Claws of Fate

Dead Man Alive

The four of us stood there, surrounded by sirens, flashing lights, and a sea of agents. It felt like the walls were closing in. But it wasn't just S.H.I.E.L.D this time—it was the guys from the mall, storming out of their vehicles, guns drawn, barking orders.

"Get down!" they shouted, and I could feel the tension rolling off Steve in waves. He gripped his shield, eyes darting between them, calculating. Were we going to fight? Could we even take them on?

But then, something shifted in Steve. His posture changed, shoulders dropping as he let the shield fall to the ground beside him with a heavy thud. He lowered himself to his knees. Just like that. And for a second, I wanted to scream at him to stop, to not give in. My body tensed up, my claws already itching to strike at someone.

Before I could even decide what to do, I felt a sharp kick behind my legs. I hit the ground hard, the familiar weight of Rumlow's gun pressing into the back of my head.

"Claws away, sweetheart," he hissed, and my blood boiled.

I looked at Natasha. She caught my eye, and with a slight nod, she told me to stand down. I hated this. Hated the helplessness that crept into my chest as I reluctantly sheathed the claws. The itch remained, though—the urge to fight, to tear through these assholes.

One of the agents leveled his rifle at Steve's head. My heart clenched, but Rumlow stopped him. "Not here. Too public." He muttered, eyeing the news helicopter circling above us. The agent hesitated before backing off, but I could tell Steve wasn't really here anymore. He was stuck in his head, frozen, like he was reliving some nightmare in real-time.

Steve didn't react. He just knelt there, distant, like he wasn't even in the moment anymore. Something was pulling him far away, and I could see it—he was trapped in some memory, some thought, completely gone. They cuffed him, then me, and the rest of us. I could barely process it all. The feel of the cold metal on my wrists barely registered. I was too busy trying to piece together everything that had just happened.

They shoved us into the back of a vehicle, the doors slamming shut, sealing us in. The silence was suffocating. I could hear Natasha's strained breathing beside me, the scent of her blood thick in the air. Steve was staring off into space, still not fully present. And I... I couldn't stop thinking about that masked man. His scent. His face. The way he fought. It all gnawed at me like a wound that wouldn't heal. I knew him. I knew him. But how? Why couldn't I remember?

"It was him," Steve finally broke the silence, his voice raw. "He looked right at me, like he didn't even know who I was."

I looked over at him. He was staring down at his restraints like they were the source of all his pain. But it wasn't the cuffs. It was something deeper. I knew that look—he was replaying it over and over in his head, trying to make sense of the impossible.

Sam, ever the logical one, tried to reason with him. "Steve, it was 70 years ago. How is that even possible?"

Seventy years. My mind kept whirling, trying to grasp at the flashes of memory that wouldn't settle. How was that even possible?

Steve didn't answer him. "Zola," he muttered instead. "Bucky's whole unit was captured in '43. Zola experimented on him. Whatever he did... it must've kept Bucky alive. Helped him survive the fall." He paused, his eyes distant, lost in thought. "They must've found him."

Natasha cut him off, her voice soft but firm. "None of that's your fault, Steve." She winced, her wound clearly taking a toll on her.

I could hear the pain in his voice, but it was hard to focus. My mind was spinning too fast. I couldn't shake the image of the man's face, that cold, empty stare, like he didn't even know me either—but something about him... I knew it wasn't just Steve's memory haunting me.