Directive One: CONDITION ASSESSMENT
Mobility compromised. Defensive capability unknown. Head, abdominal and leg injuries still evident but moderate. Right shoulder mobile but severely compromised. Prosthetic arm functional.
Directive Two: EVADE CAPTURE
In progress.
Unknown male: Five feet, seven inches, centrally obese, probably over 65 years old. Corrective eyewear, trifocal. Moderate arthritic swelling of joints in both hands. Significant stiffness in right knee.
Threat Estimate: Undetermined. Possibly minimal.
Neutralization plan: Facial strike to remove eyewear. Straight kick to knee. Sweep with right arm to off-balance, follow with opportunistic strike with prosthetic arm.
He leaped into a three-point stance, his metallic arm drawn back to his hip, eyes locked onto the stranger. The toes of his boots ground into the thin mud, gaining traction for an offensive strike.
The strange man immediately took a step back and raised both hands. "Whoa there, Tiger." The man's voice was calm, even though his eyes were wide with evident fear behind his glasses. "I'm not going to hurt you, and hopefully you're not going to hurt me, ok?"
There was enough of a gap on the right side of the alley entrance to allow escape, but he had no idea what enemies might have been placed around the corners. If an attack was not imminent, it would be prudent to determine whether the threat had any allies nearby. The stranger did not glance anywhere that might indicate he had assistance. There were no sounds of footsteps, or sliding gun actions or drawing hand weapons. He did not see any inadvertently cast shadows. The dog's tail was still wagging.
"You're pretty banged up," the strange man observed, squinting. "Do you need help? No questions asked?"
His adrenaline was fading. He shook with tension as he forcibly held his position, refusing to acknowledge his body's clamoring pain signals.
"Yellowbone seems to think you're all right, and he doesn't like everyone. Hell, he don't even like me that much." The man gestured to his right. "I run the soup kitchen, next building over. Are you hungry?"
There were still no signs of anyone else accompanying the stranger. He could not remember the last time he had eaten. He vaguely recalled being offered milk a day or so ago, but had not taken any.
"All right, here's what we'll do. I'll bring you something to eat and leave it here. I'll make enough noise when I come back so you won't think anyone's sneaking up on you, ok?"
It was exactly the type of deception he would expect from a competent HYDRA operative. If he feigned engagement, he might gain an advantage and avoid exposing himself to additional combat injury. When he tried to answer, however, no words would come. He managed to nod a moment later.
"Gimmie ten minutes, and I'll be right back."
The dog trotted after the man, and the two of them turned the corner to the left. He waited until he could no longer hear footsteps, then counted to fifty. Using the trash cans as partial cover and staying low, he looked into the street. Down the block to the left were close-packed, spartan concrete buildings. To the right were a few more of the same kind of structures and the beginning of a weedy vacant lot.
Directive Two: EVADE CAPTURE
In progress.
When he was certain that no vehicles or pedestrians were within eyeshot, he broke concealment and ran as fast as he could to a large utility box he had spotted about 100 feet away opposite the alley. He was careful to avoid leaving bootprints in the mud, or stepping in puddles that were deep enough to leave sediment clouds as evidence of his passing. When he reached the relative safety of the new position, he placed both feet on the edge of the concrete slab and crouched low. He had a good view of the trash cans at the front of the alley. He would have preferred something higher up, a rooftop perhaps, but there were no obvious access points and no time to reconnoiter.
A few minutes later, the man cautiously ambled toward the alley, making plenty of noise, as indicated. The man was humming loudly, and tapping a metal tablespoon against everything he passed…a mailbox, a steel handrail, the rusted post of an old sign. The dog was not with him. When he reached the trash cans, the man cleared his throat dramatically. "I'm back. I put Yellowbone inside so you wouldn't have to fight him for it." He leaned down, with a little difficulty from his knee, and placed a knotted plastic bag on the cracked sidewalk. "Just throw them away when you're done. If you want more, come on to the kitchen. If we're closed, just knock, I'll let you in. My name's Ronald Holland, but everybody calls me Ron."
He watched the man…Ron…make his way back down the street toward the soup kitchen. A few minutes later, when he was sure it was clear, he dashed back to the alley, snatched up the bag, and huddled behind the trash cans. He stared at the bundle for a minute. It was probably a trick, and eating with possible internal injuries wasn't field protocol. But then, neither was any of this.
The white plastic bag was not suitable for camouflage, but he decided that it might be useful and picked carefully at the knots instead of tearing it. He removed two white Styrofoam containers and a smaller transparent utensil pack and set them aside, then stuffed the bag into a breast pocket. The utensil pack contained a flimsy plastic knife, something that looked like a cross between a fork and a spoon, and a folded square of paper. He studied the writing on two smaller packets that fell out, surprised at first that he could not read them. After a moment's concentration, the English letters began to coalesce into meaning. "Salt" and "Pepper." Salt was essential for electrolyte balance, so he stashed it in his pocket with the bag in case he needed it later. He had no idea what the pepper was for.
The first container he opened held liquid. He smelled it cautiously. It was milk; he'd seen it once before. He took a small sip, tasting for every chemical he had been trained to recognize. Detecting none, he took a mouthful and held it, waiting for any burning or tingling that might indicate a harmful substance. Nothing. He knew he should have waited longer for any ill effects to become apparent, but after the first swallow his stomach growled and begged for more. He ended up bolting down the whole thing.
The second cup was even tougher on his self-control. It smelled like food as soon as he pulled the lid off a rich stew of vegetables and meat. He had no recollection of rations like that, only of some sort of thick slurry, drunk hurriedly. Using the fork-spoon thing, he took a small bite, and groaned out loud, rolling his eyes. Then he scooped the stuff into his mouth as fast as he could, even upending the container and shaking the last drops into his mouth. When they were gone, he broke the Styrofoam and licked every scrap of broth from the pieces.
He felt a little better after he'd finished. He felt less foggy, and he hadn't realized that his hands had been shaking until they had stopped. There had been a sensation in his belly that was worrisome at first. But as time passed, the likelihood of further damage from internal injuries decreased. He tested his shoulder again. The range of motion was acceptable. Moving it was painful, but that was of secondary concern.
Directive One: CONDITION ASSESSMENT
Mobility compromised. Defensive capability unknown. Head, abdominal and leg injuries still evident but moderate. Right shoulder mobile but severely compromised. Prosthetic arm functional.
After assessing the rest of his injuries, noting and cataloging the throbbing headache, the deep aches in his neck and back, and the burning pains across both thighs, he decided to stay put in the alley for the rest of the day. There was little point in overtaxing his body to find new cover. His hiding place had been discovered by pure accident. If Ron was a HYDRA agent, it was probable that he would have been reported and taken by now. But they ultimately didn't need to bother deploying agents to capture him.
All they really had to do was wait for the third directive to break him down, and he'd eventually come to them.