Part II: Real Man, Always Thinking With My Fists

A Plague on Both Your Houses

There are people around. They are looking toward the river, toward the wreckage. Emergency crews are still arriving, heading for the Triskelion, for the other crashes. Hopefully for the river bank, so they find his target there.

He pushes that thought away. It doesn't make sense. Why would he give a damn about a target? Because he gave a damn about me, he thinks, clenching his jaw. But why? Who was he? Did they used to work together? Why didn't they anymore? Why couldn't he remember – remember anything?

He remembered being given his mission. They had told him to go the Triskelion, to find Captain America. And to stop him by whatever means necessary. He knew, from the way they said it, that they were unsure of his survival. That didn't seem normal. When they called in the asset, he finished the job. He knew that much, even if he wasn't sure how he knew that, or what other jobs he had done.

His clothes were starting to dry, which was pleasant. The air was warming as the day passed and he waited patiently. After leaving the river, he had made his way stealthily to the nearest street. The chaos behind him attracted most passerby's attention, and he quickly found a car with a few parking tickets on its windshield. Getting into it took a bit longer than he would have liked, but now he has a safe place to lie low for a while.

Gritting his teeth, he uses the seat in front of him as leverage to force his arm back into the shoulder joint. A hiss escapes him but he feels better afterwards. There is a blanket across the back seat, so he pulls it over himself and closes his eyes. Might as well sleep until the cover of darkness gives him the opportunity to return to his handlers without being noticed.

He stood on the rooftop, staring into the dark window across the street. Waiting. Barely breathing. His Barrett M82A 1M was heavy on his right shoulder, but he wouldn't move it to his left. He wouldn't move at all. Finally – the light came on. A man – not his target – was facing the window, looking down. Talking to someone who was sitting.

The light went off, but he could see where the shadows were darker – where the person who was not his target was standing and continuing to look down. Until – finally – he looked up, eye level. Letting out his breath and holding completely still, he shot – once, then two more. A dark shape fell and the man he'd left alive pulled his target further into the apartment. Not that it mattered.

Certain of his success, he stashed his rifle, pausing to look into the windows again. There was movement – the younger man, not his target, was heading his way. So he turned and ran – across the length of the roof. He could hear crashing below him as he was chased through the building. Perhaps he should have shot them both. But he didn't overstep orders – he could handle delicate ops just as easily as the messy ones.

The next rooftop was lower but he didn't slow down, just rolled to cushion the fall. Then kept running. A crash and the other man was behind him. His pursuer stopped and – something was coming toward him. He turned around to catch it easily in his left hand. The other man stopped and stared, seeming stunned and no longer intent on the chase. It was a shield. The man had thrown a shield at him. That was strange.

But had nothing to do with his mission, so he threw it back, hard. And used the distraction to jump off the roof and duck into a window frame. Holding his breath, he listened and waited until his pursuer went away. Then he waited a little longer before going to retrieve his weapon.

A few strange thoughts slipped into his mind, but he ignored them. He had to return to his handlers before they sent someone to find him. Before they decided he should be punished.

Sitting up abruptly, he gasps. That man – not his target but the one who gave chase – he was the one who saved him. Whom he saved from the river. Captain America. They had met before, though he hadn't been in uniform the first time. Was that why Captain America remembered him? No... That didn't make sense. His pursuer's face had been unrecognizing then – he hadn't tried to give him a name or talk to him, possibly because of the mask obscuring his features. There must have been something else, some other contact.

He shakes his head in an attempt to clear his thoughts, but all he can think of is the man, Captain America, being at the other end of his rifle. It is a familiar thought – it has happened before. But... but he was in his uniform then. Unlike in the dream he's just had. And... And he gets the sense that his intent had not been to shoot him but to help him. Strange.

It is evening, the sun just dipping below the horizon. The cleanup crews are still hard at work, but the crowd has dissipated. It should be safe now. As safe as it will ever be, anyway. He doesn't know what happened, what the importance of those helicarriers was to his masters, or who stopped them. But he does know that it's not something that has happened before. That his masters tried something and it did not work – that, even if he failed, he was far from the only one. Things are different. What does that mean for him?

These thoughts consume him as he makes his way slowly through the city. It is not far to the Ideal Federal Savings Bank, but he takes a circuitous path nonetheless. He could be being followed. By whom or for what reason, he has no idea. It's a habit more than anything else. He suspects everyone is far too busy to worry about him after the events of the day, though.

He pauses when he sees the building, an unpleasant feeling in the pit of his stomach. Bad things happened there. Bad things he doesn't want to repeat. Pain – and – something else. He can't remember. It frustrates him, not to remember. Why doesn't he remember? Why can't he think of anything before today? Before being sent this morning to stop anyone interfering with the launch of the helicarriers? Why has he not questioned this before?

Perhaps there are answers in there. Perhaps not. But he's here, and something in the back of his mind drives him to go inside. Slowly, hesitantly, he makes his way forward. The bank is closed, of course – for a few hours by now. But he knows how to get inside buildings that are far more secure than this. Especially since they should be expecting him.

There are two men in the vault. They are surprised at his return.

"It's... It's you," one says while the other gasps. He doesn't answer. He's staring at them, thinking that he knows them from more than just the orders this morning. He's known them for a long time, he thinks. They give him orders, they – they – do things to him. They make him want to go and do things for them. Bad things. Terrible things.

"M-m-mission report."

No, they did not expect him to come back from the mission. They are afraid. They should be. "It's done. Captain America is dead," he tells them. As they expect him to. One breathes a sigh of relief.

He doesn't know who Captain America is, why the man seems to think he knows him. Why he was sent to kill him. Why these men are glad to hear he was successful. But he doesn't like it.

There are others, others he's killed. Others whom he has beaten to death, others he's choked and killed using nothing but his bare hands. Many more he's killed with the arsenal of weaponry they always give him. These men give him. They are afraid when they do it, when they send him out. Why? Do they doubt his loyalty? Should they? He is not loyal to them. He is loyal to – to – the man in the suit. Something... Pierce? That sounds right. But he is not here. And he does not ever give the Soldier a name. He does not treat him as anything more than an asset.

But maybe... Maybe he is more than a killer. Maybe he only kills because of what these men did to him.

Lashing out, he knocks the closest man to the ground. There is machinery near him – he doesn't like it. It hurts him and makes him do things. He strikes that, too, sending pieces crashing to the ground, and grabs the other man by his neck. Faces flash before his eyes of others whose necks he has crushed beneath his fingers.

"P-p-please," the man begs. Others have begged, too. Telling him they had families, children, trying to give him a reason to let them live. But he didn't.

But maybe today... He stops, releases slowly. Maybe he doesn't need to kill anyone anymore.

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