Played by the Enemy || Captain America || Book 2

Chapter 16: Trouble

Fun fact: Sam was originally supposed to die soon after Lilly left HYDRA for supporting her, but I just brainwashed him instead. Good thing, eh?

~

My long, amber strand begins to obscure my vision again, but I make no move to move it. Not when I have that asshat possessing the audacity to order and push me around. Every time we talk he scowls at me with no small amount of irritation written on his face. The feeling is mutual mate, I can tell you that.

"You know, I've met a great deal of pricks in my lifetime, but he's the fucking cactus," I huff into my phone, reminiscing over Rumlow's degrading, crude speech. "Do this Dr Timp. Do that Dr Timp. He's not a pet Dr Timp, he's a mindless weapon implemented for the utter destruction HYDRA wreaks. Asshole. I am not only doing my job as a fake psychologist, but I am actually treating the poor man with a little dignity! Is that so wrong?"

"You're getting too close to your charge Lilly," Allison Renegade reminds me over the phone, the faint clack of the keys reverberating in the background. "You're only supposed to be keeping an eye on the Winter Soldier and what HYDRA is doing with him, not growing attached. Are you going soft?"

"I'm an assassin Ally," I growl menacingly, too pissed off to offer any palpable sarcasm or wit at the moment. "I don't do soft. I don't grow attached, and I sure as hell don't give a damn about broken, misunderstood men who are supposed to be my charges."

"Uh huh, sure you don't." I know she can feel my simper through the phone at that response.

My glare could melt vibranium. "Doesn't matter. What matters is that they sent him on a suicide mission. Afghanistan, Ally. We're in Afghanistan. And on top of it all, they only sent him and another eight men to retrieve whatever the hell they need off the Taliban. Eight men and an assassin against a damn army. He's going to die, and then there won't be any reason for them to keep me on here. I'm no use with him dead— well, Dr. Timp is no use."

"I really wish you took your fake credentials seriously when you came up with your cover name," Ally more so exasperates to herself. "I don't know how much longer I can deal with 'Dolorous Timp'. Why couldn't you have chosen something more.... not grandma sounding?"

Despite myself, I manage a snicker. "Come on, it's funny. A twenty year old woman with a name like Dolorous Timp. I feel like one of those grannies that feeds the pigeons and ducks in the park—"

"Moving on," Ally presses, clearly unimpressed. "The only suggestion I can offer is to suit up, make sure he doesn't die out there. But I implore you not to give away your identity. Maybe wear a mask?"

"Lillian Nightshade does not wear masks." Even I am unsure as to whether that was scathing or darkly amused. "But I suppose you're right. As always."

"Damn straight I am," the playfulness is back, lifting her tone to the stars. "Now hurry, and be careful. I don't want to have to fly to Afghanistan just so I can kick your ass should you die."

"And if I'm burnt alive and reduced to ashes?" I jokingly inquire.

I can sense the growing smile on her face, even with thousands of miles between us. "Then I'll kick your ashes."

"Lilly."

Shattered. My memory-dream shatters like glass, and at the abruptness of it, I'm all too quick at drawing the carefully placed knife from under my pillow and automatically pinning the culprit with it to the bed. Two blinks is how long it takes for me to register the guilty yet concerned face of Samuel Hemmings, a pinch of amusement interwoven amongst it. "Right. Assassin. Remind me to get Adelaide to wake you up in the future. I'm not too partial to having knives pressed against my throat, but you know, that's just me."