Chapter 1
Dr. Abraham Erskine, noted nuclear physicist, clambers out of a dark, unmarked van. He is not a large man, but his hunched posture and hunted expression shrink his figure further and throw his aging features into sharp relief. The Russian soldiers who accompany him, silent and grim, do not make him look any better by comparison, nor do their four hooded prisoners, the doctor's would-be kidnappers. One of them has clearly been knocked unconscious.
Lieutenant Rumlow steps forward to greet their CIA liaison, flanked by his underlings, who is emerging from the jet that will carry Erskine to safety.
“Agent Sitwell,” Rumlow says.
“Lieutenant,” Sitwell responds, inclining his head. “Dr. Erskine.”
The spooks help take the prisoners and muscle them in. Sitwell and Erskine follow. Rumlow and his men don't wait to watch it leave. They still have work to do.
Once their ascent is complete, Sitwell pulls out a gun. Erskine flinches as he stalks toward the captives and shoots the men holding them, one after the other.
The largest one breaks his handcuffs with ease, then sheds his hood. Erskine makes a small noise in the back of his throat at the sight of his mask and metal arm, the sleeve covering it torn by the movement of its joints – the Winter Soldier.
Sitwell frees two others, one of whom stalks into the cockpit. There is a truncated scream, a slight wavering of the wings, and then the plane is steady again. The other arms himself with one of the corpses' weapons and waits for instruction.
“Secure the doctor,” the Soldier orders, and the other jumps to obey. Sitwell frees the last of them, which Erskine now realizes is a corpse. Its face is beaten past recognition, but it has a passing resemblance to him.
“What step comes next?” Sitwell asks, “I was never briefed.”
“HYDRA appreciates your service, Mr. Sitwell, but I'm afraid they cannot know that we have operatives in the CIA. Kill him.”
Another gunshot, right by Erskine's ear. Sitwell still looks vaguely perplexed, even with half his face missing.
“Doctor, if you would come with us,” he says, as if being captured by one of the most dangerous assassins in the world isn't enough to ensure his cooperation.
Erskine is strapped to the Winter Soldier, who rips open the emergency exit. There is a much larger cargo plane directly above them, trailing a long rope ladder. The Winter Soldier leaps, and pulls himself upwards, right arm just as smooth a machine as his left one. Erskine watches the jet swan dive towards the rocky, deserted lands below, feeling strangely detatched.
They reach the cargo plane without further incident. As Rumlow unties him, the Winter Soldier calmly explains what they want him to do.
-
Tony Stark to Host 8th Annual Stane Banquet
The banquet is held every year in honor of Obadiah Stane, who backed the Gotham Police Department with both funds and top of the line weaponry, and died eight years ago during the Trickster's reign of terror. . . . there is much speculation over whether the reclusive billionaire will make an appearance at the event . . . . it is well known that Stane was both a business partner and a close friend of the Stark family.
Unfortunately, Mr. Stark could not be reached for comment, but insiders speculate . . . .
Fury puts down his tablet with a sigh, and rubs his temples with two fingers. Tonight he will read a speech honoring a man who sold weapons to the very criminals he had claimed to fight. He thinks of the speech that he had written for the first banquet, still saved on a hard drive with other confidential information. He thinks of Iron Man.
He and Stark had never gotten along, but dealing with an egotistical vigilante who would have revealed his secret identity if he and Jarvis hadn't talked him out of it was still preferable to the paperwork and the power-hungry officials that came with bureaucracy. Much as he hated to admit it, Stark had made things easier, at least in the long run.
And now Iron Man is considered a dangerous criminal and Stark has been holed up in his mansion doing god knows what for the past eight years.
Fury opens the liquor drawer in his desk and takes a pull straight from the bottle. It's gonna be a long night.
-
Natasha weaves through the crowd of the upper echelons of Gotham, her posture meek and unassuming. Most only see the tray of canapes, and the rest only look as far as her breasts. The event, though it takes place outdoors, still feels too loud and too close.
A flash of flame-bright hair, a few shades lighter than her own, catches her eye. She recognizes the up-and-coming entrepreneur Erica Holstein, the new face of green energy, in close conference with her date. Like most of the people here, she probably wants funding from Stark. Like all of them, she will not get it.
She slips into the kitchen seamlessly, waiting by the doorway for Jarvis to order someone to bring Sir his dinner. He points at the one closest to the door and vanishes, presumably to oversee the festivities. The chosen young man looks a little too excited by the prospect – because of the rare chance to see Stark, or perhaps lingering stories of his sexual prowess, which have only been exaggerated over the years by bored staff and in highbrow literature such as Cosmopolitan. Natasha stops him with a hand on his forearm and offers to take the tray up for him. He starts to disagree, but a closer look at her face makes him think better of it.
She walks to the east wing of the house, one which normally only Jarvis is permitted to enter, and opens the door without hesitation. A quick sweep of the adjoining rooms proves that Stark is elsewhere for the moment, so she sets down the tray and waits.
He arrives soon enough, no doubt kept awake by the festivities outside, and his appearance takes her aback. Gone are the boy band hair and the scrupulously maintained goatee, replaced by a halo of Einstein frizz and a full beard. He looks like a mountain man in a grease-stained bathrobe and duck-print pajama pants, or some sort of overgrown squirrel.
“Why are you here? Where's Jarvis?” Stark demands.
“H-he's busy with the banquet,” Natasha says, feigning discomfort. “I'm supposed to wait u-until you're finished.”
Stark relaxes, familiar with intimidated, beautiful women. He eats quickly, as if only just now realizing that he was hungry, and practices his flirting, while Natasha plays along. He's rusty, and a bit self-important for her tastes, but he has his own unique charm. She gives him one last smile, foreign on her face, collects his dishes and leaves. She discards the apron and the tray in an empty room, picking up the glass with precise movements and tucking it into a ziplock bag.
Natasha slips out a side door and absconds with the fingerprints in her handbag, just another guest among hundreds. She allows a slight smile to quirk her scarlet lips. No more red in her ledger.
-
Steve hates coffee duty.
It's not unexpected that the job was foisted on him; he's a rookie, and scrawny, besides. It doesn't mean it doesn't sting when he watches his partner, Sam, go out on patrol without him. He only had coffee duty for a week.
“Hey, kid,” the Sergeant Hill calls. “Take some coffee and a sandwich or something to the Commissioner. He's brooding on the roof again.”
Steve bristles but readies the coffee (lots of milk, no sugar) and grabs a Twinkie from the sergeant's snack drawer. He climbs up two flights of stairs, suppressing the desperate need to wheeze, and pushes open the roof door.
Commissioner Fury, true to form, is standing in darkness by the old Iron Man signal. He cuts a dramatic figure, his eye patch (one last memento from the Trickster) reflecting the moonlight. He probably poses like that on purpose, Steve thinks uncharitably, but keeps it to himself.
“Sergeant Hill said you should drink and eat something, sir,” Steve says. The commissioner makes no move to accept the Twinkie, but he does take the coffee. Steve takes a bite from it. He hates wasting food.
“Rogers, right?”
“Yeah,” he says, spraying crumbs all over his uniform, and swallows hastily, “sir.”
“What's your opinion on Iron Man?”
Steve blinks, and says, “I joined the police force 'cause of him.”
“You joined a year ago. He's been a wanted criminal for eight,” Fury points out.
“There's no proof that he murdered anyone, right? I mean, the Trickster was still running amok during the killings he's accused of, an' he never killed anyone before, not even people who deserved it.”
“You realize that I was one of his accusers. Are you saying that I was lying?” Fury asks, his tone neutral. Steve realizes that he may have overstepped, but forges onwards.
“Well, the GPD used to work with him, an' you haven't bothered to take the signal down yet. I think that you needed him to take the fall, for whatever reason,” Steve says, scarfing the last of the Twinkie. “It's not like you could actually arrest him, anyways.”
Fury's eye is inscrutable. “You're one of his conspiracy theorist fanboys, huh?”
“Sorta,” Steve admits. “I don't like the way he went about things, but I don't think he was a criminal, either. He shivers slightly. Even though it's a balmy summer evening, it's a little windy on the rooftop. “If I'm not fired, can I go back in now? Lotsa coffee to make.”
Fury snorts. “Get your ass back inside, Rogers. I'll see you tomorrow.”