When Winter Strikes

3. Straight in the Eye

The first few weeks of James' new life in his 'home' city were difficult to say the least. Finding lodgings was nearly impossible: his arm scared most people, and he didn't have money for inns or hostels, so he resorted to sleeping in stables and workshops, waking up as early as possible so he could sneak out before being caught. For food and money he either stole and pickpocket or answered menial exchange ads: manual labour for food and lodgings, a week's work with pay, etc. As soon as he had enough for new clothes he bought a longer-sleeved tunic and gloves, concealing the ever-shining metal of his false arm and making it easier for him to find jobs.

Over the course of several weeks he got himself involved in a variety of projects, from temporary farmhand to construction work, but never once did he answer the call for a mercenary. He knew how skilled he was at killing already. It was not a road he particularly wanted to re-visit any time soon, not if he could have a choice about it, and he currently seemed to spend enough time killing people in his memories anyway. Just as Betty had warned, the memory bombardment continued. Not one night passed where he didn't recover at least one new detail about a contract that had been repressed, a target closed off to him, a slaughter pushed into his mind's recesses. On particularly bad nights, it was hard to leave whatever corner he'd fallen asleep in once he'd woken. If they didn't leave him in some degree of discomfort, the memories choked him with guilt, and only the Khalidoran programming for survival made him seek out sustenance and income.

What still eluded him were his childhood memories. The Meisters told him that Cenaria City had been where he was born, so that made it his hometown, but he recognised very little of it. Many of the people he worked for told him not to venture east of the Plith, into what was known as the Warrens, and he never asked why; something in his gut told him the place was bad, and that was enough. The same people also inadvertently fed him information about the city's nobility, and he began to recognise some of the names that frequently cropped up: well-known families like the Odinsons and Carters, up-and-coming ones like the Rogers family, the fast disappearing Borson line – King Odin looked to be the last, and was yet to name an heir – and the families all looking to increase their standing, such as the Wilsons, the Prydes, the Murdocks, the Wagners, and many more. The gossip never seemed to last long, apart from the incident involving a Laufeyson and a Darkhölme.

"D'you 'ear 'bout the latest noble scandal?" a fellow construction worker asked him one day.

James shook his head. "Never do."

"Bloody typical," the man grumbled. "All the same up there. That Laufeyson or wha'ever 'is name is broke up with 'is missus, some Darkhölme lass. 'Ole family celebrated, 'parently. Can y'believe?"

"Unfortunately, I can."

"Gone off with some Lensherr kid now, she 'as. Can't see 'ow they're much diff'rent, t'be honest." The man grunted, swinging the hammer down particularly hard. "Tell ya, lad, y're better off down 'ere, with us common men. 'Ey – d'you know why we're called 'common'? Eh? 'Cause we got common sense, lad, that's why!"

Neither disagreeing nor agreeing, James just smiled and got on with his work, listening to the man moan and whine about nobility for the remainder of the job. It was a relief to get away with him, but their conversation also made James realise something: nearly everyone groused and complained about the triviality of the nobles, but at the mention of the under-city rulers conversation could be expected to make a sudden and sharp detour. It left James curious – nobody really told him much about the Sa'kagé, except that they were dark, cold, and very efficient at getting what they wanted. Some individuals were brave enough to speculate that the Sa'kagé actually controlled the city, not King Odin, but others claimed that they were working under his nose. Either way, the general consensus was that Sa'kagé folk were not the kind you crossed.

After weeks of earning minimum pay and scraping by on irregular 'meals', James finally saw an ad that, for the money they were offering, seemed manageable: it was an archery contest to be held in a couple of weeks in the city centre, and the prize money was a figure James only remembered seeing on trade bills he'd stolen on missions. With that kind of money under his name, he'd easily be able to pay rent for lodgings – hell, maybe even buy a small place for himself. He made a note of the date and bought a bow set for training; not that he needed it much, but he wanted to make sure his skills hadn't dulled. Ignoring each remembered face that flashed in place of the makeshift targets he set up, he practised long and hard in the hopes that he might get a decent night's sleep before the contest. If anything, excitement made him sleep less.

When at last the day of the contest dawned, James took himself to the contestants' chambers at the edge of the stadium for examination. The maja in charge introduced herself as Sister Virginia Potts, a pretty red-head with a very professional manner, and she explained the rules.

"Competitors are placed into brackets at random, then it's a straight shoot-out: five arrows each, best of three, highest score goes through to the next round. Standard scoring applies and there is a judge. What he says goes, so don't contest anything he says too much or he may disqualify you."

"Charming," James muttered as Sister Potts came to his left arm. He'd worn the long-sleeved tunic he'd bought, hoping the sleeves would cover the weaves as well as the metal, but apparently not.

"What's this?" He opened his mouth to try and explain, but decided the easiest option was to just roll up his sleeve – so that was what he did. The Sister's eyes widened. "Goodness," she said. "That I was not expecting."

A slight panic began to crawl its way up the back of James' neck. "It's not gonna get me into trouble is it?" he asked. "I mean, it's not special or anything – I don't even use it to draw."

Sister Potts frowned at the weaves for a couple of minutes, fingers skimming over the metal limb as if brushing dust away. "I don't see anything immediately wrong with it," she said at last, "but you might want to keep it covered, lest the judge decides differently." Stepping away from him, she picked up a large sheet of parchment, unrolling it to reveal a list of competitors and the brackets they'd been placed in. "Your examination's complete," she said. "All I need now is your name, then you're free to go."

"James," he told her. Hand hovering over the page, she looked up at him with a raised eyebrow.

"That's very understated for a stage name."

Oh. James frowned; the last 'stage name' he'd had was not one that would go down well with a Cenarian crowd – hell, anybody who kept up to date with killings and murders would go into a frenzy on the spot at those words. So he thought for a minute, eventually allowing himself a slightly cocky smile as he told the Sister: "Bullseye." The way she rolled her eyes told him that she was used to cock-sure attitudes, but 'Bullseye' was added to the roster anyway.

"Wait, there's just one more thing," Sister Potts called as he was halfway out the door. "Just to let you know, there are Talent Spotters present in the stadium tonight. Any sign of you using your Talent and you'll be disqualified instantly."

He nodded. "Thanks, but I'm not Talented."

She frowned, surprising him by saying, "Yes you are – you're immensely Talented."

"I am?" Talent, he knew, was a form of magic present in most people to varying degrees. He had no idea if he was Talented or not, but because the Meisters had never taught him to use it he assumed he wasn't. Sister Potts was suggesting the opposite.

She nodded, brow still drawn in confusion. "How could you not know?"

Sensing the conversation would curve to bring in his past (the one part of his memories still to be recovered) James left before she could say anything else. He guessed his confusion would convince Sister Potts that he wasn't going to pull any Talent-related stunts during his rounds, but her disbelief at his ignorance unsettled him. Why hadn't the Meisters groomed him to use his Talent? There was no way they could have been as oblivious as he was, so there were only two possibilities remaining: one, they had taught him how to use it and he'd forgotten; two, they'd been scared by the size of his Talent, and had kept it secret from him. He was willing to bet on the most likely truth being the latter.

As much as he wanted to think this new revelation over, there wasn't much time. The contest had begun as soon as he reached the stands, and his attention was devoted to scoping out his opponents. Their display of skill was underwhelming, and their scores matched the feeling. The audience clapped after each man or woman emptied their five arrows into the target, but they only properly reacted if the score was above one hundred. A couple of individuals looked interesting, but one character was clearly in a class of his own – the commentator named him Hawkeye, and each arrow he loosed landed centimetres from his target's centre.

"So that's their boy," James heard one man murmur behind him as Hawkeye left the stadium.

"You mean…?" another voice asked in a low tone.

The first man scoffed. "Come on – did you really think the Sa'kagé would pass up an opportunity to remind us all who's in charge?"

"Shh!" his friend hissed. "They could kill you for that!"

"Let them," the first grunted. "Can't see why they would, though. Just a waste of their time."

Their words still rang in his ears as James made his way down to take up his place in the stadium. Hawkeye was a Sa'kagé agent. That explained a few things, and made something inside him curl in anger. There were some people in this contest (himself included) who needed that money, and from what he knew of the Sa'kagé, money was not a problem for them. They were effectively robbing the people.

When at last he had a bow in his hands James used his anger to great effect. His final scores came out as good as Hawkeye's, and the crowd were much more receptive to him than the first. He left the stadium in a better mood than when he'd entered, but the first person he ran into flipped him back into the darker feelings too soon.

"Nice shooting." Hawkeye was stood with an easy grin on his face, hands crossed as he leant on the tip of his bow. "Military?"

James glowered at him. "Old hobby."

"Huh. You're pretty good for a hobbyist."

"What does that make you? An assassin?" If he had to admit it to himself, this Hawkeye guy was the last person James would mark as a killer for hire. Roughly a similar height to him he was leanly toned, with more muscle in his upper arms, had dirty blonde hair and cool, blue-grey eyes that watched him sharply. The way he grinned at James' comment threw him off a little, too. Maybe the men he'd overheard had been wrong…

"Assassin's ain't got nothing on me," Hawkeye said, a wicked glint in his eyes. "I'm the best shot in this city, and they know it."

The guy was cocky. James could match that. "Yeah? Well I guess I'll need extra convincing when we go head to head."

Hawkeye laughed. "Dude, I really hope we do!"

'Dude'. Huh. James couldn't remember the last time he'd heard anybody call anyone 'dude' – but the address was distantly familiar… Worried about dragging up more demons from his past he turned his back on the supposed Sa'kagé archer.

The rest of the contest passed by in a blur. James became adamant that he'd wipe the grin off Hawkeye's face, and used each round as practise for the final. There was no doubt it would be him and Hawkeye – the rest of the competition couldn't even come close to their scores, and everyone in the stadium knew it. It made him smile, though, to hear the audience rally behind him more so than Hawkeye. Perhaps they thought he was some kind of anti-Sa'kagé defiant, and as much as he didn't want to be seen as a poster boy for anything of the sort he realised he the crowd's support was a morale boost if nothing else. Perhaps it would even phase Hawkeye out a little.

Nope. When his first five arrows landed home in their usual areas, Hawkeye took the meagre applause as if they'd given him a standing ovation, not out of ignorance, but arrogance, James thought. In contrast, the way the crowd began chanting "Bullseye!" over and over when he stepped up was humbling. After he landed the same first score as Hawkeye, the noise was deafening.

"Just a hobby, huh?" the archer asked as James returned to the bench. He gave no more than a shrug in return, and sat back to wait until his next go.

All five of Hawkeye's arrows found the centre of the target. It took the crowd a moment to process the score the judge related to them, after which a slow, reluctant applause started up. This gave way to a deafening roar when James stepped up to the plate (ignoring a wink from Hawkeye as they passed one another), and he suddenly felt as if he was shooting not just for him, but for them too, against all the injustice the Sa'kagé had ever wrought from the shadows of the city. As soon as the judge had silenced them, he steadied his breathing, nocked his first arrow, and drew it back.

Five minutes later he was watching Hawkeye receive the golden arrow trophy someone had fashioned, trying not to let the false smile on his face slip. The crowd loved him, were upset to see him lose, but he didn't want to be a role model for bad losing. He shook Hawkeye's hand, raised the other in farewell to the crowd as he disappeared, then kicked an empty barrel over in the competitors' tent to vent his frustration. Sitting down and dropping his head into his hands, he realised his righteous anger was somewhat ironic – hadn't he done worse as Khalidor's puppet, killing people and their families just because a Vurdmeister claimed the Godking didn't like them? Because it wasn't just people outside of Khalidor he'd been sent to kill. The more naïve would laugh if he told them treason existed in the Godking's realm, but that was only because he was the reason they'd never heard of it.

"Hey, you okay?"

Looking up, James found the last person he wanted to see stood before him. Without thinking, he lashed out, too enraged to feel disappointed when his fist just grazed the air in front of him. "Happy now, asshole?" he bit out.

Hawkeye frowned. "Excuse me?"

"Flaunted your skills and took the reward that was laid out for you all along!" he yelled. "This was all a set up!"

"Hey –"

"Didn't it occur to you that some of us may have needed that money to survive?"

To his confusion, Hawkeye scoffed. "Money? You think I did that for the money?" Before James could answer, he held up a hand. "Just so you know, there was no prize fund. It was just a ruse to get people to enter."

James felt his jaw go slack. Up until that moment, he hadn't really meant the words he'd thrown out, but now it made sense. "So… it really was a set up? You weren't even playing your best…"

"And it nearly killed me, but if I'd hit perfect every time people would've started calling me out."

"Then why?" he demanded. "Why give people false hope if they don't have a chance?"

"For entertainment." Hawkeye gestured to the outside of the tent, where the hum of gossip was still prominent. "Those people wanted a show, and we gave it to them. If it was a little tailored from the beginning, who cares? They had a good time. They got their money's worth."

James faltered. It all seemed very un-Sa'kagé-like, yet at the same time it reeked of the under-city organisation. "So, what would've happened if I had won?" he asked eventually, letting the tiniest of smirks pull at the corner of his mouth.

Hawkeye barked out a laugh. "I'd have been made to clean out the slave pits for a year!" He must have been exaggerating, but then where the Sa'kagé were concerned, anything was possible. "Hey, I just wanted to say though: you were pretty good out there. Best opponent I've faced in a while."

"Cheers," James muttered.

"No, seriously, I had to actually start being bothered just to beat you!" That was… comforting. "Look, you're new around here, right? No offence or nothing, but you look like you could use some help."

He snorted. "Do I?"

"Afraid so. But I know someone who could offer you that help."

"I don't want to work for the Sa'kagé."

"Didn't say you would be."

"But not denying it either."

Hawkeye's lips twitched, the only indication he was fighting off a smirk. "Everything I say next is true, and I'm only gonna say this once, so hear me out – it isn't often that people catch my eye the way you did. I can see you've got skill, and I can also see that, shooting contests aside, it's being wasted. Now my boss, he can help you put that skill to good use – hell, he'd be glad to – and in return he'll give you what you need: food, shelter, clothes, money, you name it. I know you've got your reservations, but at least come and meet him. I'd vouch for you, if that's any consolation."

James wanted to say no, but the word just sat on his tongue. He turned Hawkeye's words over in his mind, and couldn't deny that shooting had felt good – better than the strain of construction work, anyway. The promise of food and shelter was tempting too, as was the possibility of finding out a little more about the Sa'kagé. Finally, he sighed. "Not saying yes, but… I'll meet this boss of yours."

"Glad to hear it. I'll take you there now." James agreed, and Hawkeye stepped forward, hand extended. "It's Clint, by the way. Clint Barton."

"James." This time, the handshake was genuine.

Dusk was just settling down over the land when Bruce looked up from his stock list at the noise of surprise that came from Betty. "What is it?"

She held up the letter in her hands. "Pepper sent this today. Apparently she was doing the examinations for an archery contest and she came across an interesting character. Remember James?"

Bruce frowned. "The man with the memory weaves?"

"He had a metal arm." She tapped the paper. "Pepper says one of the competitors was not only astonishingly Talented, and just as oblivious to the fact, but also had a metal arm covered in protective weaves. It can't be a coincidence."

He agreed. "Does she say how he did?"

"Um… Second, apparently. Lost to the Sa'kagé."

"There's a surprise," he grunted.

Betty came over to his desk, a comforting hand on his shoulder. "At least it means they're not interested in us anymore."

"You mean me," he muttered, but gave her hand a squeeze. They each returned to their reading for a few minutes more before he had to give up, his mind distracted by the reminder of the memory spells. "Have you ever thought about those weaves?" he asked his wife.

"Which weaves?"

"Those memory ones." He rubbed his chin, staring out of the window. "I just can't think who would put them there. Jean and Charles are dead, Emma would never do something so malicious, so that only leaves Stephen, but…"

Betty frowned slightly. "Bruce, nobody knows where he is," she said softly.

"Then how did he know to find me?"

"Maybe he ran into Emma?"

He shook his head. "But would she make him hide that fact?" Betty couldn't answer. "James said he came from the mountains. Maybe –"

"Bruce, whatever you're planning –"

"If Stephen's out there I have to find him," he insisted. "I know – I know he likes to keep to himself, but disappearing off the grid isn't like him, Betty. I want to know… I have to know that he's okay."

"As well as why he did what he did to that poor man?" she asked quietly.

He sighed. "If it was him, then yes."

They regarded each other for a minute before Betty folded away Pepper's letter and stood up. "I'll make a start on the packing, then."

Bruce blinked at her. "What… Betty, you don't have to –"

"If you think I'm letting you journey towards Khalidor on your own, Bruce Banner, we may need to discuss our marital status," she called, disappearing into the back room. Despite himself, Bruce smiled fondly after her. He closed the stock book and pushed it to one side, pulling a map of Midcyru out from his drawers and unfurling it to plot a route.

It was past dusk by the time Clint returned to the house he'd left James in, apparently needing to go ahead and talk to his boss first. When they set off the streets were practically empty, save for a few homeless kids and street beggars hoping to catch a few more coins or supplies from late night traders, and not one of them, James noticed, dared to approach either him or Clint. He suspected they knew Clint was Sa'kagé, or at least that he was a damn good shot with a bow and arrow. In fact, the archer still had his equipment strung on his back, the dark wood of the bow barely visible in the dimming light.

"Specially-reinforced ebony," Clint said as they walked. "It retains its strength but the spells make it a little more flexible. Lighter too, but just so that it doesn't sink."

"When would it sink?"

"That's what I said, but they don't want to take the chance that I'll drop it into water or something." He scoffed. "Like I'd ever drop a bow!"

They walked to the edge of the city, and James got his first proper look at the Warrens before nightfall; there wasn't much to see, even with the last rays of sun still lingering overhead, but it was obvious the place was still active. Clint noticed him watching, and came to stand next to him.

"I'm sure I don't need to tell you to keep out of there," he said. "Especially at night. Guild rats'll do anything to get money off you, and when they're not picking your pockets they're at each other's throats."

James swallowed and turned away. The place made him uncomfortable. "How far away are we from your boss?"

Clint sighed. "Yeah, about that…" He held up a black strip of cloth that he'd pulled out from somewhere, mildly apologetic.

"You're kidding, right?"

"Hey, if we let everyone know where we were based we'd be flushed out before you can say 'homicide'. It's not for long, I swear."

Wanting this over sooner rather than later James relented and submitted himself to the blindfold. After that he felt Clint lead him through a myriad of twists and turns (and he lost count despite his best efforts) until eventually he registered that they were underground. Oddly, the terrain he was walking on smoothened out, and judging by the feel of the air he thought that he still probably wouldn't be able to see if Clint took the blindfold off. Suddenly though, he heard another voice. "Barton."

"Sitwell." He was jerked to a halt.

"This him?"

"Yep. Don't bother, he's unarmed."

"Rules are rules, Barton." Without any warning a pair of hands started to feel up and down James' body, and only the weight of Clint's on his shoulder kept him from jumping backwards. It was over in a few silent seconds.

"Really Jasper?" Clint said, a pleading note in his voice.

"Hand it over, Barton."

The weight on his shoulder disappeared, and the sound of Clint grumbling was all he could hear. "You take good care of her, you hear?"

"You'll get it back after you leave, Barton," the man named Sitwell said. "Now arms up."

"Just be careful where you put those hands, Sitwell, or you might find something else going up."

"If it did, I'd cut it off." Clint laughed loudly, but James got the impression Sitwell wasn't so amused. "Alright, go on."

A door opened in front of him, and James allowed himself to be pushed through. The floor beneath him was smooth, and the echo of their footsteps gave him the impression of a large room. They must have been deeper underground than he first thought, but it wasn't until Clint untied the blindfold that he really understood where he was. Not gawping at the massive, seemingly ceiling-less space was impossible, and James assumed that was the desired effect. The whole place was made out of black fire-glass, adding to its oppressive feel, and the only furniture in sight was ten chairs before him on a slight platform. Three of those chairs were filled: two on the bottom row, and the one elevated above the others.

It was the man in this chair who spoke first, fixing one eye on Clint with a little disinterest. "Wait outside," was all he said, but Clint obeyed wordlessly. James watched him go, slightly wishing he hadn't been dismissed, and then it was just him and the three Sa'kagé VIPs. The one-eyed man in the raised seat stared at him, but didn't appear to have anything to say. The centre seat directly below him was empty, but the chairs either side of it were occupied: to his right was a well-dressed man with a blank expression and wise-looking eyes, and in the other was a young woman with sharp, critical features, hair pulled back into a bun. It was her who addressed him first.

"What's your name?"

"James, ma'am." Sa'kagé or not, it was wise to treat authority with respect.

"Where are you from?"

"Cenaria."

"Really?" This time it was the man who spoke, and before James could answer his question he was speaking again; "We've been entering Barton into that competition for years and you've only shown up the once, and if your skill level is as high as he says it is then that means you've managed to stay under our radar for almost all your life, which is impossible. Aside from that you have an impressive array of protective weaves over your left arm, the likes of which indicate it is not made of flesh but metal, and I know of only one place where such a craft has been attempted." He paused to blink. "That, and it's a giveaway of your identity as the Winter Soldier."

James froze. He saw the woman's eyes widen a little, noticed the one-eyed man above lean forward. The name obviously meant a lot to them, and he could understand why. The Khalidorans had bestowed it upon him so that it might 'make his targets' blood run cold'. Suddenly regretting his decision to come here, he waited.

"I'll ask again," the woman said, a new edge to her tone. "Where are you from?"

He dry swallowed. "Khalidor."

"What are you doing in Cenaria?"

"Trying to start over." Nobody said anything, so he continued. "I don't know what happened, but I… had a breakdown after a mission. I ended up wandering into Cenaria when my memories started coming back – memories of people I'd killed on order, of the Meisters training me, putting me to sleep, waking me up when they needed me. I felt – I feel guilty, so I've turned my back on them." He held up his hands. "I don't want any trouble here. Clint said you would offer me a life in return for my services, so I said I'd hear you out. That's all, I swear."

She opened her mouth to say something but it was the man at the top who spoke next. "What kind of things did Barton say I'd give you?"

"Uh, just the basics: food and shelter, possibly some money."

"And why would I give you that?"

Being honest, James shrugged. "I don't know. All I've heard of the Sa'kagé is that you guys hold a pretty tight leash on the city, and whenever someone disappears people blame you. Clint seems to think you'd find my skills useful."

"Would I?"

"For killing, yes. But I don't want to kill. Not anymore."

"Even if that's all you're good for?"

Under the piercing eye, he swallowed again. "There are other things I can do, but I won't kill. I've done enough of that already."

The three of them continued to stare at him, and just when his skin began to crawl the one in charge spoke again. "What would it take to get you to kill again?"

Against the fear running through his veins James let out a bitter laugh. "Honestly? You'd have to wipe my memory as far back as my training. And if you think I'm letting you anywhere near my head, you'd better fucking think again."

"How dare you –"

"Hill! That's enough." The woman – Hill – backed down, but her glare didn't ease up, and James hoped he hadn't made an enemy. Turning to his right, the one-eyed man nodded.

"We understand why you'd be uneasy about killing again," the 'wise' man said calmly. "But really, that's the only skill you have that we're interested in. Barton has spoken highly of you, and normally his hunches are right, so we aren't going to rescind our offer."

"What offer?"

"We can, as you were told, give you the basics for a good life, perhaps better than what you expect. In return, you'll become –"

"An attack dog."

"A contract killer, amongst other things."

Feeling a little bolder, James shook his head. "I already told you, I don't kill anymore. Now look, I did as Clint asked and I heard you out, and tempting as your offer is it's still a no. So I'd like to go now. Please."

The two below looked up to the man at the top, and after a long pause he gave a slow nod. James kept his head up and his pace measured as he left, feeling five eyes needle into his back as he walked towards the double doors. "If you change your mind," he heard One-Eye call out, "get in touch with Barton again. He'll bring you back." He didn't acknowledge the suggestion, just kept walking until he was out of that fear-inspiring place.

Natasha Romanov watched with interest as the Winter Soldier refused to accept Fury's offer. He wasn't at all like she remembered him, she noted, and said as much once she'd been called forward.

"How so?"

Turning to look at Coulson, she pursed her lips. "Hard to say. He seems to care more, obviously, but the man I met had no problem with killing." At a gesture from Fury, she elaborated. "He never told me exactly how many people he'd killed before our target, but I got the impression that whatever his number, it wasn't restricted to just men. Or women, for that matter."

Hill raised an eyebrow. "Children?"

"I wouldn't have put it past him."

"So you believe his story?" Coulson asked.

"I do."

"Hill?" Fury said. "You have something to add?"

"He clearly doesn't want anything to do with us, sir," she said. "If he's truly that set against killing then there's nothing short of altering his memory that will get him on our side."

"And he seemed very adamant that that wasn't going to happen," Coulson added.

Stroking his chin, Fury asked out loud, "Anyone we can call in for that?"

"Emma Frost is still in Ceura, but it's unlikely she'd co-operate."

"The Banners disappeared earlier this evening," Natasha said. "They've gone looking for Stephen Strange."

Sitting back, the Shinga laced his fingers under his nose and thought for a minute. "Let them be for now then," he said, "but make sure tabs are kept on the Banners. If they do find Strange, I want to know. And Romanov – convince the Winter Soldier that his skills can be used for good. Get Barton in on it if you need to, but no-one else."

"Yes sir."

Fury watched one of his best wetboys leave to go and do his bidding. He doubted she would disappoint him, in which case it was only a matter of time before the once-feared Winter Soldier was stood before them once more.