John Doe
“Is it a dog?”
Steve ground his teeth. “It’s a baby.”
“I’m going to kill this shitbag,” Sam muttered under his breath, and Steve silently agreed.
The tip-off had been anonymous and incredibly useful. The tenant of the farmhouse had been keeping at least three or four women he’d bought from traffickers chained up in various rooms, and Steve could hear them breathing, hear their bonds clanking, hear their sniffles and their sobs. It made him want to personally fill the guy with bullet holes, and it seemed Sam felt exactly the same.
“On my mark,” Natasha said quietly, “three…two…..”
Clint was the one who ended up shooting the guy, getting him right in the thigh and then in the shoulder. Sam cuffed him, and Natasha and some others set about unlocking – or smashing apart – the women’s chains.
“Agent Rogers!”
“Ma’am?”
“You’re wanted.”
“By who?”
“Get your ass down here and I’ll tell you.”
Agent Hill was waiting in the pilot’s seat of a helicopter when Steve exited the farmhouse. He’d heard it arrive just minutes after Clint had shot the suspect, but he’d assumed it was for the transportation of the freed prisoners – but, as he walked towards the obnoxiously large chopper, he could see them being loaded into waiting ambulances.
“Come on, come on, while we’re young,” Hill grumbled.
“So……?”
“Fury.”
Steve swore. “Nick Fury - ?”
“It’s Director or sir to you, Agent,” she admonished, waiting for him to buckle in so that she could take off. Agent Hill had been military, like Steve and Sam, but rumour had it she’d been in some high-level special operations. Nobody had ever quite dared to ask for specifics. Sam swore it was because her hairstyle – a tight, stern black bun – intimidated him, along with her sharply-angled eyebrows.
“Why does he - ?”
“You’ll find out when we get there. And before you ask, we’re going to New York. Your team will be picked up by others later on.” She paused, then twisted round in her seat to look directly at him. “This is rather an interesting one, Rogers.”
***
“Fuuuuck, that is some nice ink.”
“Focus,” Bruce prompted gently.
Tony waved a hand. “Yeah, yeah.”
The man who had caused such a ruckus in Times Square was currently in Tony’s lab, stripped of the robe he’d been supplied with when travelling and once again completely naked. He was undergoing a full-body scan, wide-eyed yet quiet and blank-faced. Tony knew he was probably buzzing under the surface – being nervous to the point of calm was something he had experienced more than once, and Bruce was in that state almost constantly.
“Also,” Tony announced, “that is the raddest prosthetic I have ever seen in my entire life.”
“It’s certainly advanced,” Bruce conceded. The metal arm hung loosely at the man’s side, held slightly away from his body as if he didn’t want it too close to his naked skin. It was no wonder he was wary of it – to wake up with a bodily attachment you don’t remember acquiring? And one as obvious as that? Not to mention the fact that, after several attempts made by lab technicians, it wasn’t capable of detaching from his shoulder.
And that wasn’t even starting on the elaborate engraving in the metal plating, seemingly following the fashion of the ink across his natural skin – unconnected, finely made, and -
“New,” Tony said after several moments, and he couldn’t help sounding surprised. “All of the tatts. No more than a couple of weeks, maybe even days.”
“He’s completely covered in them.” Bruce took a step closer, peering through the glass to where the tattooed man was standing meekly in the middle of the enormous scanning machine. “His face is clean, but everywhere else – “
“They’re pretty sick,” Tony commented, and raised his hands in surrender when Bruce glared at him. “What? Cyborg turns up in Times Square in his birthday suit and appears to be a human canvas? That’s cool. I like mysteries.”
“I can tell,” Bruce said dryly. “Okay, scan’s done. Can someone please get him some clothes?”
***
“Agent Rogers.”
“Sir.” Steve resisted the urge to bow. It was a feeling everyone seemed to experience in the presence of Nicholas Fury, director of the FBI in its entirety. While technically the official headquarters were located in Washington DC, he spent the majority of his time at the New York branch, claiming he liked the employees there more. (“They don’t have self-important sticks up their asses” were the precise words he had used, but most people preferred to paraphrase when in polite company.)
“You’re probably wondering why I called you away from your operation.” Director Fury began to walk, and Steve kept pace without being asked.
“I am, yes.”
“We’ve found a John Doe,” Fury said simply.
Steve’s brows furrowed. “What does this have to do with me?” After a moment, he added, “sir.”
“He’s…………interesting.”
“That’s what Agent Hill said.”
“She was right.” He pushed open a door, and Steve was greeted with a wave and a “hey, Mr Rogers!”
“That joke got old a long time ago, Tony,” Steve said, and greeted Dr Banner with a handshake. “I’ve been told there’s a John Doe in custody?”
“Agent,” Fury said, and put a hand on Steve’s shoulder, steering him surprisingly gently to face the observation window. “Do you recognize that man?”
It took Steve a moment to understand what he was looking at. There were several people in the lab, most of them dressed in white coats and wearing plastic gloves. There was one lone figure sitting in the middle of it all, and Steve assumed Fury was talking about him alone.
Steve studied him. He was of medium height, pale and slightly sallow, with a strong jaw and defined cheekbones. He had chin-length dark hair and sharp grey eyes, and his lean frame was covered in what seemed like random – yet intricate – tattoos. There was a silver glint to one side of his body, although Steve couldn’t quite make out what it was.
Steve swallowed. He knew the observation window was one-way, but it felt like the man was staring straight at him. “I’ve never seen him before in my life.”
Fury spoke quietly into an earpiece, and one of the people in lab coats ushered the man to his feet and turned him around. He was wearing a hospital gown, sickly green. The technician gently untied the strings holding the gown together and pushed them apart, exposing the John Doe’s shoulders and neck.
“Then why,” said Fury, “is your name tattooed on his back?”