Villain!Steve
Thirty-some odd years after Captain America said his last goodbyes and aimed his aircraft into the sea, Soviet submarine K-219 discovered a unique item on a standard nuclear deterrent patrol in the Northern Atlantic. The large block of ice, containing a body and a shield, was quickly and quietly transferred to Department X, where the large, blond man was discovered to still be alive.
Classified as The American, he is forgotten by the crew members of the submarine and those that ask questions of his whereabouts aren’t heard from again.
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The training the American goes under weakens over time, the scientists assume it has something to do with his advanced healing pushing out the implants, but his rapid healing also makes him easy to be utilized as a mobile target for enemies when needed and the Black Widow never has to hold back when they spar. It is noted in the research that his susceptibility to following orders rapidly deteriorates when he is working with particular assassins, namely the one obtained at an earlier date who is kept in cryostasis near constantly.
He is no longer assigned joint missions with the operative named Winter Soldier.
Twelve days later and everyone in the training compound is killed by the blunt edge of the American’s famous weapon when the American discovers this, excepting Winter Soldier and Black Widow who were off-compound.
The American is kept separate from the remaining operatives and his trademark weapon after that, not in stasis, but heavily drugged underground only to be roused when his ruthlessness is needed in the field.
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It’s too bright.
There are voices, explosions, hands scrambling against his arms, and the ice entering his veins is abruptly cut off allowing him to feel his fingers and toes.
“Американский!! Американский, пистолет, кофе, бабочка, океан!” Is yelled into his ear, causing his eyes to snap open even though he’s been asleep for much longer than previously. The scientist who yelled the jumbled imprint protocol phrase at him is bleeding on his pants, her hands stained red as they tried to push her stomach back into her torso. “Вы должны-Вы должны…” Unable to finish the command before succumbing to her wounds, the large blond sitting on the metal slab of a table stared dispassionately down at the body for a moment prior to pushing it onto the floor in a heap.
The head snapped up at the sound of movement on the other side of the barred and sealed door, training telling him to obtain information and report, to stand up and prepare to fight. His eyes scanned the room, small with multiple points of defense. Grabbing the handgun nearby the scientist, then shoving her cooling body closer to the door as a partial-barricade, the large man crouched in the middle of the room, staring straight at the door in preparation with a nearby table turned on its side to protect his weaker left. Not the best defense, but he wanted to take out as many as possible once the door was breached.
A muffled shout of, “They’re in here! Hawkeye, report, we’ve found an additional hold!”, echoed against the bare walls and he smothered the shiver of anticipation, waiting for the enemy to show themselves. He was only brought out of stasis when the times became desperate, he thought while brushing away the ghosts of a stoic brunet and a woman masquerading as a ballerina from his mind. A temporary distraction, he chanted the phrase given to him by his past handlers, a temporary distraction, keep your head in the game, neutralize and recoup.
Blue eyes snapped back into focus on the door when it rattled, buckling under something on the other side only to crunch inwards to reveal a man wearing the USA flag as an outfit and a woman with fire hair.
“We’ve got a hostile, repeat, we have a hostile,” the man said, hand pressed to his ear, circular shield with an eye-catching bulls-eye pattern held in front of his body to catch the round of bullets aimed at him.
Without waiting for a response, assuming it to be confrontational and along the lines of a bullet through the head, he pushed his way through the two, shooting the woman in the thigh when she didn’t move quick enough out of the way, and sprinted down the hallway. The crash of something being thrown followed him, along with the scream, “Iron Man, stop him, Goddammit, stop him!” bouncing off the walls chased him.
He skidded to a stop when he entered a new room, broken glass cutting into his feet, and dodged when an arrow came out of nowhere to embed itself in his shoulder instead of his neck. He broke off the shaft, made of some type of heavy duty metal he noted in the back of his mind, and slammed into the wall to give himself support to aim his gun at the window nearby. Shooting a couple rounds at the glass to prep it, he threw himself out the building and ignored the flag-clad man who was now in the room reaching for him without a weapon in his hand.
Then he was free-falling and seeing the building from the outside while his body automatically braced itself, preparing for the agony of broken bones and dislocation located at the bottom of his fall.
Only to stop jarringly before impact by something wrapping around him, something humanoid in shape but made of metal and humming quietly, and it’s so bright and light and everything opposite of what he’d seen for so many years that he can feel himself relaxing. Allows the wind to blow over his face and he enjoys the feeling of weightlessness as he flew.
Except it’s lifting him up, back up to the man leaning out the window yelling, being held back by the red-haired woman and the man with short blond hair who had injured him with an archaic weapon.
The flair of panic causes his programming to kick in, which tells him to remove himself from the situation, and he doesn’t think twice before lifting the handgun, ripping off a panel of the robot’s shoulder, and emptying the last of his round into the joint to loosen its grip around his legs. The robot falters, dropping tens of feet, before shakily regaining altitude. The blond doesn’t think as he shoves his hand into the gap, pulling out wiring and biting through connections that can’t be removed with his mangled hands.
He is abruptly dropped and he stifled the grunt of pain when he landed on the ground next to the robot, feeling his shoulder pop out of its socket. Pushing off the ground, he looked down at the robot, debating if he should take it for parts or to his reassigned handler, and he almost bites through his tongue when the robot’s face retracted to show a pale-faced man looking at him in a mixture of pain and fear. Without thinking he leaned down to knock the man out, (why didn’t he kill him? he is bright, his mind whispers, you like the brightness-), and kicked the sluggishly bleeding shoulder before about-facing and fleeing into the surrounding woods, knowing distance and time is his best friend until the drugs are flushed from his system and he can locate another training compound to debrief.
He wonders how long he was asleep this time, when he will be allowed to counterattack, and if the man inside of the bright suit will be present.