Into the Potomac
The Asset’s mission was clear: kill Steven G. Rogers (Captain America). The Asset never failed to follow a directive.
Things were going according to plan. Until his target lifted the metal beam off the Asset.
“You know me,” Rogers had said.
He lashed out. The Asset had never seen Steven Rogers outside of a mission file.
“Bucky—”
That name. He’d heard it before…somewhere. He couldn’t remember.
“—you’ve known me your whole life.”
Rogers seemed so sure of it.
The Asset was sure of nothing but his mission. But his mind was screaming. He couldn’t make sense of the words. Confusion turned to fear, which turned to rage. Something was beating on the insides of his skull, screaming to get out.
The Asset lashed out again.
Rogers fell. And got back up.
“Your name is James Buchanan Barnes.”
Stabbing pain radiated from the base of his neck into his head.
“Shut up!” he screamed.
The volume of his own voice startled him. He wasn’t wearing the muzzle.
Rogers got up again. He ripped the protective cowl off his head. His blond hair stuck up oddly, dirty with sweat and dust. Something flashed through the Asset’s mind—an alleyway, trash bins, that same sweaty blond hair.
“I’m not gonna fight you.” Rogers dropped his shield. It fell through a hole in the helicarrier floor and out of sight.
“You’re my friend,” Rogers pleaded.
Pain lanced through the Asset’s head. It pierced the base of his skull and the backs of his eyes. The Asset was familiar with pain. It brought the start of a new mission.
With a snarl the Asset lunged at Rogers. They collapsed to the glass floor of the helicarrier.
“You’re my mission,” he spat.
Six punches. Metal on flesh. The Asset cried out with each one. It should have been enough. He’d killed with less. But he was pulling his punches. Why?
The Asset drew back his fist for another blow. The mission wasn’t complete.
“Then finish it,” Rogers croaked around the blood filling his mouth.
His face was bloody and swollen—somehow familiar in this state.
“’Cuz I’m with you…till the end of the line.”
Those words. The pain. So familiar.
A piercing ache in his mind and his gut. Familiar. He hesitated. His fist lowered.
Those words. The pain. And suddenly, the realization.
He did not want to complete the mission. He knew his directive, but something in him was fighting it.
The glass beneath them shattered. Steve Rogers fell with a rain of glass and metal. The stars and stripes of his suit—familiar—grew smaller and further and then vanished in the murky waters below.
The Asset hung from a beam by metal fingers. They itched to let go. Pain in his head, fading stars and stripes, pain in his arm. All familiar.
Hitting the water hurt like concrete and ice. White flashed behind his eyes. White mountains, red snow.
Rogers was dead weight, soaked through and unconscious. He deposited Rogers at the far bank of the river.
The Asset placed a heavy boot on Roger’s chest. Finish the mission.
His foot pressed down and released. Rogers coughed up some water. Alive.
He’d never before failed a mission. There would be more pain. But pain was familiar.
The man stumbled away, freezing, limping, his right arm cradled to his chest.
A plume of smoke rose from the Triskelion building across the river.
He needed something familiar. A mission report.
The man found his way back across the river, into the city. It was dark out now. A faint glow of fire and rescue lights flickered in the distance.
He made his way across rooftops. He moved swiftly, as swiftly as the aches in his body allowed. Pain never seemed to matter before. It was always there, always dull next to the intense focus of a mission.
This pain was new. Yet familiar.
“’Cuz I’m with you till the end of the line.”
He couldn’t make sense of it.
The Ideal Federal Savings Bank came into view. Ground-level lights gently illuminated the exterior but the windows were dark. He knew it wasn’t empty.
He scaled down the fire escape of the building he was on. The rusted metal steps ended a dozen or so feet above the ground. Not safe for civilians.
He threw himself off the fire escape and landed hard on his feet. The impact hurt. He was used to it. He darted across the street and slid into the back emergency exit that wouldn’t trigger the alarms. The building was cold. It always was.
The Asset moved silently through the back hallways of the bank building. His uniform was soaked. He left a trail of water on his way to the holding room.
Voices drifted down the hall. Shouting. Frantic.
Guards ran out of the holding room. He moved closer. Through the metal bars, he saw men in lab coats scrambling around the room, ripping open filing cabinets. A burning trash can sat in the middle of the room, in front of the chair. People threw armfuls of paper into the flames. Everyone yelled over each other. He didn’t like the noise.
The man took a step back. His boot landed in the puddle of water he’d dripped on the floor. No one heard the splash of water. No one but him. He took another step back. Pain lanced his temples. Another step. He drew a breath, grit his teeth, and turned away.
There would be no mission report.
The city was quiet, for the most part. Lights and sirens from the Triskelion drew away any stray attention.
The man ran through back alleys and side streets. His shoulder ached. His legs shook.
He pushed on. Far enough that the sirens and lights faded, he finally collapsed against the side of a building. The bricks scraped his cheek. He would only rest a minute, then press on.
A minute passed far too quickly. And he’d counted the seconds slowly. His eyes were reluctant to open.
A fire-escape. His eyes traced the metal steps up, up, up to a narrow window. He could fit through that.
The effort of pushing off the building and moving towards the fire-escape was greater than he anticipated. His body threatened to collapse with each step.
His boots clanged on the steps and his left hand rang out each time he grabbed the rail. The noise unsettled but did not deter him.
The window was painted shut but that was solved with a few swipes of the knife. He rolled through the window and landed hard on his right shoulder. Pain shot through his arm. He chocked back the urge to vomit.
He took a moment and a few rattling breaths. Broken ribs, probably.
With his left hand he reached back and shut the window behind him.
The room was quiet, dusty. It smelled of parchment and wood. He sat among the half-empty rolls of cloth that surrounded him on the top of a tall storage rack.
The ceiling was high, as if the building used to have two floors but no longer did. Racks lined the length of the room, each one piled with bolts of cloth, chemical bottles, canvases, and random lengths of wood.
Another sickening throb in his shoulder brought the man back to reality. He traced metal fingers over the bulge in his right shoulder joint. It was swollen already.
Regardless, he braced his boots against the shelf and forced his right arm up. He grit his teeth and wrapped his left hand around his right forearm.
He sucked in a few shallow breaths and yanked.
A sickening pop echoed through the room. The pain in his shoulder ebbed slightly then returned full force. Sweat trickled from his brow. He didn’t dare move his right arm again.
One handed, he ripped a length of fabric off a bolt sitting next to him and wrapped it around his shoulder. His fingers shook all the while. He’d need to ice the shoulder.
Later. He’d do it later.
The man fell back among the fabric bolts. He stared at the ceiling until sleep forced his eyes shut. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept.