*Here's the next chapter! Finally worked it out in my head. I plan on sticking with this fanfic. Keep in mind it's alternate universe. How the events of Captain America: The Winter Soldier (and Captain America: The First Avenger) would have happened, if Melanie existed. I won't mess with things too much, don't worry. Just enough for Melanie to be a part of the action. More Buckanie to follow. There will be romance, eventually!
Again, I don't own any Marvel characters. Only my OCs.*
"Let me out, bastards!"
Her furious shout went unacknowledged. With one last kick at the locked door, Melanie slumped back down on the simple cot provided for her. There were no windows to judge the time of day, but she knew several hours had passed since the sedative wore off and she woke up in this glorified prison cell. Four solid walls- all likely reinforced by steel or concrete-ensured no one could visit or escape without unlocking the door. The place was sealed tight. Wherever she was, they had quite the setup for prisoners. With nothing else to do, Melanie had no choice but to wait for someone to come.
Hydra. What the hell did they want from her? She loathed the answer. Of course, she knew. There was only one reason to capture an ex-assassin alive; they wanted her to kill for them. No fucking way.
The sound of electric locks releasing jolted Melanie upright on the cot. Immediately, she was on her feet with her back to the wall as she faced the door. Her eyes darted over the room, searching for something she could use as a weapon; it was pointless, since she had already studied the room floor to ceiling. Hydra wouldn't provide prisoners with weapons, anyway. Armed only with her bare hands, Melanie prepared for whatever Hydra had in store.
Expression rigid as stone, Brock Rumlow strode a few steps into the room while maintaining a few feet between them. Several armed men stood in the hall behind him, weapons not yet drawn but none of them were at ease. Russ was among them, with a butterfly stitch on his forehead where she had kicked him; there was one ugly bruise, too. The bruise to his ego was obvious, by the way he sulked.
"Suit up," Rumlow finally ordered, tossing her the black bag he had been holding.
Out of reflex, Melanie caught it. Unzipping the bag, she peered inside to see a similar uniform to Rumlow and his musclebound goons. There were noticeable differences; the armored vest resembled a modernized samurai chest piece, along with the bracers and shin guards. The durable fabric was dyed pitch black, as if to reflect the darkness within whoever wore it.
"Not a chance," she replied spitefully, tossing the bag back at Rumlow. "I'm not one of you."
He snatched hold of the bag before it hit his face. The men behind him had all drawn their weapons. Glancing over his shoulder, Brock held up his hand and signaled for them to relax. Turning his face back to Melanie, he cracked a smirk. "Acting tough won't do you good, now," he said, taking a step toward her. "If you want to keep your head straight, then follow orders."
The way he said that sent a chill down her spine. Narrowing her eyes, Melanie asked, "What do you mean, 'keep my head straight'?"
"Trust me. You don't wanna find out," he warned, tapping a finger to his temple. Then he tossed the bag at her feet and abruptly turned for the door. Speaking over his shoulder, he said, "Now suit up. Five minutes."
He strode past the men outside, and Ross shot her a glare before pulling the door closed. She heard the locks slide back into place, sealing her inside once again until Rumlow returned. His ominous warning loomed over her head. Whatever he meant, she would prefer not to find out until she knew exactly what she was dealing with. For the moment, she decided to play along.
Quickly undressing, she abandoned her former identity to don the guise provided. The suit was relatively form-fitting, but the fabric was breathable and allowed her to move with ease; ideal for combat. She fastened on the armor and the sheath for her missing sword, which was secured to her hip by a slim belt. There was a thigh holster for a gun she wasn't armed with. Observing herself in the small mirror over the sink in the corner of her cell, she saw the uncanny resemblance the uniform had to the one she wore as an assassin. All that was missing was a hood, and the mask that once covered her face much like the Asset had.
Thirteen months of hiding. Thirteen months of trying to exist peacefully among the public. All that time, she had been kidding herself. She could never escape her past.
The door opened once more. Composing herself, Melanie turned to face Brock Rumlow as he stood near the doorway waiting. "Time's up. Let's move," he spoke bluntly. "You're wanted upstairs."
Walking up to him, Melanie braved his hard stare with a spiteful glare of her own. "Lead the way, sir," she responded with mock formality, letting him know that she was playing along but had no intention of joining Hydra. He only smirked before turning on his heel, leading the way into the hall. Close behind, Melanie glanced at the other men as she passed them. She caught sight of the patches on all of their sleeves; they read 'STRIKE', over a symbol she recognized as S.H.I.E.L.D. As the men fell in line behind her, giving her no choice but to follow Rumlow, her sense of dread intensified.
If Rumlow was working for Hydra then S.H.I.E.L.D. was either affiliated with them, or corrupted by them. Whatever she was dragged into, she had a bad feeling it would end with bloodshed. Something sinister was happening; she had no desire to be involved.
At the end of the hall was an elevator. Rumlow stepped inside and folded his arms, waiting expectantly for her to follow. Meeting his eyes, she stepped inside and stood beside him; close enough to prove she wasn't intimidated by him, but far enough to establish she wasn't another one of his subordinates. He smirked to himself, waiting for the others to pile in before pressing a button. Though she wasn't claustrophobic, being surrounded by enemies in a confined space unnerved Melanie to say the least. She distracted herself by observing the elevator panel. There had to be over fifty floors. The building was enormous and she suspected it was S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters.
The ride up was a tense, silent one. At last, the elevator reached the designated floor and the doors slid open. Rumlow stepped out and began to head down the hall. Before she took a step forward, a large hand seized her shoulder and gave her a hard shove. Someone without her agility and natural sense of balance would have fallen on their face, but she caught herself after staggering a step. Russ had already strode up behind her to grab her again. With a burning glare, she sharply drove her elbow into his gut. The force of the blow had him doubled over, while she lithely slipped out of reach and caught up to Rumlow.
The man glanced over his shoulder, catching the eyes of Russ who had recovered and took furious steps after Melanie. A glare from Rumlow instantly discouraged his retaliation and he fell in line with the others. Then Rumlow exchange a look with Melanie, an amused smirk on his face. She couldn't help smirking back. They continued to walk down the hall. Suddenly, a lanky man with curly auburn hair appeared from a connecting hall. Oblivious, he collided straight into the solid wall of muscle that was Brock Rumlow. A rather pitiful cry escaped the man as he fell to the floor. The paperwork he had in his arms flew about. It would've been comical; if Melanie wasn't worried he was going to be murdered.
On the floor, he looked wide-eyed and the color drained from his face when he realized who he ran into. "I-I'm sorry, sir. That was my fault, sorry," he stammered as he scrambled to pick up his papers. He reached for one that had ended up underneath Melanie's boot. He glanced up at her, looking confused. "Excuse me, uh- ma'am?" The way he said it, she guessed there were no women on the S.T.R.I.K.E. team he knew of. She suspected it wasn't his business to know, anyway.
"Watch yourself," Rumlow told him, looking irritated and unimpressed by his obvious shaking. The poor guy could barely hold onto his papers, by the way his hands were trembling.
Melanie couldn't stand watching him grovel. Grabbing hold of his shirt sleeve, she tugged him to his feet. "Get up, will you?" she said, before bending down to pick up the last paper. She then snatched the papers from his hand, secured them to his clipboard, and handed it back to him. "There."
His wide green eyes met hers, dumbfounded. "Uh...th-thanks."
"You're still here? You have work to do. Get moving," Rumlow barked at him.
The man winced, making it painfully obvious he was intimidated by the leader of S.T.R.I.K.E. "R-right. Of course, sir. Sorry, sir," he said obediently, ducking his head as he literally pressed himself to the wall to get past the other large men. Russ grinned wickedly, the others simply ignored the little man, and Rumlow was shaking his head. His dark bronze eyes zeroed in on Melanie.
"That was sweet," he taunted.
"Shut up. Just take me to whoever I have to thank for being kidnapped," she spat back. Speaking to him that way, after seeing how the other poor man cowered, made her feel somewhat empowered.
Rumlow eyed her for a moment, as if debating whether or not to retaliate. In the end, he decided they had all wasted enough time. Without saying a word, he turned and resumed his task of escorting her through the building. Melanie followed silently, dreading every step closer to wherever she was being lead. How on earth would she escape this place? There was no telling how many people worked for S.H.I.E.L.D. or how many secretly did the bidding of Hydra. Was there a single person she could trust not to betray her, if she asked for their help? No. She was on her own, like always.
Reaching a desk, Rumlow spoke to the woman sitting behind it. "We're expected," he said, without offering further explanation as he strode for the door. The woman didn't dare protest; instead she watched them pass with curiosity and a hint of fear. When she caught eyes with Melanie, she dropped her gaze instantly, pretending to occupy herself with paperwork. Did she know something, or was it her job to look the way and not ask questions? Probably the latter.
The other men, including Russ, remained outside while Rumlow led Melanie into the office. The room looked more like a hotel suite than an office. Of course, the head honchos for organizations and such always had luxury. The outer wall of the building was entirely glass- albeit reinforced, bullet-proof glass- allowing a spectacular view over the city. A man stood with his back to them, facing the rising sun. Rumlow closed the door and folded his arms, planting himself between Melanie and the only exit. He watched her like a hawk.
With no other choice, Melanie moved further into the room and stopped a few feet away from the man who had yet to turn toward her. Clad in a blue suit, he had his hands tucked leisurely into his pants pockets. An older man, he had the presence of someone with power and an arrogance Melanie easily detected. She had a skill for reading people. Something about his presence seemed familiar...
"Alexander Pierce," he finally spoke, introducing himself graciously as he turned around. "Secretary of S.H.I.E.L.D. Head of Hydra. Of course, you know me as the Contractor."
The moment she looked into his piercing blue eyes, memories flooded back to her. All the people she killed, all the blood that stained her hands, all the restless nights plagued by guilt; he had ordered every death. For several years, she followed his orders and dispatched any target he named. Until she encountered the agent from S.H.I.E.L.D. and her perspective shifted. For thirteen months, she dreaded the day her luck would run out and the devil would come to reclaim her. This man was the devil.
"How did you find me?" was what she asked, of all the questions prodding her mind.
The Contractor- or, Pierce- smiled a bit, a cold smile. "I never lost track of you," he replied with a shrug.
"So you're the one I have to thank," she said bitterly, rubbing the sore spot on her neck where she had been stuck with the sedative.
Catching her meaning, Pierce sighed. "My apologies. I had meant to handle things more, well, civilly. Something came up; there was no time to pay you a visit, personally. An inconvenience, really. I assume you hate surprises almost as much as I do."
With a pointed glare at Rumlow, Melanie replied sarcastically, "Yeah. It's been a real surprise party."
"Well, how about we get right down to business. Please, have a seat," Pierce said, gesturing toward the sitting area. Playing along, Melanie seated herself on the sofa while Pierce leaned against the arm of the chair across from her. Looking her over, Pierce began, "I assume you know what this is all about."
Melanie had no patience to reel in her snark. "If you think you can just snap your fingers and make me kill for you, then you should deflate your ego a bit."
The look in his eyes could freeze over hell itself. A smirk tugged the corner of his lips as he nodded to himself, as if to say, alright let's try a different tactic. Standing up straight, he moved to walk around behind her. She watched him from the corner of her eye, shoulders tense, but he made no move on her. He simply strolled over to his desk, retrieved a file, and casually made his way back.
Standing beside the chair again, Pierce opened the file and studied it. "Oh, I know you will work for me, Melanie," he stated matter of factly.
Narrowing her eyes, she folded her arms defiantly. "Oh, really? And why the hell would I do that?"
Closing the file, he leveled his eyes at her and smiled. "Because it's who you really are."
He dropped the file onto the coffee table and moved away, strolling over to the window with his hands in his pockets. Melanie eyed him suspiciously before returning her attention to the file, stamped with the S.H.I.E.L.D. symbol and the words, "CONFIDENTIAL INTELL." on the front. Unable to resist, she grabbed it and set it open on her lap. There were several documents inside, some clearly decades old; detailing a life she had no recollection of.
Brows furrowed, she studied what was apparently her birth certificate. It told her she was Melanie Dampier, born in Germany on December 13, 1923. There was another document from an orphanage, explaining she had become an orphan after her parents died a few years later. She had disappeared from the orphanage when she was thirteen, according to staff. Frowning, Melanie shook her head. How could any of this be possible?
Behind those documents, she found another old paper. It was some kind of file from World War II, labeling her as a dangerous and prime target, as an asset to Hydra. There was another file accompanying it, stapled to the back. An early S.H.I.E.L.D. document explaining more in depth. Barely older than twenty years old, she had confirmed kills over fifty, all of which were specific targets; she was an assassin, eliminating prime targets of Hydra during the war. The more Melanie read, the more confused she became. There was no possible way these files could be about her. How had she lived over seventy years without aging a day over twenty? That was how old she looked, anyway. She remembered nothing the documents revealed about her alleged past, involving Hydra. She had no recollection of the war at all. No memories of growing up in some orphanage in Germany. In fact, she hardly remembered being a child at all. Everything she knew about herself was vague and based upon what the Contractor, Alexander Pierce, told her when she had worked for him. Which meant she had actually been working for Hydra all along...
Tossing the file back down, she rose to her feet. Rumlow shot her a stern look from where he stood across the room, warning her not to make any wrong moves. She scowled at him, before rounding the chair to face Pierce. The older man was looking out the window again, where he had stood the entire time she read the files.
"You don't remember any of it, do you?" he inquired, sounding almost sorry for her. "Shame. What I wouldn't give to have witnessed what you have. I would settle for second hand stories, but your amnesia was worse than I anticipated. I'm sure you're angry with me, for keeping you in the dark. You should know I admire your wit, especially your abilities. You are a remarkable young woman- or should I say, youthful? You're older than me," he corrected himself with an amused chuckle.
"So, what? I'm supposed to suddenly feel obligated to follow your orders again?" Melanie challenged.
"No, nothing is ever that simple. I've learned to adapt; a useful skill, in a world like this. Take a look," he said, glancing out at the city again and urging her to do the same. "Chaos, masquerading under the veil of freedom. Not a day passes without lives being overturned, shattered, destroyed because of it. Imagine if we could put a stop to all of that. Project Insight aims to accomplish what the Tessarect failed to do in Schmidt's hands. With the flick of a switch, we could bring peace and order to a world that otherwise would destroy itself."
"What does that have to do with me?" she asked, unimpressed. If he thought that speech of his would have her tripping over herself to join his cause, his ego had certainly swollen to grotesque proportions. It was his arrogance that allowed her to slip away thirteen months ago; he underestimated her, forgot she had independent thought. After tasting that freedom, she wasn't about to fall in line and obey his every command.
Pierce masked his irritation with a smile, but he was displeased his speech hadn't convinced her. Ever the composed Secretary, he turned from the window to face her directly. "There is someone who poses a threat to the success of Project Insight. Need I paint a picture?"
Laughing dryly, Melanie said, "You're joking." Of course, she knew he was dead serious; the icy stare he gave confirmed that. "Why don't you have your Asset take care of it? Or that asshole over there," she added, throwing a pointed glare at Rumlow. The man returned her gaze but remained expressionless under the scrutiny of Secretary Pierce.
"Capable as both may be," Pierce amended, "You have proven yourself. Why waste potential?"
"What if I don't 'adapt'," she asked, throwing his words back at him.
His smile tightened and his eyes narrowed ever so slightly, while he remained cool and composed. "You're smarter than that," he said curtly; it was more of a threat than an observation. "Hydra needs strong fighters. The opportunity is yours, if you have the courage to seize it."
Thirteen months ago, his proposition would have been tempting. Whenever he named a target, she had killed indiscriminately without even asking why; she had served Hydra, without knowing it. Pierce had taken advantage of her memory loss, manipulated her, deceived her—and he was about to do so again.
Bitter resentment collected in her mouth. With a spiteful glare, she spat right in his face. That wasn't the answer he was expecting. His lip curled in revulsion as he wiped the spit from his cheek, studying the evidence there as if he couldn't believe she had the nerve. Chuckling coldly, he shook his head. Without warning, his hand shot out like a striking cobra. His palm connected with her cheek forcefully enough to knock her off balance, but she didn't fall. The hot stinging of her cheek rivalled the burning in her murderous eyes.
Launching into action, Rumlow tackled her to the floor before she could retaliate with a punch to the old man's jaw. His knee pressed into her back, focusing his weight to keep her pinned while securing handcuffs to her wrists. She growled, cheek pressed to the floor, glaring at him from the corner of her eye. Hauling her up, he kept a firm hold on her arm and pressed his gun to the side of her head. Whatever respect he had for her, he was still loyal to Pierce and would put a bullet in her head on command.
"You're so much like Daniel," Pierce told her, his tone somewhere between admiration and disgust. "Such a waste of intelligence."
The mention of the name stunned Melanie into silence. She never spoke of Daniel to anyone. The fragmented, vague memories of the man she knew by that name; they were private, or at least she thought so. What did Pierce know of Daniel? She would have asked, but her mouth dried up and she couldn't speak.
"Sir?" Rumlow prompted, waiting for orders.
His calculating eyes devoid of warmth, Pierce ordered, "Take her back to her cell. Have her scheduled for a wiping."