I feel so bad for my characters...I'm so morbid...

DarylDixon'sLover: Thanks hon! I'm glad you like it!

Tiphanie: He doesn't care about much, does he? That's the brilliance of the Winter Soldier, though. Well, at least until Steve Rogers happened. But we haven't gotten there yet. He's just carrying out his mission, because that's what he was told to do. And he doesn't care what he has to do to get it done. No stalling, nothing. Libby, no matter how headstrong she is, is no match for him, and even though she knows it, she's far too headstrong to think things through before she does them. Things are going to get serious.

Enjoy!

At first I thought I had been completely blinded. It was dark, and I couldn't even see my hand in front of my face. But then my vision cleared and I could see the small strip of red light in front of me. My left arm was numb, until I tried to move it. Then my shoulder cried out in protest, and I realized maybe that wasn't such a good idea. I reached around with my right arm, rough fabric under me, the top way too close to my head. Then I heard the hum of an engine, the sound of tires on the asphalt. I was in the trunk. He had put me in the trunk.

I took a deep breath, laying flat on my back. Now was a really bad time to be getting claustrophobic. My stomach churned as we went over a bump, my body jostling slightly, sharp pain shooting through my head. Oh yeah, I'd hit it again against the side of the van. Because I was stupid. And had tried to escape him. The man...machine with a metal arm. Lights flashed behind my eyes as I breathed deeply, my body jerking as he came to a stop. I felt nauseous, the trunk suddenly way too hot, sweat breaking out on my skin. Oh god.

I yelled, beating on the roof of the trunk, but it was no use, my body jerking as I vomited all over the trunk, and myself. There wasn't much to the vomit. Mostly bile, stomach acid. But it didn't smell any better. I cried, pitiful tears falling down my face as I tried not to inhale the smell of vomit, but it was useless. My body rolled slightly, getting more covered in vomit as the car turned, before coming to a stop. The engine shut off and I heard the door open. The trunk popped, but I couldn't bring myself to push it open. I was a pathetic mess, and the fact that someone else was about to see me like this was just beyond embarrassing.

I squinted as the trunk opened under a harsh street lamp. He didn't show any sign of disgust, granted I couldn't see his face. He hauled me from the trunk, half dragging me towards a closed gas station. It was the middle of the night, the town quiet, most people in bed, businesses closed. Inconspicuous.

He ripped the handle off the bathroom door before shoving me in. I stumbled, catching myself on the sink as he closed the door. At least he had given me some privacy. I blinked in the harsh florescent light, looking at myself in the mirror. I really was a mess. The swelling under my eye and cheek had gone down, but they were still an ugly purple color. My lip was split in several places, and there was a hand shaped bruise around my neck. I moved my shirt to the side, my shoulder now a black color, and my collarbone was shifted slightly to the side. There was still gravel in my arm, blood smeared on the skin.

I used the toilet, taking the toilet paper roll with me to the sink as I wiped the vomit from my face, and my hair. I wiped my shirt, trying to get the vomit cleaned off, but it only worked to a point. I dug the gravel out of my arm, cleaning the blood off my skin as best as I could. I took a deep breath, leaning against the sink before using the wall to get to the door on shaky legs. My stomach was still churning, head pounding. I felt like I could pass out at any second.

He was waiting by the door, plastic bag in hand. He shoved a candy bar at me. A Snickers. I nearly ripped the packaging open, taking a big bite out of it. I was starving, and despite the nausea, I ate the whole bar. He shoved a bottle of water at me then, and I gulped it down, noticing how thirsty I really was. There were other things in the bag, but I didn't ask questions as he dragged me back to the car. He opened the trunk again, the smell of vomit hitting me. He'd cleaned it up to the best of his ability, but that didn't help the damp, vomit smell.

"Please." I begged, turning to him. "Don't put me back in there. I won't say anything, or try to escape. Please."

But my words fell on deaf ears. He shoved me back in the trunk, blocking my weak, futile attempts to fight him. He slammed the trunk shut, the sound echoing around me. I screamed, kicked, cried, but he just started the car, driving away from the gas station. I was stuck in the damp, vomit smelling trunk until we got wherever we were going. The least he could have done was knock me out first. Maybe I should have fought harder. But if I hit my head again, I'd probably die. Or at least have significant brain damage.

I wasn't sure how long I'd been in the trunk. It had gotten light outside, a small strip of yellow light coming through the crack in the trunk door. He hadn't stopped driving, and I wasn't sure how far we were from D.C. It couldn't be that far now. We'd been driving for hours. He never took a break, and as far as I knew, he hadn't eaten anything at all. Maybe he really was a machine. A robot.

But when I'd fallen against him on the street before he'd knocked me out a second time, he had been warm. Almost too warm to be natural. I mean, men have higher body temperatures than women anyway, but he had been something else. It had been almost comforting - Stop it Libby! You're delirious. He's an evil killing machine and you called him comforting. I wondered if it were possible to suffocate in a trunk, and I was slowly losing my mind from oxygen deprivation, and inhaling my own CO2.

The car jerked to a stop suddenly, my body rolling slightly from the sudden movement. I whined as pressure was put on my shoulder, tears coming to my eyes. There was a thud as the door was opened and closed, and I could hear him moving around, as well as several other thuds. I didn't want to think about what was happening. Maybe he was finally going to kill me. Or we had arrived in D.C and he was preparing for someone else to kill me. Lay down a tarp, shoot her there, roll her up, bury her. And I would be over. That would be the end of Libby Pierce. Killed because she was too curious for her own good. The girl that just had to snoop around in her father's business and see classified information and now she was dead without even having any idea about what she saw because she didn't bother reading it because she was too freaked out by the fact her father was part of a Nazi organization. Or maybe he'd been pulled over again, but there were no sirens, no nothing. Or maybe someone was out there, and he was going to kill them.

I screeched, kicking at the trunk, making as much noise as possible. If someone was out there, maybe they could get away, call the police. And I'd be safe from him, and my dad, and HYDRA. But there was no other sound, no gunshots. No yells besides my own. I heard him approach the trunk, nearly ripping it open. I sent a kick at him, but he caught my ankle, the bones snapping under his grip. A high pitched scream sounded in the air, and for a moment I didn't know it had come from me. But when the shooting pain from my ankle, dulling out everything else registered, I realized it was me that had screamed, and was still screaming.

He jerked me out of the trunk, my vision blacking out at the force of the movement. I came back to, just in time to see his fist flying towards my face before everything went dark again.