Glory Fades

Chapter 1 - The Mission

"What do you know? The birds and bees, they are wise to the lies. What do you know? So they took to the trees, and took to the skies. What do you know? On top of the chain, and safe from the rain. What do you know? Whatcha' know about the ways of the underside?"Puscifer (The Mission)

I should've been more apprehensive when I was called in to the agency's clinic for an out-of-routine check-up, but my morningtime grogginess seemed to have blinded me to all common-sense. Instead of questioning as to why they were having me do this, I simply stumbled out of the shooting gallery and ambled down to the clinic.

Everything was normal at first. Tilt your head up, say 'aah'. Good, good. Breathe for me. Deep breath in, deep breath out. Good. Step on the scale, please. You're 5"2, 130 pounds. Good, good. It was all typical doctor stuff, until she started veering off into the weird. Not in the typical grossmedical stuff, either. Your BMI is healthy, muscle percentage is good… Any symptoms of PTSD? How much do you like your work? Do you ever think about furthering your career?

It started to get uncomfortable when the nurse began poking around in my psyche. Was it really any of her business how I was feeling today? Are you a psychiatrist? My therapist? Are you going to prescribe me some antidepressants and let me get on with my day? I briefly wondered how many of their agents had shown symptoms of depression before they decided to do check-ups on everyone.

Unfortunately, pretty much my entire life was up for grabs. My morning routine, what shampoo I use, the number of dead relatives in my family, how I like my toast - anything and everything was up for grabs as a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. Unless you had completely rewrote every single file on yourself, you were doomed to have even the most insignificant secrets dug up and discussed. Fellow employees were, of course, totally unaware of this, but you could see it in each other's eyes. There was a kind of exposure resting just beneath their smiling gazes that screamed 'Somebody out there knows everything about me'.

One couldn't complain about the agency too much, though. They paid you well, they covered pretty much all of your expenses, and if you died - you'd probably get a lavish funeral. All that's left is paying for your utilities, that is, if you don't already live in the dorms attached to the S.H.I.E.L.D. complex. I was lucky enough not to get roped into their housing deal. That would just open up another world of possibilities, another thousand things for them to know about me.

Not two seconds after having exited the clinic, I was directed yet again to a place that wasn't my own goddamn office. I ended up in a medium-sized conference room, the floor strewn with a couple chairs, most of which were filled. The several people already sitting in their loose-knit circle gave me anxious, nerve-filled glances as I sat down in the last chair available. Scooting my seat inconspicuously away from the stocky-looking man beside me, I settled down, folding my hands in my lap and trying not to make it obvious just how tense I was.

Every few minutes or so, we'd all make passing eye-contact with each other, each person wondering what the hell we were all gathered here. Eventually, it all made sense. At least, it did when Nick Fury, the director of S.H.I.E.L.D., swept into the room, two other nameless men flanking his sides. The one-eyed man always had an air of superiority, not just because he was your boss, but because he undoubtedly was the one that had all your files. He was the man who knew what you'd eaten for breakfast exactly six years ago.

Fury didn't do bullshit, and right now was no exception. He stood rigidly at the front of the room, waiting until we all seemed to be at attention, as if we weren't already paying attention the moment he'd walked in. "I'm sure you're all wondering why you're here right now," He began, as if we couldn't make it any more obvious how confused we all were, "You all are being given a mission. This is a mission that we believe only you agents can accomplish. We've spent a long time debating if this was a worthwhile effort, let alone who to send."

We all seemed to gulp at the same time, our combined swallowing making an almost audible noise. Part of me wished he'd walked in and fired us, wiping our memories Men-In-Black style. A mission? An important mission? The last mission I did was getting lunch for some council members, and nobody even thanked me for that.

Of course, everyone was trained to large extents in order to fulfill any and all missions they laid in our path. If you did fail, they were understanding, and simply selected a new group of people to take care of whatever you couldn't. We all probably could complete this mission, or at least we all had the potential to, but it was almost surreal that we were being asked to do anything. People left to do jobs every day, some doing more than one a week, though that was more for the advanced agents. I kind of figured that I was under qualified to do anything but desk work, honestly.

The meeting was incredibly brief, including a fear-inspiring speech from the director, as well as some donuts that we barely had the stomachs to eat. After shoving manila-colored folders into our arms, they sent us away to read over the files. I stared warily at the front cover. A menacing-looking man's photo had been paper-clipped to it.

He was ghostly. Garbed from head to toe in black, the smokey remnants of an explosion covered most of his lethal figure. The fuzzy outline of a machine gun was gripped firmly in one hand, but his other half wasn't visible. It was strange. I'd almost think he didn't exist. The photo was grainy, like somebody had sighted Sasquatch and snatched a photo at the last second.

Glancing nervously from left to right, I began walking briskly back to my office, having been given the week off to read over the papers. When I returned to my homey little desk space, I hastily gathered my things and took off back down the hallway, determined to get home as fast as possible so I could open the folder. I'd stuck it into a thick, four-inch binder, hoping to conceal it from those that I walked past. It wasn't exactly ideal for every civilian in New York City to know that I worked for a secret organization.

I tried my best to steady my breathing. Looking as normal and calm as possible was key, but looking unstressed was strange for those who inhabited such a large city. The trip back home was long and irritating. Everyone seemed to be walking at snail's pace, and it was doing nothing good for the nervousness I was feeling. My skin crawled, the back of my neck was sweating, my palms itched. Was somebody watching me?

By the time I got inside my apartment, I'd managed to shake off most of the uneasiness, and at this point I was just excited. Excited to have something to do, excited to know what the mission was, excited to find out who the ghost-man was. As I opened the folder, though, I hesitated. There was still time to turn it back in and claim that I was not ready. I knew that the moment I got my head into this mess, I'd never get back out.

Holding my breath, I ran my thumbs up and down the portfolio, feeling the smooth paper beneath my hands. It was now or never. Now or never. Now or never. Now or never. Now or never. Now-

I opened the folder.

My eyes frantically scanned the first page for anything recognizable, anything that I could grasp on to. I read and read and read, but it didn't feel like I was actually reading anything. All I was doing was skimming, trying in vain to find some little nitch to fit myself into. I needed a word that would signify the beginning. Something not obvious. Something not blatantly pasted to the top of the page. Finally, I found what I was looking for. A title, a mission statement, a namesake.

The Winter Soldier.