Chapter Text
Chapter – Rescue #
Fuming, Loki, in his Odin disguise, wasted no time making his way to the small door behind the throne. Waving away various functionaries, he left orders with the Einherjar that he was not to be disturbed, firmly closing and locking the door behind him. While abruptly canceling court was not something he could ever recall Odin doing, surely it had to have happened at some time.
Hadn’t it?
Would it have been asking too much for those wretched Midgardians to keep themselves safe? Wrathfully divesting himself of various imperial paraphernalia, Loki waved an impatient hand, opening a portal. A moment, a wisp of green smoke, and an almost incalculable amount of energy, allowed him not only to realm walk, but to also do a small time skip. Loki emerged in his own skin, amid the chaos he had viewed on a large smoking vessel. Where, despite his haste to make up his travel time, he’d obviously not got it quite right, since that idiot captain looked even more damaged, and was now pinned down, and being pummeled by the person he supposedly knew. Honestly, it looked more like a school room brawl than a real fight.
Except of course for the black clad man appeared to be trying to kill that idiot captain.
“Bucky, You know me!” Rogers cried, holding up a hand as if to ask for parley as the black clad figure struck him at every word.
“No. I. Don't!”
Trying to move around the debris, the unsteady footing, and wondering how he had offended the Norns, Loki glanced down at where Captain Rogers argued with a man seemingly bent on murdering him. The oaf wasn’t even properly fighting back. Didn’t he know that purely defensive moves against a determined opponent almost never worked? Cursing fate for not allowing more precision in time-slipping, Loki vaulted over a rail of some sort, landing on the level directly above the two men, and then irritably cast about for a debris free spot for his next jump. As usual when the Norns had you within their sights, nowhere really close presented itself.
“Bucky, you've known me your whole life.” Rogers cried, struggling to his feet and trying, unsuccessfully in his injured state, to dodge the numerous blows raining down upon him. Barely dodging another blow from a wicked looking metal arm, he gasped, “Your name is James Buchanan Barnes, I’ve known you all my life.”
“Shut up!” the man named Barnes screamed, redoubling his efforts and managing to knock Rogers off his feet once again, using his armored fist, he got in two quick mercilessly solid head punches. “You're my mission!”
"Then finish it. 'Cause I'm with you 'til the end of the line."
Cursing Rogers for being a fool, Loki blasted the man named Barnes away before the next blow could land, and then threw himself aside to dodge a wickedly large knife thrown at him in retaliation. After having to backtrack several yards, he was able to jump down to a spot that was both clear enough to land, and also, protected from any projectiles. Of course, while his landing area was clear of twisted beams, it was on the edge of a gaping hole. One framed by sharp edges of ripped metal, affording him a lovely view of the water far below. Clambering over several twisted struts, Loki was confident that if he didn’t waste a spec of seiðr, he would have enough to transport them both to safety, so long as he kept his landing area was within eyesight. However, because the Norns hated him, as he readied to leave his protected alcove to get within grabbing range of Rogers, the entire ship shuddered, tipping suddenly on it’s side. Pin wheeling desperately, he stumbled, and almost recovered, before everything started breaking apart around him.
Narrowly escaping being impaled on a torn strut, he fell towards the filthy river far below, as the whole vessel tore itself apart above him.
Marvelous.
OoooO
Inwardly cursing both the cacophony bouncing around in his skull, and his feet slipping on the muddy slope, Soldat dragged his target onto the river bank, not stopping until the man’s feet were the only thing still in the water. At which point in time, figuring he deserved just a bit of a break himself, Soldat fell to his knees, not even caring how badly it jarred his dislocated shoulder. His mission would have been technically complete if he’d let the target drown. However, his actual instruction had been for a bullet in the brain. And frankly, a point blank range shooting of the source of the recent beating he’d received would at the least be cathartic.
And, if shooting the American puppet of the bourgeoisie had been physically possible, rather than wasting time thinking about it, Soldat would have already done it.
But, he couldn’t. Even the thought of pressing a muzzle to side of that water-darkened blond head intensified the internal demands that he not shoot, but instead learn more about his target. This in turn triggered order conflict pain because he didn’t immediately take the shot. His internal and external orders warred to the point where his blood pressure and heart rate were surpassing pre-cryo panic levels. In fact, it was only his other, longer-standing imperative forbidding self-terminal harm that kept him from considering using that bullet on his own brain.
If the excruciating pain behind his eyes wasn’t almost blinding him, and his heart didn’t feel like it might pound out of his chest at any moment, he might have been able to spare a few thoughts as to why now. After all, curiosity about his target was not something that had ever happened before. The internal head-screeching pain from disobeying a direct order? That he has had felt that many times. But unless he wanted to try completing his mission with black spots dancing in front of his eyes, he was going to have to try and find a way to satisfy both sets of orders. Or at least shut one of them up.
Trying to shoot, and simultaneously evade capture, while not being able to see worth a damn was not within optimal mission parameters.
Therefore, before pain liquefied his brain, he needed to roll the target on its side. Hopefully that would let enough water drain from its airways to permit resuscitation. A step, obviously not necessary to just take a shot, but one that had to be done if he wanted to get any answers out of his target. Besides, future compliance with internal orders would allow his blood pressure to go down enough that he could focus without red halos around everything. After all, it didn’t matter if he took the head shot now, or an hour from now. But it would be less embarrassing if he didn’t miss at point blank range due to the distraction of already-damaged brain matter leaking out his ears.
Grimacing, he reflected that resuscitation of pasty-faced drowning victims was inherently gross, however not as bad as it would be if the guy threw up while he was doing mouth to mouth. And, Soldat really hoped that he wouldn't have to do that, because frankly, this mission was already cluster fucked. And after something like that? Being hosed off because his handler found fault, instead of being allowed to clean up properly, was definitely not a desired conclusion to this mission.
While he watched, the stream of water stopped flowing out of the target’s mouth and nose, and before he could be rolled back over, the man gasped sharply and began coughing to the point where he was curling in on himself in pain.
Not that Soldat cared about that. But, praise the motherland for small mercies, he would not need to commence resuscitation. Therefore the chances of being vomited by his target were greatly reduced.
At least they were if he didn’t stand too close. Almost drowning was after all, a messy business, as he could attest both personally, and from various intel missions.
Now he just needed to find somewhere more secluded for interrogation, because with a dislocated arm, and a mission target built like a bus, he really wasn’t up to carrying this guy very far. Eyes narrowing, Soldat surveyed his immediate surroundings. Unfortunately, nothing close by met his needs. Plus, this close to the accident’s debris field, it was only a matter of time until the authorities show up.
Turning, he surveyed the nasty looking chemical clouds and churned up mud that made the water look even less inviting than its normally polluted state. Still, Soldat had swum in worse. And in the end, even cold, dirty, polluted water had its advantages. He could float the guy a couple of hundred meters downstream and then drag him into a stand of trees. That would certainly be a lot easier than trying to carry him anywhere. And leave a lot less of a trail, which makes it a very viable option. Particularly with all the vehicle sirens growing closer.
In fact, the only problem with that plan would be the nearest floating rainbow of oil being disturbed by a de-horned asshole surfacing up through it. And the guy did not look the least bit happy, what with his long dark, debris tangled hair plastered all over his face. In fact, with the way water was pulling at his now filthy cloak, he greatly resembled a wet, angry alley cat. If alley cats wielded long knives instead of claws.
Great, Soldat thought readying his left arm to act as a shield while reaching for his last pistol, nestled in his back holster. Normally, on a target like this, when he is trying not to attract attention, he’d use a knife himself. However, there is something about the way this guy moved when they were up in the air, and the fact that the way he is holding his knives that made Soldat think a weapon with more distance might be his better bet.
So he emptied his clip. He hadn’t intended to, because you would think a simple head shot would have worked right? Not only did a clear shot to the left eye of his target not work, neither did the next. How fucked up was that?
Slotting a new clip into the apparently useless gun, he shoved it back into place and managed to liberate one of his favorite knives from its holder as бешеный бездомный кот* surged up the bank. Granted, he could have thrown the knife before the pissed off kitty made it anywhere close to him, but with the way bullets seemed to disappear before they hit the bastard, he wasn’t taking any chances of losing his best knife. Despite wariness at how the guy moved, he’d have to see how well a bum’s rush would work.
Refusing to allow himself to be distracted by the odd phrase that had just popped into his head, Soldat blocked an impossibly fast strike with his metal arm, riposting with a downward slash that should have resulted in someone's intestines spilling out at his feet.
What happened instead was a hand, with a strength that shouldn’t have been possible, slapped away his knife in mid strike, before reversing course and seizing on to his metal forearm. Soldat experienced a brief moment of vertigo as he was swung away from his target, and engulfed within a cloud of heat-sucking green fire. Airborne for split second, he was released with a hard shove, which he ignored, beyond an angry hiss when he struck the ground several yards away shivering, pain now emanating from both his shoulders.
Thank you very much for that, asshole.
Soldat managed to roll onto his feet with at least a semblance of the ease he normally possessed. Since he’d had decades of practice suppressing his reaction to cold and pain, he was not only able to reach behind his back with his metal arm and palm one of his push knives, he did it with an approved expression of impending mayhem. His murder stare did war momentarily with confusion when he noticed that his movements were crushing a swath of flowers, that hadn’t been there a moment before. He looked around wildly, searching for, but not finding his target. Or even the river. How the fuck did one lose a river?
“While Captain Rogers was loath to harm you, please don’t assume that my removing you from his presence rather than just killing you means that I will continue to be as restrained. Seiðr doesn’t grow on trees, you know, and I have already wasted far more of it than I am happy with in protecting Midgard’s so-called hero.”
Soldat's attention snapped back to мокрый кот** who was belly aching about wasting something, while looking around thoughtfully as if he had not just ruined Soldat’s perfect mission record lasting decades.
“Well except for Yggdrasil.” He tapped his chin thoughtfully with a dagger hilt. Soldat looked him over, wondering what had happened to the other one, or where it had come from in the first place. “And, I suppose most trees can be used to call upon the Great Earth Tree, with the proper rituals. But that’s wandering rather far from the point, you must agree.”
Who are you in life?
Indifference to his surroundings, or body? Yes. Rage against his target, and handlers? Overt in the first instance, suppressed in the second? Always. However, sheer irritation was a more distantly remembered emotion, dating so far back to his early days of training that Soldat did not really have the tools to deal with in a mission optimal manner. So, with the pain pulsing in his head, both shoulders and somewhere else he couldn’t identify, he didn’t.
“Eshkin’s cat,” Soldat spat, “could you speak English!? Or Russian? Farsi? Anything as long as it only contains real words!”
“I am speaking English, unlike my idiot brother, I actually learned the language. All Speak is terrible with nuances.” was the huffy reply, that for reasons unknown, only heightened Soldat’s annoyance. And made his fingers involuntarily twitch against his knife.
"It is hardly my fault if Midgardians, have no knowledge of power, and how it can be channeled or replenished within the Nine Realms. It is fortunate that I do know how, when you consider how much Seiðr I had to expend for even the small time slip required to keep you from killing that costumed clown.”
Yeah. Thanks, asshole. Soldat readied the knife hidden in his palm as he drifted several feet closer. “That clown is my mission; I was supposed to have already put a bullet through his brain. Now, I have to find him again.” Soldat allowed his expression to go feral, complete with bared teeth. “And you are going to tell me where to look.” And if he had anything to do with it, and he did, it was going to be quickly. After all, his handlers were not going to be happy about the delay, and they could be inventively unpleasant when even successful missions did not go flawlessly. He hadn’t had a mission go belly up in decades, but he was unlikely to forget the last time one had, both from mission memory, and having been forced to review the film they made of his correction several times.
“Then why didn’t you?”
Soldat blinked. That… Was a good question, why hadn’t he?
The target had done something to him, flipped some previously unused switch. Something. Was it a long buried memory? Whatever it was that caused the jolts of uneasiness thoughts to slithered through the pain of his injuries, it needed to stop. Thoughts of tasks undone, imperatives abandoned, a mission involving the target that involved protection, all those urges needed to stop.
“Well? What were you waiting for?” The dark haired man regarded him through narrowed eyes. “You certainly had plenty of opportunity to end him before I climbed out of the river. And yet you didn’t. Why?”
After all he’d been through today, it was now stupid question time? That was a solid sixteen.
Soldat was nothing without his mission, and being a nothing, he of course did not own anything, not his clothes, not his body, not even his name. After all, he was a tool, one that had been honed and crafted over the years. And while he was allowed to own nothing, there was on one item he did possess, something he had kept carefully hidden within his mind for years: it was his Hate List. Granted, it was a tiny thing, but small as it was, it had taken him years to figure out how to bury it deep within himself to keep it hidden from his handlers.
The mental exercise of considering the various items on it, and whether it was time to rearrange their placement, was something that he used to relieve the numbing tedium of waiting for the perfect shot while standing perfectly still for hours, in the sweltering heat, while wearing a black tactical vest, and other gear weighing over thirty kilos. Additionally, it kept anxiety from overwhelming him while he was being transport back to the chair. Running along in the background of his thoughts, the ‘List’ was Soldat’s one refuge from boredom and panic alike.
So why hadn’t he taken the shot? Maybe because the damned faulty mission briefing (number twenty-six) hadn’t told him that the target knew him. Something that had only ever happened once before. Of course, that time his target had been a high ranking, filthy pig of a former handler, who’d apparently crossed someone much more important. Not that he had taken any outward satisfaction in blowing the man’s brains out through the front of his skull. If the Asset had been allowed the option, which he certainly hadn’t. Ever. He would have made sure the bastard had taken much longer to die.
Still, even then, he had been warned that the target knew who he was. But this time, not only was he not warned, worse, the target apparently knew him from before he became Soldat. How was that even possible? Anyone from that long ago should have been tottering around, gray haired, using a pair of sticks, not garishly dressed, and pounding him with an over-sized discus. And worse, they’d had access to a command phrase! Anyone but his assigned handler having a command phrase was currently a solid fifteen. As for improbably appearing, horned assholes who blasted him with green fire that didn’t burn but somehow relocated him? He was definitely going to have to arrange a spot in his top fifty for that. Perhaps even higher, since the bastard had kept him from gathering intel after he’d gone to the trouble of fishing his target out of the river for questioning. Swimming with a metal arm, tac vest, and a dislocated shoulder wasn’t easy, so he was plenty pissed that his effort had been wasted.
What else could go wrong on this mission? Oh yeah, Влажный Кот** was monologuing.
“You have apparently great value to Captain Rogers,” the man said with a frown. “And, from what I observed, are quite formidable in your own right. But not enough, to replace him, in the upcoming struggle, being an unknown --"
And because he was having just that shitty a mission, there was more going wrong than an asshole who liked to listen to himself. Just as Soldat was sure his day could not get any worse, his retrieval team showed up.
Their bullets hadn’t worked any better against that green haze stuff than his had, but between the man cursing as he created more haze and those idiots screaming ‘Hail Hydra’ as he gutted them, it did at least keep everyone’s attention off of Soldat. Shielding his eyes, he glanced up at the angle of the sun, trying to decide if he could figure out what direction he needed to go to find his target. If that was even possible given he was most likely going to have to go toward the helicopters he could hear off to his left.
"Clever boy, you must listen to me.” Soldat stiffened, turning warily. A member of the retrieval team had separated himself from the battle.
This is bad. Very bad.