the soldier. (autonomous) wrote in pastprologueic, @ 2014-09-09 21:53:00 |
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WHO: Bruce Banner, Bucky Barnes, Clint Barton, Sharon Carter, Melinda May, Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanoff, Tony Stark, Antoine Triplett, Sam Wilson + HYDRA goons and some US govt forces (if you squint)
WHAT: Baiting Sergeant Barnes, doncha know. There's also an EMP arrow and copious mentions of piña coladas.
WHERE: Cuba
WHEN: Now
RATING: PG13 for themes of everything you might expect (violence, language, mentions of torture and lack of autonomy, etc)
STATUS: Complete! Though if you want to carry on with some side scenes, please do feel free to thread it out below.
1. 1600. EXTERIOR. SHIELDvengers arrive, move into position. 2. 1615. INTERIOR. Steve enters the base. Behind the scenes: internal alarm triggered, notifying HYDRA. Meanwhile, Natasha shows everyone how it's done. 3. 1706. EXTERIOR. HYDRA breach. Tony sounds the alarm that someone has pinged off their surveillance; SHIELDvengers rally themselves; HYDRA breaches the perimeter. Meanwhile, inside, Steve receives an update of the situation. 4. 1756. EXTERIOR. Second breach. A HYDRA unit breaks away from the main battle and enters the base; Tony announces that they’ve picked up another ping: US government forces, alerted by the fireworks. Meanwhile, inside, Steve and the Winter Soldier meet the HYDRA operatives and fight their way up topside. 5. 1808. EXTERIOR. Exfil. 1600. EXTERIOR. SHIELDvengers arrive, move into position. It was a dead silent ride over, the kind that made Tony fidget like a little boy. Naturally, his first impulse was to fill it. “Soooo… Anybody care for a little music?” And as if on cue (it was, of course), music flooded the cabin-- If you like Pina Coladas Getting caught in the rain… --and was swiftly cut off in light of the sea of grim faces. “No? Ooookay then. Tough crowd.” Tony leaned closer to Cap first and muttered, “I thought I had the A/C set to mild, but it is positively frosty in here.” And after a glance at Carter. “Ice cold, in fact.” "Oh, you're one of the ones who likes to chitchat before potential clusterfucks." Sharon's smile was cheery enough as she glanced at Tony, exchanging a close perusal of the map unfolded across her lap for a frank, openly assessing stare of the two of them. Neither of them -- not the blue-eyed almost-centenarian, nor the dark-haired pedigreed civilian -- carried obvious weaponry. The suit was the suit, and Captain America's shield was a symbol of defence; nothing at all like her gear, the gun holsters by her sides… and all the more reassuring for it. Everyone had seen the force of the Avengers when they worked in sync, and with the majority of them carrying out Steve's mission, surely the odds tipped more in their favour than when it was just her, Sam, and Steve carrying out a manhunt. "If that's what puts you in the zone, Stark." And she turned back to her map. Tony was almost tempted to feel his face for frostburn. He settled for raising his brows at Cap -- Your friend is fun -- before moving from his seat to cross the aisle and slide into the one next to Natasha. With a quick sleight of hand, he pressed a small flash drive into her hand. "And that's for you." The strain between Sharon and Steve had been impossible for Natasha to miss, as a separate matter beyond the all-around agitation of SHIELD and the aftermath of the post-gala meeting. Natasha was, for the most part, focusing on her own role, as Steve had suggested. But there was no reason not to ratchet the tension in the plane down a little. She took the drive from Tony with a half-grin, one corner of her mouth quirking upward. "Got it, thanks. I'm ready." “When are you not?” Tony asked, turning to look at Bruce across from him. “And you, Brucie Bear? Alright?” Sitting with his head leaned back and his eyes closed, Bruce was trying to get a nap on the way over, but was failing miserably, what with all the chatting. “And you accuse me of having a poor taste in music.” Keeping his eyes shut, he asked, “Tell me, is it worth even asking why it’s a good plan to send Cap into the base alone? If this place is anything like Dothan, he’s going to need backup.” “Well, you see, Cap needs a moment alone with his bromantic comrade in order to emote at him about all his sadness. It’s like trying to pee in front of other people -- some just can’t do it.” It was a very reasonable explanation of the situation, Tony thought. Bruce smiled and tried to contain his laugh. "ETA 15 minutes. Prepare for vertical landing," May announced over the PA from the cockpit after a cursory glance at the gauges. Nothing but a clear blue ocean beneath a clear blue sky in her view -- at the moment, she couldn't, wouldn't, ask for more. Well, that and the newly-added retro-reflective panels. "Going dark now." Havana wouldn’t see them coming. 1615. INTERIOR. Steve enters the base. Sublevel 7 was almost identical to the floors immediately above and below it, all flickering overhead lights and corridors that stretched on and on, empty save for the detritus of years of neglect and hasty departures, sheets of yellowed paper on the floor here, a rod of metal, a metal coil from a medical apparatus there. Whatever HYDRA had been growing in this base was long gone and HYDRA itself with it, the ground floor being eaten away by the encroaching growth of plants that had no respect for the walls, the rusted over blast doors; the levels below, down and down and down, dank and close and forgotten by all except the ghosts that permeated the walls like bad memories… and the man who was the Soldier. At least, he thought they might be his memories. It was difficult to qualify the way he knew the layout of the place: was it because all of the bases of this class were laid out like this, or because he’d been here before, for a reset, a mission? Sublevel 7 -- five syllables he silently rolled in his mouth as he stalked down a hallway designated зона A in faded stencil lettering on the wall (he’d walked through here -- just the once, for his departure had been in a box) and pressed on until reaching what appeared to be that area’s hub of operations. A circle of computers, dated, and enclosures walled off by thick, bullet-proof glass (one shattered, the cracks radiating from a circular point of impact -- a fist, maybe, had done this). The weakly blinking light from one of the terminals beckoned, but first he had to do a tactical sweep, stepping into each of the cubicles, clearing each one of immediate threats for all that the sight of them filled him with unease. And because he wasn’t used to this -- the twist of his gut and nerves singing in anticipation of anything but the expectation of violence he could easily best -- it disturbed him further; he drew an inhaled hiss of a breath. After Sharon Carter shared the whereabouts of their mutual target, there was little time to be spent in New York. While there were responsibilities to the Avengers, as well as Coulson’s burgeoning SHIELD, he had a responsibility to find Bucky and bring him home once and for all. The Soldier’s path to Havana was not so much littered with bodies or destruction -- this wasn’t any swath of destruction like they’d seen down from Washington DC -- but subtle directions picked up from the wires. It was easy, then, in Havana, after being sent the location of the old base, to call his team and give them the order to stand down until he could emerge with Bucky in tow. It was easier still to walk in behind, knowing that the entrances and exits were sealed from any potential HYDRA threat. Steve only needed to be aware of what lay before him -- that is, any hornet the Soldier stirred up. And the Soldier himself. Somewhere between Sublevel 6 and Sublevel 7, when he finally caught sight of a dark figure moving in the distance, he lost the cowl. And then, flanking, he found himself approaching from the other end of the aisle. Softly -- “Intel from Oslo says what we need to see is on Level 9, Buck.” Before Steve spoke, before his frame filled the negative space and drew his gaze sharply to him: the air changed, particles swept aside as the Captain took his silent steps, and the Soldier’s gun was raised and ready, aimed at the centre of Steve Roger’s bared forehead before he’d even turned himself fully around to look at him. Six foot and onwards; powerful, agile, strong. Evenly matched, experience told him that getting him to budge against his will would require significant effort on his part -- like a vehicle plowing him down, like he’d done to him back in whatever state he’d been in at the time, hot on a HYDRA lead and diverted by Steve and his continuous attempts to make him remember. Buck. Don’t make me do this, Buck. The barrel of the gun moved in a single fluid motion: an order to move, to turn and keep walking. “Haven’t made it to Level 9 yet. What backup did you bring?” Before a crisp heel sent him back the way he came, he took a measured inventory of the Soldier’s countenance. Ragged and unkempt (more than before, more than DC or the little diner at the edge of the Carolinas) and unsure. He felt the weight of it bore into his back as he stepped forward, almost as if free will was a burden he had to re-learn to carry. “My team has the building sealed against any exterior HYDRA threat.” He knew an assessment when he saw it, but he’d never been subjected to a look so heavy with… what, exactly? Whatever it was that made him hook his own attention onto the other’s silhouette, the slide of musculature beneath the dark blue of a uniform, all the frayed edges of his attention honing in on him despite the dangers this place represented. He understood the meaning beyond Steve’s words: against any exterior HYDRA threat, and to contain him. There would be no repeat of the previous encounters, for even if he was bristling with weaponry, brutal efficiency now skewed by something approaching desperation, the Soldier was grossly outnumbered, outmatched. So much for that, and James almost laughed. “Walk. Level 8.” Freely given, the power to control this situation -- Bucky, the Soldier, whatever -- wasn’t in either of their hands. Steve knew there was only a finite amount of time they had alone together until his team came in. Steve knew that if he couldn’t bring James Buchanan Barnes out of the earth, then they’d both go down together because -- I’m not going to leave you again. He waited for a moment, letting his eyes click methodically over the familiar form, before smoothly walking forward as indicated. “You encountered any resistance?” The silence that met Steve’s query was answer enough: there’d been a door, and now here he was, seven levels down. As they continued to walk to the end of the corridor, he lowered the gun, never sliding the safety on or holstering it as they approached a door marked as leading to a flight of stairs. “Tell me about your team.” “ … you saw two of them, already.” Natasha and Sam, who’d been with him in DC. The others on the surface -- from Sharon Carter to Tony Stark -- were in several ways hard to describe in terms that would suggest anything but the most lethal of force if the operation were to go south. “I’ve got Howard’s son and Peggy’s niece up top. There’re some others -- the news calls us the Avengers. Make of that what you will.” They came to the end of the stairway, and another door yawned before them. Steve turned, reaching out to press his fingertips into Bucky’s shoulder. “Let’s get the documents. When we go back up, you can come with me. We have a plane, and we’ll take you back to Brooklyn.” Where it’s safe. But safe for who? Steve didn’t know. “Brooklyn, where you grew up with him.” Him -- Bucky, of course, whom he’d read about, excessive in his collecting of data as he mined every source but one: Steve, who was the only source that really mattered. As Steve’s fingers dug into metal, his flesh-and-blood hand reached up to dislodge him, fingers pulsing tight around the other man’s wrist before ridding himself of the weight of his hand. “Howard Stark’s son is Tony Stark, who heads SGS. Authorities will have to be informed.” There was a question in that: Brooklyn, or a cage? “Will have to be --?” Steve shook his head. “Stark Global Securities has its own brand of authority, which won’t mean you …” trailing off, his narrowed eyes gestured behind Bucky, back up the stairs. “They want to help. They’re not going to deliver you to anyone. They want to dismantle HYDRA, and stop the threat just as much as we do.” He gave his hand - so easily discarded - a cursory glance as it balled into a fist at his side. “Don’t do this alone. You reached out once.” He shook out his own hand -- once, to hide what might have been a tremor -- before pushing it against the door marked SUBLEVEL 8 in Cyrillic script. “You first, Steve,” he simply said, eyes making a sweep of the hallway immediately visible. “My transmission had good intel. Programming protocols. There’ll be more here. Maybe video records. I might have been here in the 80s.” Steve walked, posture tense and prepped should there have been any reason to utilize the shield that hung on his forearm. “What’d your transmission say?” he asked, knowing that at the level they’d both reached, any inner alarms sounding would have taken from them a note of surprise. But, that last -- “Might have. I suppose it would make sense that HYDRA would have a base in Castro territory, given the history. Looks familiar to you?” “Maybe.” Several metres onwards before he came to an abrupt stop, head cocked, remaining almost perfectly still for a good ten seconds. Then, with a passing glance at Steve, he backtracked so that he could turn a corner they’d passed, which led him to a set of doors with no handles or lock. The only thing beside it was a grey box on the wall. Without pausing, he voiced a string of words -- password, Russian -- and as the doors parted and slid open with a great creak of metal, he swung his gun back up again. There was nothing beyond the doors, only space: smooth floors with lines, once clearly demarcated but aged by time, rungs on the walls, shooting targets, weights. “Nothing here.” He didn’t step inside. “You brought the woman with the red hair. KGB, yes?” That was what had been in the briefing Pierce gave him -- two targets, level six. “You said I met her already.” “Yes. But that’s her story,” he said, noting the tell-tale signs of training. Somewhere close there had to be a chair, or an implement by which to control the Soldier. If he’d spent any amount of time here in Havana -- and by the Russian, it seemed all too likely -- they’d have to put him in cryo, or wipe him. Steve took the lead himself, making a right down the aisle toward a bank of computer screens. “Let’s keep moving.” “OK.” That was casual enough, right? While the gun remained at the ready, he fell into step behind Steve. It was simple -- easy; too easy -- to stare at him, to compare the reality with what he’d read; and then to hold it all up against what sometimes came to him in those moments where his desperate cinch on the present loosened. Then: “I don’t think Brooklyn is an option.” “There’s always Manhattan -- c’mon, --” Buck. “Five boroughs to choose from, and some SHIELD files that might make sense, given what you know and what we know.” Was there anxiety? There had to be anxiety. From the perspective of one government experiment to another (both of them, wrong and right in equal measure), he knew the danger of being caught. Being catalogued. “It’ll be an extra set of eyes, anyway --” And they were working together well, clearing the floor. Working in tandem like they used to, as if their minds drifted like one mind and their hearts beat like one heart. “I wouldn’t mind one of those.” He knew he’d reached the limit of what he could do on his own; the trail of bodies and the path of destruction was such that his time working solo was severely limited, and now, here, he was faced with only one option -- to be brought in, either by Steve or by HYDRA. The latter promised something he knew well, the former… Following Steve topside would probably the most painful thing he could remember doing. It was a curious thought. “You have a team. I’m HYDRA.” What was the expression? “Let’s not kid ourselves.” “My team follows my lead,” he told Bucky, coming to another set of stairs. With a sweep of his arm, he opened the door and began another descent into the black, clearing each landing as they went. “ -- and, you know. You’re my team, too. You always have been.” A slow twist of anxiety in the hollow of his throat suggested that the pain (the best pain, the most exquisite pain) was yet to come. He swallowed, eyes hard as he surged ahead -- “A brother. Family.” “Just a bunch of dumb kids from Brooklyn.” There was little hint of the old Brooklyn accent left, the rolling vowels formed by a crooked slash of a smile. Instead, his words were clipped as he kept in step with Steve, the unease thickening as they pressed on. Anything that came at them would be gifted a bullet in the head, but he couldn’t shoot at what wasn’t there -- half-feelings and suspicions did not count. “I don’t need those things to function.” “No,” he agreed. The absolutist perspective inherent in Bucky’s worldview was a tangible effect of 70 years under Zola’s program. Objectives and requirements were the primary factors, and the most desperate desires of the heart were given no quarter. “You don’t need those things to function. But just like when I was a boy with Bucky -- just like then -- it makes things better.” “Seems like it makes things painful.” And before he could elaborate further (or perhaps it was timed so that he would not have to), they reached Sublevel 9, a push with the flat of his hand swinging open the door. Gun held loosely, he stepped into the hallway without waiting for Steve to take the lead. Natasha understood very quickly after entering the long-abandoned base that Tony's guess about administering whatever was on the flash drive he'd slipped her on the jet was wrong wrong wrong. Tony lived five minutes into the future. This place had died fifty years in the past. Okay, not fifty: but the debris was paper and metal, not plastic and silicon. It reminded her of what must have been left after the missile that had taken down the SHIELD facility that had housed the late Arnim Zola. (Was he really dead? Natasha wondered. Electronic consciousness had already proved didn't have to die with the body. Zola had demonstrated that. She wondered what it had portended for Tony, a sobering thought she filed away for later.) Steve's trail was easy to follow and she found one of the circles of terminals, machines made before Natasha was a twinkle in her father's eye, ancient but, she hoped, still functional. She ignored the cracked bulletproof glass--somebody had tried to put a fist into the enclosure wall; wonder who that was?--and searched instead for some light or sound that would indicate that a terminal was still working. She found a pathetic light that seemed to be winking more and more slowly as she watched. There was no port for a flash drive. Natasha opened one of the pouches on her belt and pulled out a device she'd had on her person that predated Budapest, even. The old tools of the trade served their purpose, still. The flash drive was carefully installed into the device, which Natasha unfolded to its fullest extent and slipped into the ancient 5 1/4" drive. The drive whirred to life and whatever Tony was doing went to work, doing its thing. He hadn't said how long it would take, but she left it in place until the sound of the drive stopped and the rapid flickers of light on the end of the drive, much more vivid than the one guttering slowly out on the dying computer, ceased. Natasha removed the device, liberated the drive, and packed them both away safely. Whatever Tony had wanted her to deliver, either to HYDRA or to him, was done now. All she had to do was get out safely. Moving to the wall so she could double-check that nothing and nobody had followed her down, Natasha started to do exactly that. 1706. EXTERIOR. HYDRA breach. Steve had pioneered on ahead into the base five minutes ago, leaving the rest of them to keep watch over the perimeter over any unnamed number of hostiles. Cuban forces, HYDRA forces, poisonous snakes, fire ants, and ginormous spiders. Mosquitoes. But for all their preparations, tactics, strategies, and maps -- Cuba did not appear to care one way or another about their presence. The trees may have stirred a bit, the distant waves rhythmically continued to break upon the shore, but apparently that was about as much of an enthusiastic welcome as they would receive. "Ho hum, anyone up for a rousing game of I Spy?" Tony asked over the comm. He was about to begin, whether anyone cared for it or not (I spy, with my optically enhanced, laser targeted eye, something green…) when one of the many internal alarms he had set up like hunting traps began to sound off. Incoming from the jungle. An image of the HYDRA seal stitched along a sleeve (how nice of them to neatly identify themselves as such now that they had let the whole world know about their continued existence). Definitely unfriendly. "Oh hey guys, I spy with my little eye, something like a lot of incoming HYDRA forces coming from Northwest." After a blip of silence, Sharon was the first to respond, voice a soft crackle over their communications. “Ah, you jinxed it, Stark. Copy.” A glance down at her watch read 00:51 -- 51 minutes since Steve had disappeared into the base; he still had over an hour before they had to move to extract him and whatever he found down there. Having been working her section of the perimeter, what she needed now that HYDRA forces were pressing in was a vantage point. A low hanging branch was given the brunt of her weight as she swung herself up and waited, rifle at the ready. Sam could feel a mosquito on the back of his neck as he watched the HYDRA agents approach from his position on the ground. "Have I mentioned how much I hate the jungle yet?" he muttered. What he'd do for open air and the chance to spread his wings. As it was, they were close enough that they might pick his movements up. Which, once he thought about it, might not be a bad idea. "Carter, what's your position?" “Just south of you.” Beat. It wasn’t dark exactly, but the overhang from the trees was enough to make the lighting less than ideal for keeping a watch out (and all the better for sinking into the background of things). “All clear from where I’m standing.” 1756. EXTERIOR. Second breach. “What did your intel say was here?” “ … something similar to the machines they used to implant and control you. Failed experiments.” Over the Soldier’s shoulder, Steve let the door click shut behind them before he turned to flip on a switch. A series of fading fluorescent bulbs flickered to tired life, illuminating the cavernous space but for a shadowy depth in the corner. “Over there.” It didn’t occur to him to recoil. If this was part of the Winter Soldier’s machinery, then he wanted to see it, examine it; perhaps he’d find marks in the metal left by clawing hands, a single strand of hair caught in the bolting mechanism used to restrain the hands -- something, anything that was a tangible part of him. He drew near, the poor lighting just enough for him to see by, and though he did not holster his sidearm or drop the stance of taut readiness, he reached out to run his hand lightly over the structure’s main frame. “Computer’s to your left. If you wanted to save data.” The shadowy relic of the Soldier’s past -- all towering bulk and blunt industry -- received a horrified, if cursory glance from Steve. And as latently interested as he would be by the reprieve given to him, he set about stirring the computers to life before producing a flash drive from a pocket. “All right.” By the time the computers had fully powered up, their screens displaying blank backgrounds and lines of green text requesting commands to proceed, James had stepped away from the contraption, the metallic whirr of his arm betraying the small movement of his pocketing an object. Coming up to stand before one of the computers, he stared down at it (PROCEED? Y/N) before sliding a glance at Steve. “It’s effective,” he simply said, almost as if he thought the words could substitute a shrug. Then he leaned forward and pushed the key for ‘yes’, and the screen flickered into lines of code to the sound of the machine in the darkness whirring loudly into life. “-- last accessed in 1984. Not the as-- not me,” he corrected stuntedly for all that he continued to navigate the operating system. “These files. And these. Save them.” There was a part of Steve -- a wholly realistic and viscerally prepared part of him -- that expected a reaction from the Soldier, being so close to avatars of the anagrams of torture he faced. And a not insignificant part of Steve wondered if the Soldier would have an adverse reaction to this familiar territory. With the arm whirring behind him, and breath upon his neck, he steeled himself. You don’t care. This is Bucky. You don’t care about you, not when he’s involved. Because all he could think about was how their hour still ticked down, and how the team on the outside would all too happily put a bullet or an arrow in him. Whichever came first. The cursor moved obediently. The sweat gathering slickly in the small of his back was something he was vaguely aware of, a physiological betrayal to something he didn’t know he could feel, something he didn’t want to acknowledge: fear. And it did not belong to the Winter Soldier, who felt nothing but the impulse to obey. He’d never stood behind the terminal as the machine hummed, ready for its subject; and yet here he was, standing beside the one who was now effectively operating it as he translated the German, the Russian, making him run one sub-programme or another because he wanted it all downloaded and saved. “-- and that command adjusts the shock intensity, save it. You’re sweating, Steve.” We’re not re-creating this chair, damn it. But Steve clicked, and the files downloaded onto the flash drive. He made a sweep to include any additional files that looked vaguely interesting in his download before turning to James with an arched brow. “You feeling all cool and reasonable?” Iron Man to Star-Spangled Banner. I repeat: Iron Man to Star-Spangled Banner. Before Steve could issue a follow-up, Tony’s voice sprung to life in his ear. He pressed at his lob and locked eyes with James. Star-Spangled Banner and Rocket’s Red Glare. What’s up? I hope things are okay down there, Orpheus. We've got incoming of the HYDRA variety. Engaging them now-- broke off with sudden rattling of firepower and repulsor blasts. But, you know, surfacing sometime soon would with the wife might be nice. Hold tight, Tony. We’re on our way. With a smart click, the flash drive was removed from the port and pocketed before he turned back to James. James, with his unruly hair and impassive stare. “ -- HYDRA agents are present upstairs --” Buck. “We need to go before they surround us. You’re coming … ?” “Cool and reasonable.” The drive’s click was echoed by the louder clink of a grenade -- small, round, HYDRA -- being activated with the push of a thumb. Without a further word, he dropped it on the floor, where it rolled towards the machine in the corner as he turned and made for the door, the terse rhythm of his pace spelling out the command: move it. Momentarily apace of James, Steve felt the leaden tick of the grenade like a hot palm on the back of his neck and stepped wide to throw the shield. With a hollow clang it sprang the lock on the door only to return to him and as his feet gained purchase, he threw it up the stairwell to dislodge an automatic weapon which had been trained on them both. “Glad to see you haven’t lost any of that cool, reasonable irony!” It was an odd thought to have -- shut your big dumb mouth, idiot -- but James had it anyway, which is perhaps why it was Steve who caught the glint of the weapon and Steve who momentarily disarmed the man who had moved ahead of an unknown number of agents. This agent was still alive, however, and from the sudden crackle of energy, it appeared he’d come brandishing the right sort of tools to face off people like Steve Rogers and weapons such as himself. James leaned neatly out of the way of the shield as it hurtled back, sliding his handpiece back into its holster before releasing the submachine gun from the strap across his back. Swinging it forward, he waited half a second -- and then, there, the agent came into view as he turned on the stairwell. One shot, and James pressed forward, taking the stairs three at a time. There had only been the shield before the weapon fell from the Agent’s grasp -- before James surged forward into the upper echelons of the stairwell -- and Steve caught it neatly to scatter those who bore down on them. As they hit Sub 7, he gave a hard kick to the metal bannister in order to dislodge it before he ripped a long section and sent a few agents plummeting. “Anything ringing a bell to get us out of here quicker?” “-- tired already?” was thrown behind him. He slowed momentarily as they reached the landing between levels 6 and 5. “The elevators are tactically less sound than this.” Cap -- they're -- coming towards -- breached our defenses. Sorry--Six incom-- came the sudden, static-muddled message. “But the elevator shaft is what I’m say --” he cut off suddenly, listening to Tony’s transmission before he bore down upon his jaw and stepped back to bound from one set of stairs to the other, in the midst of the HYDRA agents in question who breached their defenses. He could only hope that they sustained no injuries -- but until then, he would do his best with the agents presented to him. Even so, one offered an electric shock to the ribs. With a growl, he dislodged their jaw by swiping with the edge of his shield. -- but where there’d been one shock, now came three, delivered by barbs that were fired simultaneously and landed on Steve’s skin, where they delivered a continuous current fed by the wires connecting them to the battery-powered launchers held in the arms of the final HYDRA agents that had breached the inner perimeter. HYDRA needed something big to level out the playing field, and while this current was ultimately one which could be sustained, when applied to a man who wasn’t accustomed to it… when applied to this man. The nervous sweat had dried long ago, replaced now by the sharply sedate calm James -- was he James still? -- knew well. Mimicking Steve, he shifted out of his controlled pace and took the stairs the way the captain had, leaping up until he’d leveled with the remaining agents. Three bullets for each, a hand crunching beneath the weight of his boot as he stepped back to eyeball Steve. And Steve, who’d swung out and fought despite the pulses which were designed to take him out (several times -- even now -- he knew the dark corners at the edges of his vision), sagged against the wall for a brief respite when James came to his rescue. Thanks, Buck. Missed you too, jerk. “That’s four,” he told him, after a breath. Four. “Stark says six made it past, so we need to keep moving …” And he did, taking only one limping step before he made it to the landing. “We’re almost there.” The mute obedience as he fell in line with Steve was all Solider… but the question, low and quietly dry, hinted at a strong opinion surrounding the debriefing Stark had provided. “Any idea how many out there?” “If any got through, I’d say there’s more than a few. And they’re all serious --” Another shadow came up on Steve’s left side, this time with a magnetized cuff aimed not at his wrists but at his neck. It held fast, and as he was dragged back toward the wall by the irresistible force, he brought the HYDRA operative with him. “Go on, Buck. Go I won’t be far --” and his sentence was strangled by his shoulders hitting the wall. He kicked out, hammering the agent who attempted to restrain him still further. Deflecting a volley of bullets (deliberately aimed to injure, not kill) with his metal arm thrown across his face, James was already turning by the time the agent focusing on Steve’s capture brought up the second restraint, aiming for one of his legs. “Stop --” he began, but words were too slow, too cumbersome. Stop struggling, the one on your neck will tighten -- because how else could they haul the dead weight of a supersoldier, restrained against his will? A knife and a leap forward were quicker. Bloody froth on the lips of the agent slowly sliding from view, quickly replaced by James’ face was a sight he would not soon forget. But, with the reach of his arms and legs hampered by the ever tightening devices, he could only manage to point out the remaining operative -- and the door. There had to be a trick to loosen the restraints. Something in those electromagnetic fields to neutralize their power … and then he suddenly grinned. Swallowing, he was able to burrow into one pocket and use one of the little EMPs Tony’d made for Bucky against those restraints. With the magnetic fields briefly polarized, he was able to surge from the wall and slide low to support his friend in any maneuver he was in the midst of. -- and what was he smiling about? Was there something funny about this influx of agents they were fighting off? James waited until the restraints hit the floor with heavy clunks before turning, trailing the moving operative before lifting the submachine gun and releasing a continuous hail of fire as the man ran. “Go,” was for Steve as he reached mechanically for a new cartridge. “I’ll cover you.” “No.” The shield offered Bucky shelter from the bullets which sprayed in from the side, for now that the operatives had seen their targets made the main floor they began to stream in. “I’m not leaving you again. Blow a hole in the side of the damn wall, and let’s get out of here.” The anxiety was back, that same high-alert which came from being so near to his best friend (and while he was confident in his abilities to protect himself), and being so emotionally distant all in the same breath. This was harder than fighting him one-on-one. This was acute torture that made him long for their old patterns -- the same old patterns it seemed they still fell into seventy years later. -- patterns which taunted him from the peripheries of his awareness, but not now. Now, there was the objective, the order to proceed. There a bloodless set to his mouth as he reached up, switching out the machine gun for the second weapon he carried holstered across his back: a rifle, which he fitted with a grenade launcher in swift, sure movements. Any second now, a bullet -- more -- would find its way around the protection of the shield, meeting a foot, the edge of a skull. He scanned the room, selected a wall, and then the Soldier took aim and fired a grenade. 1808. EXTERIOR. Exfil. Seconds later, an entire section of the base's topmost building crumbled to the wet ground in smoking rubble, the debris landing on the operatives -- HYDRA, SHIELD, anyone -- working this part of the grid. Those who did not fall beneath the stone and metal were summarily picked off by the thing emerging from the blackening smoke: the Soldier, the launcher exchanged for a knife which he wielded with callous efficiency. Let's get out of here, Steve said. I'm not leaving you again. An operative who made the mistake of freezing in place was dispatched with a backwards sweep of his arm as he moved forward. It was darkening now, the forest-cover and billowing smoke -- of raging battle, of the grenade's explosion -- blotting out the dying sunlight, and there were figures in the trees. Hostiles or friendlies? -- it didn't, in that moment, matter; they all looked the same. And he needed to clear a path for Steve. Clint was many things and had been many more, but at the core of them all he was a marksman and an archer. Decisions were weighed and made in split-seconds: the man who appeared from the rubble was Soldier, conscious or unconscious, and Soldier made no distinction between ally and enemy (friend and foe being slight misnomers for this company). "Ground team do not engage; stand ready." He had two arrows prepared; the first was already nocked upon the bowstring, and released with an even exhale. A screecher, its path through the air underscored by shrill noise loud enough to cause temporary hearing distortion for this unlucky enough to be in close range, aimed just to graze the soldier's shoulder -- to bring him about in a spin at best, catch his attention momentarily at the very least. The arrow struck its target, and while it was buffered by the layers that made up the Soldier's tac suit, it had its intended effect. The screech itself was enough to disorient a person, but this was the sort of discomfort the Soldier could slice through with a predator's attempt to seek out the source of an attack. The arrow was left to quiver in his shoulder, gripped by the leather, as he whirled around, dropping the knife in preference of a gun, already whipped up and aimed in his attacker's direction. As soon as the arrow made impact and the Soldier span (almost immediate; those reflexes had been sharp even before HYDRA got their hands on them), the second was loosed: Tony's EMP Special. Its trajectory was a split-second calculation of where it might meet the cybernetic arm as the man aimed, whilst Clint -- this window of opportunity now closed -- dropped from the tree and rolled, the recurve discarded and a loaded crossbow waiting below. The line of bullets which arched high into the trees faltered and went wide as the second arrow landed, its pulse having an immediate effect. As the cybernetic arm short circuited, the instant neuroaxonal feedback was one of pain -- and beyond that, beyond the fusion of nerves and wires, was the unsettling realisation that his limb was dead. Useless. There was also the fact that the surge of power delivered by the arrowhead had been enough to sweep over his arm and across the rest of him, which was probably why he’d staggered forward and onto his knees, eyes watering for all that they remained locked on the figure which had dropped from the branches. Hostile. He reached up, one-handed, to yank the arrows from his shoulders. Amidst the rubble and the smoke which did not drift so much as hang in the recesses between the blown out building, Bucky, his team, the other agents plaguing them and then some, there was no time to wait for a clear field of sight. Bucky’s -- James, he told himself, not the Soldier -- hostile surge, sure to draw fire from either side, brought Steve to a dead heat and before he could reach the other’s side, two arrows sprang up and he skidded briefly -- only Clint. And that betrayal would be addressed. Then, as instinct kicked in, he threw the shield up as a visual cue to anyone near them that both soldiers worked as a unit. I must defend my friend, I must see him safely home. “C’mon! Make for the clearing, we’ve got the bird waiting on the other side of the ridge.” Just enough luck, and not an inch more; his arrow had hit its mark, but Clint knew even in the moment that the controlled fall would not end well (better a battered body, though, than a stray bullet). Still he dragged himself up and -- making another single moment decision: to trust Steve, now present, to keep the Soldier grounded and keep their party safe -- wordlessly turned his back on the two men and his attention to the HYDRA agents still on the field. Seconds passed and the arm had not rebooted. The Soldier’s gaze remained on the shooter, even as he turned his back on them -- then swept sharply across to meet Steve’s, the question clear enough in the faint arch of his brows. Kill? The arrows were dropped on the ground and without waiting for Steve’s answer, he reached for the gun holstered on his right leg. No. Don’t kill -- was the wide-eyed vigorous breadth of Steve’s gaze upon which there followed a sharp jerk of his chin. Clint would be debriefed and though he felt the anger well in him -- the anger that someone would assume violent intent, despite the most civil of interactions -- he clamped upon it with a hard jaw. With a pivot, the shield flew from his grasp and he took up a run as it mowed down two Agents who had prepared to engage them. One, who still had enough consciousness to reach for their gun, was granted the edge of the shield hard upon the groin before he lay still. Steve turned, arm stretched out to beckon his friend on. If there was an initial reluctance to comply with this order to stay his hand (haha, very funny is what Bucky would say), it was lost in the sounds of bodies hitting the ground, pressed there by the violent swing of the shield. James did not wait to visually confirm what he already knew; instead, with a twist of his lips, he jumped to his feet, the cybernetic arm limp by his side as he raised his gun, seeing Steve's gesture and recognising it for what it was. "Lead." So Steve lead, cutting a path toward the plane (with hopes that their air support would clear the way for them) and from time to time throwing his gaze over his shoulder to ensure Bucky’s presence. Stay with me. Stay. And if he threw the shield harder, or if he ran faster it was only because he felt the press of time. For seventy years Bucky had been falling from that train, and for seventy years Steve had been waiting to catch up to him. Now, though. Now with sweat beetled over his brow, now as he skid to a halt before the belly of their aircraft, time could march forward again. Now, they had a snowball’s chance in hell. He turned to meet Bucky’s gaze. Yeah, only a chance. "Steve." No further than a few strides from him at any given time as they made their exit, James came to a hard stop when they stepped into the shadow of the plane. The sound of battle still filled the air, but here, the immediacy of the firefight was blunted… which did little and less to ease the sharp alertness evident in the way he now stepped away from Steve, as if preparing to circle the plane, to clear the immediate vicinity of anyone and anything that might present a threat to them. At this moment, anyone and anything was legion, unknown and faceless factors. “My arm is still down,” he said, as if presenting a status report, voice wooden as he cleared the underhang of one of the plane’s wings. If we’re attacked -- “I’m not fully operational yet. Who’s piloting this thing?” Natasha was not quite out of breath, but she had seen action; that much was clear. The dirt on her uniform, the red hair plastered to her head and neck, and her high color all attested to the down and dirty work she'd been doing against some portion of their foes. She popped up from the far side of the plane. Her reaction to hearing Barnes--she had not heard him, not like this, in any of their previous encounters--had been to draw at the unknown voice, assuming any stranger near the plane she didn't recognize was a hostile. When she saw Barnes, such as he was, one arm limp, and properly parsed the question he was asking, and then, of whom Barnes was asking it, she lowered the weapons. "All clear for the moment," she reported, waiting for clarification from one or the other before adding anything else. Steve turned abruptly when Natasha arrived, placing himself bodily between her and Bucky. Then, a swallow when the weapons were lowered. “Maintain the perimeter,” he said, narrowing his eyes to momentarily take in Natasha’s state. Clearly - she, alone - had an additional assignment since none of the other team was back and she was moreover clearly grimy with her labors. He sought out Bucky’s gaze, the pain in his eyes when the words not fully operational formed a mere reflection of what initially they had been. “Agent May pilots, Bu -- Sol -- James. Agent Melinda May. We’ll take off when the team comes in.” The woman in the red hair. Another one of his missions, labeled with a kill order that he'd never fulfilled. James found himself with his gun trained on her the moment she announced her presence, and it did not lower even when more recent memory filtered in (she was with Steve, she was part of his team, not a mission, not a mission anymore). It took Steve injecting himself between them for him to withdraw by a step, gun lowered but not holstered, making no effort to seek out the other man's gaze, for his own was busy scanning the tree line. A brow arched. You remember Nat, right? But Steve also recalled the story she had related to him regarding that failed attempt at completing the entirety of his mission. “We’ll get your arm booted back up in no time.” Bruce had been listening to his teammates communicate with one another as they fought, waiting for a call for backup that never came. He was grateful that they had the situation under control so the Other Guy wasn't needed, but that didn't keep the Other Guy from wanting to join in, anyway. Restless and anxious, he sat with his head hanging, wringing his hands, he looked up when he heard the sound of people entering the airplane. Immediately he rose when he saw Steve; he was with a man he'd never met before, and Bruce automatically knew. "You must be Bucky," he said, coming forward. He stared at the metal arm for a moment. "I'm Doctor Bruce Banner," he quickly introduced himself to the newcomer, then asked, "Are you guys alright?" He was ready to administer medical treatment, if necessary. Although the gun wasn’t immediately raised at the appearance of this unfamiliar person, there was every impression that James would enact violence at the slightest provocation. Doctor. Not to be trusted. And yet: he was on the plane. He must be part of Steve’s task force. He’d named him the same way Steve had initially named him. “James,” he corrected, terse. Bruce looked from Bucky to Steve for a brief moment, then back to Bucky again, then nodded. "James," he corrected himself, believing he understood the reason for James for not wanting to use his old nickname. He also noticed how wound up James was and so Bruce stepped away, giving him a wide space so he wouldn't feel threatened. He gave Steve another knowing glance, trusting him to tell his friend about his condition when there was time, and at the very least, prevent him from using violence, since that wouldn't be good for anybody. "The rest of the team are on their way." Amidst the rattle of bullets being rained upon the hull of the plane, May began to systematically check the systems, fuel, and hydraulics -- keeping a close eye on each member who came aboard. They wouldn't be able to keep this up for much longer, or they wouldn't be leaving at all. "Closing cargo doors and preparing for lift-off," May announced of over the comm, assuming the team understood what it meant to strap in. “Welcome aboard Sergeant Barnes.” With two more beams from his repulsors strategically took out a pair of agents attempting to launch a missile at their fleeing vehicle and a close skim of some very forward palm trees, Tony slipped past the closing cargo doors with a hair's breadth of space to spare and landed on the floor of the hold with a sticky landing to boot. Awesome. Straightening, he commanded his faceplate up, face flush with adrenaline."Whew. Okay. Hey, nice job, team on the Terminator wrangling." From the center of his suit, another plate slid back to reveal three large, green coconuts, freshly plucked from the tree. He might have made a modification to the suit for that very purpose. "Piña colada, anyone? Bueller?" |