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Chapter 6

Steve ducked under a branch, Natasha's weight in his arms reassuring, even if it did make obstacles in the woods slightly more difficult to maneuver. They had both made it out.

But that didn't mean much right now.

He ducked again, under another branch. The army base in New Jersey was surrounded by woods. The trees were bigger, the undergrowth heavier, denser, than when he had trained here ninety years ago. He felt a bush snag at his pants, cut through to the skin, but he kept up his pace. It was faster than anyone else—anyone else without super soldier serum changing their biological makeup—would be able to run, even while carrying another person. It was nothing like being that scrawny kid, trying to complete a basic training run with a pack on his back.

Natasha shifted slightly in his arms.

Steve dodged more overgrowth as the terrain started to slope downhill.

The hill at least provided some sort of coverage. He made it to the bottom and stopped. Listening.

The entire building had just blown up. Exploded, collapsed. Right on top of him and Natasha. And it had been at the hand of S.H.I.E.L.D. He could still hear the distant rumble of the rubble settling.

But he didn't hear any of those agents following after them.

With a small moan, Natasha moved again. This time her eyes blinked open. Unfocused, then she went still, cautious. Steve watched as she took in her surroundings. When her eyes landed on him, she spoke, her words were groggy. "S.H.I.E.L.D.?"

"Fired on us," he confirmed.

Natasha's jaw firmed at that, her lips thinning slightly. "Did they get us?" she asked wryly.

"We seem to be in one piece."

Natasha shifted then, in earnest, and Steve carefully lowered her to her feet. He kept a hand on her.

He watched her move her limbs, roll her neck, carefully, feeling for injuries from the explosion.

"You good?" he asked.

She gave him a look. "Aside from the agency we work for trying to eliminate us, I'm great."

Yeah. Besides that.

"We need to keep moving," he said.

She gave nodded and started walking. Steve watched to make sure she was really ok, then picked up the pace.

She kept up effortlessly, though he did notice her occasionally rolling her right shoulder like she was trying to loosen it.

"So, you knew him? The mad scientist back there?"

"Yeah," Steve answered, looking back to the woods in front of him so she didn't notice him watching her favor her shoulder.

They continued on, the only sound their quick steps rustling dried leaves underfoot.

"Care to elaborate?" Natasha asked.

Steve thought back, past the room filled with computers and Arnim Zola's stored intellect they had just discovered and was now destroyed. He thought back to before he captured Zola. When he first became aware of Zola.

"He experimented on people." Steve could still see Bucky, strapped down on the metal table behind enemy lines, a captive of Red Skull. It may have been ninety years ago, but seeing your best friend like that wasn't a horror that dulled with time.

Neither did losing that friend.

Too many memories. A lifetime of them before he had even turned thirty. Or ninety-five. Whatever he was. He tried to shut down all the other memories of Bucky, but the memory of the torture Zola had put him through kept replaying. It was enough to remember Bucky, out of it and making it through by just reciting his name, rank, and serial number.

"James Buchanan Barnes. Sargent. 32557038. James Buchanan Barnes…"

He didn't have any sympathy for Arnim Zola. And even less for S.H.I.E.L.D. How could they recruit that monster to their side? After what he had tried to do to Bucky? After what he had actually done to others?

"Hey," Natasha's voice broke into the memories that were as real as if they had happened yesterday. "You still with me?"

Steve shook himself out of it. "Yeah."

"Where are we going?" Natasha asked.

"Not back to S.H.I.E.L.D.," he said without hesitation. Not that he had to tell Natasha that. They had both seen Fury die on the operating table. She knew what Fury had warned Steve of-that S.H.I.E.L.D. was compromised, not to trust anyone. And now they both knew what S.H.I.E.L.D. had been working on for decades. What the secret parasite, Hydra, inside of S.H.I.E.L.D. had been working on.

Project Insight. A set up that amounted to holding a gun to the world's head, threatening good behavior into existence by force. Not freedom.

"I figured that much," Natasha said grimly. She deftly jumped over a fallen log and kept pace with him.

"I know a place," Steve said. "As long as he lets us in."

Natasha didn't ask anything else. They continued on, a brisk hike. They crossed two highways, pausing to get their bearings at each. Natasha nodded in the general direction they needed to go to return. After the second highway, they paralleled it, sticking to the woods, but following the general direction.

"We need another vehicle," Steve said.

The truck they had…borrowed…to get to New Jersey was back at the abandoned army base, no doubt surrounded by the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents who followed the missile.

"You going to borrow another truck?" Natasha asked.

"Maybe a car. Better gas mileage," Steve said.

Natasha let out a quiet sound that might have been close to humor. They fell back into silence.

Steve determinedly kept his thoughts from straying to the past again.

"What else did you learn in Nazi Germany?" Natasha asked, clearly unable to read his thoughts and his struggle to avoid thinking about his history. "Besides stealing cars."

"Borrowing," Steve automatically corrected her. But at least her question was an easy one. One that brought him out of the darker shadows of his memories. "I learned the jitterbug."

"The what?" she asked.

"The jitterbug. The dance."

She slid a glance toward him. "You dance."

"Bucky did." The shadows returned, but they kept to the edges, a warmth at the memories of the good times keeping the darkness from taking over. "He didn't love dancing, but he liked women. So he'd dance."

A smile curved his lips. "He'd dance and then he'd buy them drinks. A malt. Whatever they wanted. But he didn't have to. Women loved him."

"And I suppose they didn't give Captain America the time of day," she said, dry humor taking the edges from her sarcasm.

"I wasn't always Captain America." He went with the memories that went back farther than the war. Before his entire life changed. "Women didn't give me much of a look. But Bucky…" he couldn't hold back his laugh. "He had charm. Looks. Knew how to sweet talk anyone. If we were out and a girl caught his eye, he wouldn't make a move unless she had a friend for me."

"Sounds like he was a good friend," Natasha said.

"He was loyal," Steve said. "Always there." Until he wasn't. And now Bucky was gone forever. His broken body somewhere under the train bridge he had fallen when they were trying to capture Zola.

Arnim Zola. The man had destroyed Bucky. Steve couldn't work up any grief over the scientist, or what had remained of him, being destroyed by S.H.I.E.L.D.'s missile.

"There," Steve said with a nod of his head.

Through the trees a roadside café was visible. With a parking lot full of cars. One of those cars would be what they took back to D.C.

He and Natasha moved through the woods to the far side of the café before edging toward a small sedan at the edge of the gravel lot.

Natasha scanned the lot while Steve knelt down next to the car.

He got the door open quickly and pulled off the cover of the steering column. The car started.

Steve unlocked the passenger door and Natasha hurried around and slid in.

He didn't say anything as he pulled out onto the highway. But the memories filling his mind more than filled the silence.

Natasha wasn't any more talkative than he was. He wasn't sure if it was because her shoulder was bothering her, or she was reading his mood. What had she asked when they were driving into New Jersey? She had asked who he wanted her to be.

He glanced over at her. She was rolling with the punches. Giving him room to accommodate his dark thoughts. Then he looked more closely at her before turning his attention back to the road. S.H.I.E.L.D. had been her home, too. Her life. And they had turned on her just as easily as they had on him.

He blew out a breath.

Right now, they just needed to get somewhere safe. Not easy when they couldn't trust anyone.

He kept to the side streets when they reached D.C. He pulled the car into a busy parking lot and parked it, carefully looking around the lot as he got out.

When he locked the doors, Natasha raised her eyebrows at him over the roof of the car.

"I don't want someone stealing it," he explained.

"Very considerate of you," she said.

Steve frowned at her. He had only borrowed the car, and the truck. They would both get back, in perfect condition, to the rightful owners.

"Come on," he said.

He wasn't as familiar with this side of the city, but it was laid out on a grid that made it easy to navigate. He and Natasha kept their heads low, their pace even. Once they interlinked hands to give the appearance of being a couple. He tried to keep from looking over his shoulder. He saw Natasha stop once and motion slightly with her head to a traffic camera ahead. Without a word, they adjusted their course to avoid the camera.

Four more blocks, and then they turned onto the street they needed to be on. Steve put a hand on Natasha's elbow and guided her into an alley.

Steve finally did look over his shoulder when they left the alley to go into a backyard. He wasn't going to risk leading anyone to someone who didn't ask for a fight.

Natasha stood next to him on the steps at the back of the house, keeping an eye out for anyone while Steve knocked firmly on the door.

"Hey man," Sam said, sliding the door open. His brow creased in concern, a question on his face, though he didn't ask it. Steve assumed he looked at rough as Natasha did next to him, her face covered in grime, a hunted look in her eyes.

"I'm sorry about this," Steve said, cutting past any greeting. "We need a place to lay low."

"Everyone we know is trying to kill us," Natasha chimed in. Steve inwardly winced at her blunt summary. It did bring Sam up to speed, though.

Sam hesitated, looking between the two of them. Steve stayed still, ready to accept whatever Sam decided.

"Not everyone," Sam finally said, stepping to the side.

Steve didn't hesitate, but let Natasha go through the door first, not wasting any time getting into safety.

Sam scanned the yard behind them before closing the door and pulling the shade.

"You guys can clean up over here," Sam said, leading them to a sparse bedroom, clearly a second bedroom and not his.

"Thanks, man," Steve said.

Sam's face said he had no shortage of questions, but he didn't ask anything. "Take your time," Sam said, showing them a bathroom connected to the bedroom. He glanced between them one more time before stepping from the room.

"Go ahead," Steve said to Natasha. He stopped himself from saying 'ladies first', knowing that wouldn't be appreciated by the agent.

She gave him a curt nod and went into the bathroom, closing the door behind her with a soft click of the latch.

When he heard the shower turn on he finally let out a breath. For now they were safe. Who knew how long that would last.

He moved alongside the window, peering out between the closed blinds. There wasn't any movement on this side of the house.

He stayed there, keeping watch until he heard the shower turn off. A short while later Natasha came out, her hair damp, back in her dark clothes, but minus the sweatshirt she had worn.

Steve passed her on his way into the bathroom. He didn't head to the shower, instead pulling off his sweatshirt and t-shirt, draping them on the edge of the tub. He kept he door open, needing the line of sight to make sure Natasha was ok, keeping an ear open for anything coming from Sam in the other part of the home.

He washed up at the sink quickly, keeping an eye on Natasha. She dried her hair methodically, seated on the edge of the bed.

Steve rolled his shoulders, trying to shake off the memories that had been chasing him throughout the day. They had enough to run from in the present.

#

The Soldier approached the back of the house silently. He scanned the darkening yard. At the door he didn't knock. He looked at the security system. It was hidden, discrete. It was also similar to Hydra's systems. He easily bypassed it, slipping into the house.

He had been called here. He moved through the spacious kitchen, leaving the lights off, not announcing himself.

He slipped the gun he kept strapped to his side on missions from its holster and set it on the table. He rested his titanium arm alongside it. A deeply ingrained move, preparing himself for any threat at any moment. Ready to protect Hydra. It didn't matter that Pierce wasn't a threat. He was only trained—programmed—to respond to threats. To be a threat.

Threats were the entirety of his world.

He didn't settle into his chair, instead sitting in it alert and ready when Pierce came into the kitchen. He waited silently while Pierce opened the fridge, the light from the appliance cutting through the darkness until he closed it and shadows fell again.

Pierce startled when he saw him. His posture showed his heightened awareness, even when he called to a woman—a housekeeper maybe—with a tone of forced casualness.

"Good night," he called to the other room, keeping his attention on the Soldier. He waited until the front door opened and closed before he spoke again. He eyed the Soldier. "Want some milk?"

The soldier didn't respond. He had been called here. Activated. And not to come and have a drink of milk in the director's kitchen.

"The timetable has moved. Our window is limited."

That didn't matter. The Soldier had been ready for what was asked. Ready to comply. He could adjust to a shortened timetable.

"Two targets. Level six."

Only two. He didn't bother to respond to the threat level attached to the targets. Higher value targets only increased his determination. Level six meant they were more valuable to S.H.I.E.L.D. and it was that much more essential to stop them. He didn't move, taking in what Pierce told him and mentally preparing for the next steps.

"They already cost me Zola. I want confirmed death in ten hours."

Ten hours. It was doable. He didn't need to hear who the targets were. He would take them out no matter who they were.

"Sorry, Mr. Pierce, I…I forgot my phone." The housekeeper hesitated on the threshold to the kitchen, her words trailing into uncertainty as her eyes landed on the Soldier.

The Soldier stared back at her without reaction. He was aware of the gun on the table. Aware that she was someone who couldn't know about Hydra. Any of it. And that included him.

"Oh, Renata. I wish you would have knocked." Pierce sounded sincerely remorseful.

The Soldier expected the blasts and light from the handgun discharging. He waited until the woman hit the floor, then looked back to Pierce. Pierce laid the gun on the table, closer to the Soldier so he could take it back with him.

"We have several teams locating the targets. Be ready."

The Soldier gave a slight movement of his head to indicate he heard.

"Good. Then…" Pierce pushed his chair back and looked back toward the body with a slight grimace. "The agents who came with you. Are they in the vehicle?"

The Soldier stood as well, giving the body a quick glance to confirm it wasn't moving. He gave another small nod of assent.

"Send them in to deal with this," Pierce said. He moved to bring his empty glass to the sink, veering away from the deceased.

The Soldier exited the way he came. He would pass on the message. Then he would wait until the targets were found.

#

Elia walked down the hall. She still hadn't learned the twists and turns of the lair. It was difficult to track her location and remember the layout when she was drugged into near oblivion half the time and every nerve ending was shrieking in pain the other half.

Right now she was in a rare state of relief. Her mind was fuzzy, but working, her vision only slightly blurred. Her hands tingled, but they didn't ache.

She was fairly certain the hall that led past the—the treatment room or whatever it was called where she got injected—led to the gym. She was expected at the gym for another round of learning basic defensive moves.

She turned a corner, then stopped. Wrong hallway. She blinked to clear her eyes slightly. She turned around and went back the way she came and found the hall that would lead past the treatment room.

She felt the breath still in her lungs when she went neared the treatment room. The injections she got in there. The way they pried into her mind, rooting around in her memories. It all had her holding her breath when she saw the door was open. She told herself there was no light coming from the room. She would walk past it and not be pulled in for an injection.

She forced her sluggish feet to move faster as she got closer to the room, needing to get past it so she could breathe again.

She barely glanced in as she went past, needing the reassurance of seeing the darkened room sitting empty.

Her feet shuffled to a stop and her breath stayed in lungs.

The Soldier was there.

Elia immediately scanned the rest of the room, looking for a tech working on his arm or some sort of handler. But it was just the Soldier. Alone in the dark. His face was hard, his eyes fixed on something she couldn't see. She glanced around the room. Something that wasn't there. He was just…staring. A few machines hummed in the background, but none were currently in use.

Elia hovered in the doorway, keeping the doorframe as a sort of shield. She watched him, but he didn't move. He sat in the chair they seated him in for working on his arm, but she wasn't sure he even knew who he was in that moment. He was blank. A violent, blank slate.

"Are you…are you…?" Elia didn't know what she wanted to ask. But he didn't look at her. He kept staring at something in the mid distance, his eyes hard, his jaw set.

She had seen the other agents and the techs when they didn't have duties to tend to. She had seen them in the gym, blowing off steam with sparring matches, and in the cafeteria between meals playing cards or working on crossword puzzles. But this soldier was never with anyone else. And she had never seen him do anything besides train. And now stare. He just stared.

Elia wasn't sure if it was the drugs or the Soldier that kept her feet rooted to the spot, but either way they didn't move. She watched him. Watched the way his breaths moved with an almost reptilian slowness. He didn't move a muscle. He barely blinked. His long hair hung around his face in strings, but not enough to block the hollowness of his eyes from her.

That hollowness carved at a pit in her stomach. He was nothing more than a cold blooded killer. Everyone here was. And those who weren't—the techs, the medics, her—they were determined to turn into killers.

She needed to get out of this place. She turned her back on him and managed to get a couple shuffling steps before a hand took hold of her shoulder. She gasped out a breath, sure the Soldier was coming for her.

"You're supposed to be in the gym."

Muscles that were vibrating between tensed and hypotonic with the mix of drugs in her system fell farther with relief that it was one of the handlers, not the Soldier. Until he spoke again.

"You're too slow. We'll wake you up for your training."

Elia moved her lips, trying to get them to form the words she needed to come faster than she could muster. "N—no," she finally managed as he dragged her into the procedure room.

The Soldier didn't look toward them, still in his own head or wherever he had gone.

"I don't—don't…" Elia struggled to get her mind to speed up, her lips to cooperate with the thoughts. She didn't want an injection. She didn't want more pain.

But it didn't matter what she wanted. She was shoved down onto the bench. The syringe was filled with liquid and then the needle jabbed into her arm.

Elia couldn't hold back the groan that tore from deep within. The pain was familiar. But that only made it worse. Because she knew what came next. The pain that would feel like her muscles were going to be torn from her bones, and the headache that would keep her from sleeping for the next two days.

It didn't matter what she did. The hand on her shoulder held her down until the pain did the job for the handler and kept her from moving on her own.

She barely felt him drag her up from the bench. The pain flooding her body covered the movement. She didn't make any effort to track the path to the gym. He hauled her into the gym and half tossed her toward the group gathered on the mats.

Elia hit the wall at the edge of the mats. She couldn't get her legs under her and fell to the floor. The ache taking over her entire body blocked out whatever was happening around her. Until someone grabbed her by the arm and pulled her to her feet.

Her legs nearly seized under her, but she managed to stay upright, gasping for air with lungs that burned.

The strike team leader who was leading the training for this round pushed a gun into her hand.

Elia instinctively recoiled. She had never handled a gun and the thought of holding one terrified her. She squeezed her eyes shut and grit her teeth. She had to pull it together if she had a gun in her hand.

"It's not loaded. Yet. Everyone study your weapon. We'll go over the parts."

Elia's fingers curled around the gun. Not because she was trying for a safer grip, but because her muscles were cramping. She wasn't going to be able to adjust her grip no matter how she tried.

The rest of the group learned how to hold the gun, shooting stances, and how to safely handle the weapon. Elia tried to uncurl her fingers from around the gun and to keep from landing on the ground again.

The lesson moved from handguns to basic defensive throws. A strike team member collected the guns. He pried the gun roughly from her hand, one of her fingers cracking when he roughly tore it out of his way. Elia barely registered the pain over the ringing in her ears.

The group lined up. When one of the medics gave her a sharp elbow to her back, Elia made her way to the end of the line on unsteady legs. She tried to listen to what the instructions were.

A sharp crack nearly burst her eardrums.

She blinked to clear her vision. A handler with a dark frown stood in front of her. When she didn't say anything, he snapped his fingers in her face. The second crack of noise had her rocking backwards.

"Pierce needs information," he said to the instructors. "She's coming with me."

She wasn't even sure the last injection to bring back her consciousness had taken full effect and now they wanted to inject her again to sedate her.

She couldn't draw a breath. But there wasn't any air in her lungs.

No.

She struggled for a breath. Her heart pounded too heavily to allow anything else into her chest, it beat away any chance of her lungs expanding.

She hadn't had a panic attack. Not since they first brought her here.

They were going through the unadorned corridors now. She was going to—her heart—it was going to explode.

She reached a hand to her chest, but her fingers were numb. She didn't know if she was grabbing at her shirt or her chest. Her feet dragged along the floor as the handler mercilessly lugged her through the halls.

Relief. When they got to the procedure room she finally felt relief. They could fill her veins with whatever it was that made her nothing more than a sleepwalker and then she would be able to breathe.

"What's wrong with her?"

She barely heard the question. Not that it mattered. No one talked to her. Not unless they needed information. She didn't even know what information she gave them. But she knew it was better than being awake in this place where she was a captive. Better than feeling like her heart was going to climb up her throat and choke her.

"Who knows?" came the answer.

Elia fought for breath. She wanted them to just give her the injection already. Before her heart burst. The pressure was leaving her gasping for breath. It didn't matter if she told herself it was only a panic attack. Part of her still thought it might be enough to kill her. A heart attack. Lack of oxygen. It definitely felt like that, every single time.

A sharp jab broke through the haze of panic. Elia tried to count to thirty. Or ten. Her mind couldn't grab onto a number. She knew she would feel better as soon as the drug took hold. But counting down to that relief wasn't happening.

She felt the fuzziness. It started in her chest. Slowed her rapidly thudding heart. Opened up her lungs. It would spread to her limbs next, weighing them down. Then her mind, dulling her senses and taking any memory of what they were doing, leaving only a shadow of a ghost talking to her.

She took a long breath. Finally.

She looked at her handler, her vision clearing for the brief moment before the hazy curtain of the drug dropped over her. He was one she recognized from another time. Maybe. It was hard to tell for sure. He spoke to the man who had given her the shot in her arm.

"It's like he puts himself in cryo," he snorted.

Elia followed the nod of his head. The Soldier was still sitting there.

"If there ain't no work to be done, he goes somewhere else in his head," the medic who injected her said.

Elia looked at the Soldier. She didn't think he had moved since she had passed by on her way to the gym.

"Only problem with that theory is there's nowhere to go in there," the handler said, a dark chuckle punctuating his words. "Not with the way they fry his brain."

Elia blinked against the drug flowing through her, trying to see the Soldier clearly. They fried his brain? In spite of all she knew about the man, her heart twisted at the thought of that kind of cruelty against anyone. She tried to look at him again. She couldn't see him anymore. Not with the fog entering her brain.

The medic laughed in return. "Makes you glad you can take a vacation, don't it? Pretty sorry sight seeing him ready for a mission or shutting everything off."

"Not as sorry as her," the handler said.

Elia clenched her jaw. Or tried to. But her muscles were no longer cooperating. She wasn't sorry. She wasn't. She told herself that, but the thought swirled around until she couldn't remember what exactly the man had said and why she was supposed to be offended.

Her head was too heavy to hold up. It rolled over to her shoulder and she let her eyes fall closed.

"Let's get started," the handler said to her. "Your clients, the ones with ties to politics. Did any of them talk about Project Insight?"

#