able to shove the cabinet to the right, the dreadful screech of the metal on concrete magnified to his sensitive hearing, until the dull shine of the panel tacked to the wall is visible.
The panel is made of and reinforced to the wall with a high-quality alloy of regular steel and some rare vibranium that had cost the Soldier a pretty penny in 1974 to have welded to meet his specific constraint. It would take four men and a crowbar to pry the panel from the wall.
It takes the Soldier both his hands to pry it off, and the metal clatters loudly to the ground.
The Soldier reaches into the now-revealed compartment in the wall and retrieves a tightly-shut lockbox that he manages to rip the lid off of, the weak metal crumpling under his inorganic fist.
Inside the box are passports from a dozen different countries, all with his face and all invalid, roughly two thousand dollars in bills of twenties, and weaponry. The two handguns, three knives, and one grenade (the Soldier almost smirks at the sight of the grenade in the box) are all courtesy of the Red Room, meant to have been top-of-the-line when they were placed in the lockbox, and are placed into the Soldier's dwindling collection.
When the lockbox is empty of everything but the passports, the Soldier strips himself of the few remaining weapons he had had on him from before the helicarriers and the HYDRA safehouse and tosses them to the floor. To the slowly growing pile he also adds the trackers and bugs he had either dug out from under his skin or from his arm.
He douses everything in the gasoline he brought, leaving the empty can in the warehouse for extra measure as he climbs back out through the hole he entered.
With steady hands, he strikes the match against the matchbox, the tiny flame produced dancing harmlessly against the metal of his palm.
Then he tosses the match at the rotting wood and steps back, waiting for the warehouse to begin to burn.
There is a large explosion when the flame finally makes contact with the gasoline, and the Winter Soldier can feel the dry heat blasting across his face.
The Soldier's lips curl into a genuine smirk as he watches the vestiges of HYDRA's Asset burn.
XX
Bucharest, Romania
November 4, 2014
"Enjoy your night," the elderly lady calls to him in Romanian as he exits the quaint bakery to the quiet twinkle of bells.
"Thank you, ma'am," he cries over his shoulder as he begins his daily walk back to his apartment building. For an evening, it is, as usual, grey and cold, and the chill nips at his exposed neck until he cinches his thick scarf tighter, burrowing his gloved hands into his coat's pockets. Despite the three or so layers he had donned early this morning, he is still shivering, and he breaks his slow march into a quick stride.
The street around him is silent with muted color, not a single soul in sight, but he closes his eyes, tips back his head, and allows his mind to wander back to the earlier morning when the world had been awash with sound and bright sun, with children playing out loudly in front of the small antique shop he worked at, the chatter of patrons from the café across the street filtering in through the flimsy glass.
The Winter Soldier's existence is an isolated and dull one, and he finds pleasure in simple things in between shifting and running from country to country. Watching civilians' mundane life, the sun warming his body on a summer day, flipping through books, all actions and moments that most took for granted, but his past in the Red Room and as the Asset make him appreciate them intensely.
Finally arriving in front of his apartment building, the Soldier shoves his way past the skinny doorway and makes his way up the three flights of stairs, footsteps thundering loudly through the empty corridor when he reaches his floor.
After unlocking the door to his apartment, he reaches and twists the doorknob, once, twice, a third time, before accepting that it will not open.
In the end, he grabs the doorknob and shoves the door inward but not with enough brute force to cause any damage.
Then he enters his apartment, slamming the door shut behind him with his human hand.
His apartment is exactly what one will receive if they are paying the Romanian equivalent of $300 per month without proof of identity.
One bedroom, a single ratty couch with a grungy pillow that came with the apartment and serves as his bed, a hotplate, and a broken-down refrigerator. There is a small bathroom off to the side, inconsistent with its running water, where he heads after unbuttoning his coat and tossing it and his scarf and gloves on the couch.
The Soldier shuts the bathroom door with his foot and drops both his hands onto the rim of the sink, the servos in his metal arm whirring quietly at the movement
After splashing water in his face and patting it dry, the Soldier surveys himself in the stained mirror, the harsh lines of his face, severe creases under his eyes shadowing the deep blue of his pupils, the light curls growing raggedly but still falling above his eyebrows, golden stubble dusting his jawline.
He does not look like the long-haired, clean-shaven Asset from the Washington DC attack; there is a vibrancy to his eyes and face that he can never remember from the paltry memories he has as the Asset and before, from the Red Room.
In his pitiful excuse for a kitchen, he retrieves the bread rolls he bought and heats them on the hotplate, eating on the couch as he reads his battered copy of Greek and Roman myths.
When he is done, he places his book back into his backpack, the most valued possession. It contains all his weapons not strapped to his body, a spare sweatshirt, three long-sleeved shirts, one pair of jeans, a few spare pairs of underwear and socks, two books, his cash, and the journal he bought two months ago that he jots down memories and dreams in.
The journal is his lifeline, his tangible link to his past. Due to the fact that most of the memories he has recalled were in the form of dreams and dissipated as soon as he roused from his sleep, the journal contains only two filled pages, but it is more than he has ever had.
The couch below his body is lumpy and hard, and the Soldier nearly rolls off trying to curl into a comfortable position, but his body, and soul, is aching and weary, and it is not so difficult to drift into the limbo of sleep.
XX
Bucharest, Romania
November 5, 2014
It is she, the blonde woman he is familiar with from her constant appearances in his dreams. She is seated on a tan couch, posture stiff and slightly unnatural. It takes him a moment to figure out that she is posing, staring at someone in front of her, arched eyebrows raised expectantly.
She is posing for him, he who perches on a stool, sketchbook and graphite and pencil in his lap, hand hovering above the smooth paper, pencil tilted to capture the beauty of her frowning yet still gorgeous face.
"Are you done, Nick?" she asks impatiently, cerulean eyes darting around the room.
"Almost, sweetheart," he replies distractedly, voice unusually rich and cultured. He makes a few more strokes on his paper with the pencil. He appears to be shading something in. "One second."
"It was supposed to be a quick sketch," the blonde complains, but her lips are beginning to twitch with mirth.
"One more second," he murmurs, a look of fierce concentration on his face, tongue tucked between his cheek, eyebrows creased. He traces a line on the paper. "Done," he announces triumphantly.
"Can I see?"
Nick slides the sketchbook from his knee and lifts it, offering it to the blonde. She takes it in hand, perusing the page eagerly.
There is an odd beat of silence.
After a minute, she speaks up, voice tight with an indistinguishable emotion. "Nick?" she says simply.
"Yes, Car—ne?"
When speaking the blonde's name, there is an odd spacey quality in his voice, censoring her name from the dream memory?.
"You were supposed to be sketching me, your beloved wife," the blonde tells Nick.
"Yes?"
"You sketched the couch."
Nick hums indifferently. "It is a nice couch."
"You bastard," she says flatly.
"Now, sweetheart, it is not nice to call each other names-oomph."
Whatever Nick was about to say is left unsaid as he is tackled by his wife.
They land on the floor, the blonde straddling her husband. She grins suggestively at him, biting her lip, before swooping down to plant a kiss on his lips.
"Sorry." Nick takes advantage of her distraction to roll over, pinning the blonde below him. "This is better."
He leans down to rest his forehead against his wife's, gazing into her gorgeous eyes, as they breath together, slowly, the rest of the world fading away until they remain in their small bubble.
"Car—ne?"
"Yeah, Nick?"
"I love-"
There is a quiet thud, as if someone has stepped too loudly then stumbled to mask the sound.
The Soldier is up and awake instantly, hand flying to the gun strapped to his left abdomen. He grabs it and the gun tucked into the waistband of his trousers, fingering the knife in his boot to ensure it remains.
He dives off the couch and rolls behind the counter in his kitchen just as the door bursts open and the first bullets begin to fly.
He dodges the missiles, darting up quickly after the bullets clatter to the ground to fire his gun three times, straight into the heads of three different HYDRA agents, before flinging the knife into the gut of a fourth. He takes a half-breath before readying to fire again.
"Nope," a voice he vaguely recognizes announces. "There will be none of that." The owner of the voice sounds detached but irritated.
There is something roiling in the Soldier's gut that he believes could be fear.
In a barely-calculated move, he rushes from behind the counter to attack HYDRA.
"Sputnik."
The command trigger word, properly accented in Russian, activated a failsafe in his mind, and he freezes mid-leap, tumbling harmlessly to the ground, as his brain and body both shut down.
"Huh?" the voice says, sounding surprised and disbelieving. "It actually worked."
Yes, it did, the Asset and Soldier both want to scream.
Pain blossoms across his body, and he slips heavily into unwanted unconsciousness.
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