Work Text:
October 4th, 1955. Brooklyn. There was a slight fall chill in the air as the asset navigated the streets of the borough. Having recently been stationed in the Soviet Union, his handlers had sent him to Brooklyn to relearn how to act in the West. Tensions between civil rights activists and the white establishment were building, and it became more likely with each passing day that the Winter Soldier would have to cool one of the hotheads.
He wore a long coat and gloves to hide his metal arm and kept the brim of his cap low above his eyes. It was a blue baseball cap, embroidered with a white “B”. It was newly acquired for the American assignment, yet the asset found it familiar. It was comfortable, perhaps, like a pair of broken-in combat boots or the grip of a rifle warmed by body heat.
The streets were unusually empty, save for clusters of people crowded around radios and in front of televsion sets. A young boy ran up to the asset and tugged on his sleeve.
“You a Dodgers fan, mister?” the child asked.
The asset took a moment to consider his circumstances before formulating a response. “Yes.”
“Well, ya better get over here. Podres’s one out away from cinching it.” the kid said. He walked over to a crowd arond a radio set. The asset followed.
“Who’s the new guy?” an older man asked.
The kid shrugged. “Saw his cap and figured he might wanna listen.”
“If he ain’t listening already, I don’t think he’s much of a fan.”
“Maybe he just got off work. Did you just get off work, mister?” the kid asked.
“Yes, I did.” the asset replied.
“Two outs, and the Yankees have Howard up to bat.” the radio announcer said.
“Don’t get your hopes up kid. The Yanks have two guys on. Watch. Howard’s gonna drive ‘em in and the next guy’s gonna drive him in and it’s gonna be another year until we get a chance.” the older man said.
“Podres’s gonna strike him out.” the kid said. “What do you think, mister?”
The asset thought for a moment. Perhaps it was programming for the mission in question, but it did not take him long to come up with a response.
“If Howard gets a hit, Reese will catch it.” he said.
“You’ve got some faith, huh?”
“Here’s the pitch, and Howard hits it down the line to Reese and it’s an out. The Dodgers are the champions of the baseball world.”
As if on cue, there was a roar and a cheer from all down the street as the announcer was drowned out by the jubilence of an entire borough of loyal fans.
And he remembered a sound so similar, and he remembered peanut shells cracking underneath his feet and cheap hot dogs covered in mustard that would drip onto the scorecard that he tried so carefully to record. No, not him, someone else, shorter, blond, barely loud enough to be heard over the boisterous crowds. And it was the last summer of peace before the war started, where young boys not much older than they were, on the other side of the world, were being shot at and bombed. But they were still in a peaceful place and they were safe, for a couple more months, at least.
And when those bums had finally done it, he had picked up the other man and kissed him. It was a surprise but one that had happened a hundred times before, so much that it should have been expected. And it was quick and it was dangerous and it was utterly delightful. Everyone was so delighted by the brilliance on the field that even among thousands, there was a place for just the two of them.
And the thought was gone, and the memory was gone, and all the asset could feel was an ache and an itching at the edge of his conciousness. Something wasn’t reset properly. He was remembering false things. He needed to report for immediete reconditioning.
He was stripped down again, and that list was repeated, and he felt nothing once more. And it was a good thing. The disguise needed to be destroyed, of course. There could be no evidence he had ever been in Brooklyn in October 1955. He threw the articles in the incinerator himself.
Was there a moment of hesitation before he consigned that blue cap to the flames? If there was, it wasn’t enough to make a difference.
Handler’s note: Asset came close to comprimising his conditioning. Avoid assignment to New York City during the fall. Too many opportunities for error.