Help me.
The words sound so foreign coming out of his mouth. His face is covered in bleeding cuts, and he's drenched, water dripping from his hair and clothes.
I look instinctively towards the Potomac River in the distance, where a thick column of smoke is rising into the otherwise clear blue sky. Was he over there, fighting?
"Help you with what?" I lower my voice, glancing around nervously.
"They'll find me. You're the only one I…" He pauses, shifting uncomfortably. "The only one I can trust."
I could remind him that he killed a close colleague of mine not too long ago, but then again, I'm not exactly an angel after the murder I just committed… whether it was committed in self-defence or not.
"Who will find you? Pierce?"
"I don't fight for him anymore." He shakes his head angrily, and a little bit of hope fills me. He's come to his senses.
"Well… What do you want from me?" My gaze flickers around the near vicinity again to make sure that the police are still preoccupied with clearing the wreckage site. If I linger any longer here, they'll have the whole area blocked off and getting out will be impossible.
"There's a tracker." He lowers his voice and points to his metal arm. "They know where I am at any time. I need it removed."
"I need the tools from the lab you were held in." I frown, "And the schematics from the lab on the 23rd floor. I'm not sure I can do it by myself… I've only seen other people open it. What if I accidentally do something wrong and—"
"I won't hurt you." He interrupts me, his eyebrows rising pleadingly. I examine his expression for any hint of a lie.
"I… They told me to kill him. Your friend." He looks away. Is that regret I detect in his body language? I want to believe so.
"I know." I reply softly, turning away from him. "41 Everest Street. Come there when you've got the things."
I hear the sound of his boots scraping on the asphalt behind me, and then he's gone, disappeared into the commotion or over the edge of the bridge, I don't know.
He's just gone.
I walk farther from the Triskelion and dial for a taxi. To his credit, the driver arrives promptly. He also doesn't seem all that phased to see a girl covered in plaster dust waiting for him. I guess the sight of a collapsing building in the background has quelled any questions he might've had. I have him drop me off at a shopping district a short distance from my house, and I walk around until I find a men's clothing boutique.
The least I can do for the subject is to get him a less conspicuous outfit. He'd fit in at a cosplay convention, but walking around town? Bound to raise some eyebrows. I don't know how much the world already knows about what's gone down here, but something tells me that this mess is too big for anyone to cover up.
One thing is for sure, I'll have to move. I don't want to be on Hydra's radar anymore. Or Shield's, for that matter. This is my chance at a clean start, and I can see that the subject—no, James—is looking for the same.
I ignore the curious stares from the shop attendants and grab whatever is close and reasonably priced, hoping my fashion choices aren't too horrendous. Then I pay and leave, making the short walk back to my own neighbourhood.
Thankfully there are no nosy neighbours poking their faces through their curtains, no one outside to enjoy the sun and see me returning to my house looking like a dust-covered ghost from a warzone. I half expected my house to be surrounded by SWAT members, or at the very least, by Hydra's people. There isn't anyone.
I take a brief shower, then set to work bringing cardboard boxes up from the basement. It's going to take me all night to pack, but maybe I can call on some friends from the Nikolav lab to help me do it. I'll have to find a temporary place to stay until I can secure a new long-term home. Do I need a new identity? God, that could be a pain to sort out.
As I step into my bedroom to begin emptying the bedside drawers, I see the star pendant sitting beside my alarm clock, untouched. My chest feels tight all of a sudden, like I've forgotten how to breathe.
Rumlow. How could I have forgotten about him? God damn it!
I pick up the pendant and hurtle it across the room. It slams into the wall with a satisfying thwack, and I pray that it's broken now. It wouldn't be the only broken thing I have.
My trust. My heart.
Damn it all to hell! I throw the blankets and pillows onto the floor, rip off the sheets and leave the mattress bare. Everything smells like him, and it haunts me mercilessly.
I'll get rid of everything that reminds me of him. This is my chance to begin anew, and I can't be weak now. If I'm lucky, he got caught up in the fighting and died. I won't have to face him. If he's not dead, I'll just move away, and he'll never find me. He'll get the hint. I can't associate with a criminal, murderer, and traitor. Nevermind the niggling voice in the back of my head that says that I'm all of those things too.
The doorbell rings downstairs, and I feel a surge of fear before I remember that it might just be the subject—er, James, back from his errand.
I check the peephole, and sure enough, find him standing on the porch carrying a duffle bag. He glances about as I open the door, then steps in.
"You have the things?" I look up at him as I close and lock the door. He doesn't look like he's attained any new injuries. Maybe he was able to infiltrate the labs without putting up a fight.
He just nods in reply.
I lead him into the kitchen, where he seats himself on a stool, unzipping the duffle bag to reveal its contents: the toolbox full of screwdrivers and parts, and all of the booklets that contain the arm's schematics. As I search for the first screwdriver, I notice his attention has been drawn to the pile of cardboard boxes piled beside the basement door.
"I'm moving away. I don't want them to find me either." I reply. I don't know if I should even tell him, but it feels like we're both stuck in the same unfortunate circumstance. That fact alone makes me feel like I can open up to him.
"That's what you're doing too, right? Getting away?" I meet his gaze.
"I met someone I used to know. I want answers about my past." He replies quietly. I mull carefully over my next words as I unstick the main compartmental latch, just like I've seen Michael and Kenji do numerous times before.
"I know your real identity."
He stiffens immediately, like a fight-or-flight response has just kicked in. But he doesn't ask me to elaborate. Maybe he doesn't want to scare me by being too forceful. Maybe he's afraid to hear what I'm about to say next. Or maybe he already found out what I'm about to tell him, and he didn't think I knew.
"You're James Buchanan Barnes. You were one of the Howling Commandos… you fought beside Captain America—Steve Rogers. He was the guy they sent you after, the really strong one. I guess he's the man you recognized. He was your best friend." I stand to fetch a towel to wipe my hands on, giving him time to process what I've just said. He's silent, and I watch him out of the corner of my eye. His expression is sober, his lips drawn in a line, his eyes averted.
"I don't know anything more than that, sorry. I guess you were kidnapped by Hydra and they did this to you." I frown, looking at the arm again.
What a shame. Such a technological marvel, used only as a weapon. If hydra had dedicated their knowledge and resources to goodwill rather than evil, they could have truly changed the world for the better.
"It's okay. I'll find the answers myself. You've already done a lot for me." He frowns, avoiding my gaze.
"You can stay here for the night. Tomorrow I can drive you to the Smithsonian museum, where you can start your search for answers, if you want." I pick up the blueprint manual, flipping through the pages in search of a diagram of the GPS module.
"After everything that's happened, why are you still willing to do all this for me? I have nothing to give you." His frown grows into a scowl.
"I got dragged into this too. I didn't know that all of this was run by Hydra. I just stood by while bad things happened and I couldn't do anything, I was too blind to see the villains around me. I just want to clear a little of my conscience." I explain.
He's silent for a long time.
I begin to wonder if that's the end of the conversation. I don't mind, really. Silence gives me time to concentrate on locating the small chip. I have to carefully move the mechanical parts out of the way before I finally spot it. I fish through the toolbox until I find the smallest tool with a wedge shaped tip. With it, I carefully pry the chip out of its place and examine it.
He takes it from me and crushes it between the fingers of his metal hand. It breaks into multiple tiny pieces, scattering everywhere. I lament the fact that I'll have to clean that up, but I can see that he's happy to have the troublesome GPS tracker rendered useless.
He's finally free.
But am I?
I push all the parts back into their original positions, close the latch and wipe the whole arm with the towel before I stand up.
"You can use my shower upstairs in the bedroom. There's a bag beside the kitchen door there," I point at the boutique bag, "There are new clothes in it that you can change into... I figured you'd attract less attention if you wore them."
He stands silently, walks to the doorway, picks up the bag and pauses in the threshold.
"Thanks."
If I hadn't seen his lips move, I might have thought I imagined it. I smile.
As his footsteps retreat up the stairs, I set about cleaning up the kitchen, putting the tools away and wiping down the counters.
It keeps my errant mind preoccupied for a while, and I'm grateful for that. Finally, I sit down again at the kitchen island, assured that the place is spotless. At least the new owners of this house will appreciate it.
I glance at the clock absentmindedly. It's half-past 5. I could turn on the news and see the aftermath of the hell that went down today, or I could ignore everything, make dinner and return to packing.
My phone rings on the kitchen counter and I just stare at it for a moment like it's a foreign object from another planet. The screen is showing an unfamiliar number. It's not like I have any close relatives who could be inquiring about my well-being after that incident. It must be a trap. Must be the police, or Hydra, or…
The ringing is incessant, and I finally give in.
"Hello?" It's a woman's voice. "Are you related to Mr. Brock Rumlow?"
"Why?" I bristle in response to the question.
"He's severely injured. We've just removed him from the rubble and he has no relatives on file. His phone rang some time ago and your number was on the screen. He had you listed as 'My Girl' so we assumed you were his closest relative."
Crap, I guess when I threw the necklace against the wall, I triggered the button on the back. How else could I have dialed Rumlow's phone? I never want to talk to him again.
James appears in the kitchen doorway, silently watching me. I plaster a faint smile on my face. I'm happy to see that the new clothes fit. His gaze is fixed on me, and I know that he senses that my smile is strained. I grip the phone a little tighter, feeling the sweat form on my palms.
"Ma'am? Are you still there?"
"Is he alive?" I hear the crack in my voice.
"Yes, but he's suffered second and third degree burns on much of his body—"
She's listing off the hospital address and visiting hours, and my eyes instinctively search for a pencil. I mentally chastise myself for it. I don't need to write anything down. I'm not going to visit him. I politely thank the nurse and hang up, placing the phone on the counter, trying not to make a visible show of how shaken I am.
James doesn't move from the threshold. He leans against the door frame and stares at the floor.
"Are you going to go see him?" He asks.
He knows. Was it that obvious that I was talking about Rumlow?
"No. Why should I see him? He probably would have killed me if he found out I knew what they were up to. He didn't care about me at all. He hid everything from me. I trusted him, and look at how he repaid me. He's a fool and a villain." I clench my fists.
He doesn't answer me right away, and when he does, he seems uncertain about what he's about to say.
"When I was told to kill your friend… Alexander Pierce wanted to kill you too at the time. That man convinced him not to. I've never seen anyone talk back to Pierce before that." He raises his blue eyes to meet my gaze, and I'm dumbstruck.
Why the hell would he tell me this? Does he think it'll make me forgive Rumlow? Brock Rumlow was a double agent for Hydra, the very organization that took everything from him and made him into the Winter Soldier.
"I just wanted you to know." He turns, walking into the living room.
I bite my lip, feeling the sting of tears.
No, I won't visit him, damn it.