Chapter Text
The alley stank of decomposing garbage and things, Steve Rogers thought, best left to the imagination. He’d followed Bucky out of the coffee shop and onto a crowded New York street. His friend hadn’t said a word before ducking out on their tab and Steve had taken the extra moment to toss down a ten before hastily adding another five.
He nodded to the startled barista—he was mildly certain they preferred to be called that now—before feeling the brisk fall air grip him tight as he gave chase. Bucky’s lead had him turning down the alley before him and Steve lengthened his stride. His wide shoulders meeting with more than a few others had him calling out his apologies before he impacted the brick wall on the opposite side of the alley when he couldn’t slow enough to turn in time. He hoped Sam could follow the trail of startled people to their new destination.
Blue eyes narrowed on the sight of Bucky backing a wide-eyed blonde against a wall further down. She clutched a rather large camera to her abdomen and flinched when the grip he had on her arm tightened. Steve frowned at the fact that it was his left arm, the bionic arm, and that it could bestow an impressive amount of force. He reached their end of the alley in a few easy strides, careful not to spook his friend as he called out, “Everything alright, Bucky?”
“Everything is most definitely not alright,” was the woman’s quick and breathless retort.
“Stop it!” The shout was accompanied by another clenching of his fist and a strangled gasp escaped the woman. She turned pleading eyes to Steve and his mouth thinned at the watering of her gaze. “You know me!” Those eyes closed, the tears creeping down her cheeks as Bucky’s tone lowered towards menacing, “And I know you.”
“I get that,” Steve offered, “I do, Buck, but you’ve got to let her go before you break her arm.”
The leather jacket his friend wore tightened across his shoulders as they hunched. Steve dropped a comforting hand there and used it to guide him back from the blonde. His grip on her arm loosened before it slipped away and she let go of her camera to rub absently at the indent in her jacket. Steve frowned at the pinched fabric and wondered if he had enough money on him to reimburse her if this turned out to be a misunderstanding.
They didn’t happen nearly as often as they used to and while Steve trusted Bucky, he didn’t always trust his friend’s memory. It tended to have gaps and what he did remember wasn’t always the entirety of what had taken place. Watching his friend torment a tourist, a woman no taller than Natasha and several pounds lighter, just didn’t sit well with him. Sam was better at bringing Bucky back into the present, his years with the VA making him invaluable in times like these. Steve tended to have the opposite effect.
“Walk me through,” the words came out as more of an order than he’d intended and Steve flinched before clarifying, “How do you know her?”
Bucky didn’t shrug off the hand on his shoulder, which was a good sign, but he never took his gaze from the blonde and she was looking anywhere but them. He studied her face another long, silent moment before he turned his head to look directly at Steve, “She’s Hydra. I was,” there was a slight hesitation before he stated, “her handler. I was her handler.”
“You’re certain?” He asked the question even though he already knew the answer. The clarity in Bucky’s voice and steadiness of his gaze told Steve, better than words, that his friend wasn’t currently trapped within a flashback.
“I have never met you before in my life!” The edge of panic in her words seemed genuine enough, but Steve moved to place himself beside Bucky. Her eyes widened and her hands went back up to griping the camera around her neck as she turned to Steve, “I don’t know him. I swear!”
“Maybe you don’t,” Steve’s gaze dipped to the camera, the way she clutched it, and a thought formed. “I’m going to need to see the camera, ma’am.”
“My camera?” She tugged the strap over her head, fluffing her hair as she thrust it at them. “Here! Take it and go.”
There was a slight tremble in her arm as she held it out to him, not Bucky, and Steve hesitated. Her hand only shook harder, the camera beginning to bob and Steve felt his resolve wane even as he accepted it. His brows tugged together as he turned it on and changed the setting to view. Regardless of what others might think he was embracing the technology of this decade and he was never before more thankful of the internet’s infinite knowledge as when he saw an image of him and Bucky in the coffee shop.
He could feel Bucky lean in and he tilted the camera so he could view the image as well before he looked up. “What do you want?” Bucky’s question was answered by a slight smile and a quirk of her brow. Steve’s gaze traveled from her face downward, checking her for threats. He frowned, noticing a small device nestled in her left hand and at the same moment Bucky demanded, “What is your mission?” she pressed down her thumb.
She pressed down her thumb and the world exploded in pain and clenched muscles. Electricity, not unsimilar to a Widow’s Bite, snaked up his arms through his body as he collapsed to his knees. “Steve!” He heard Bucky’s shout of his name, but was unable to reply as he was left in spasm, but he did hear the fight begin above him.
A moment or two passed before he was able to drag himself up from the damp ground. He nearly winced in sympathy when the woman took a hit to the sternum from Bucky’s bionic arm. She stumbled, lost her footing and landed in a crouch near the wall. She ducked his next swing, the wall wasn’t as lucky and several bricks rained down. She latched on to one of those bricks and rose, driving it into Bucky’s ribs. He grunted and she spun within the circle of his arms to strike his jaw with an elbow before slipping away.
Bucky stumbled and she threw the brick at his face. He batted it away and she used the distraction to pull another weapon from the pocket of her jacket. Steve saw the glint and lunged. He caught her shoulder and spun her towards him. She embraced the change and Steve was introduced to a pair of brass knuckles with a blade nestled in the center. It was delicate, shaped like a triangle and it slid easily into his side.
“No, kat’onok!” Bucky’s frantic shout slipped the blade from between his ribs and Steve coughed when her knee struck the wound next before she turned to Bucky.
She snapped, “Kat’onok?” repeating the term with obvious distaste before addressing him in rapid fire Russian. Steve barely understood every third word and found himself at a loss as the pair traded blows and barbs. Her accent felt off, as if Russian wasn’t her first language, and he’d spent enough time with Natasha to believe he could tell the difference. Sometimes. If it wasn’t Natasha speaking.
Without warning she maneuvered herself beneath a fire escape and leapt up to grasp the first rung of the ladder. Her weight brought it down and she used the extra momentum to slam her knees into Bucky’s chest. They were sent tumbling and landed with her on top and Bucky sprawled out beneath her. She brought the weapon forward, towards his throat as she clarified their previous conversation in English, perhaps even for Steve’s benefit, “You are my mission.”
“I don’t care,” Steve addressed her with a knee to the face.
Her neck arched with the blow and her body fell to the side. Steve caught the arm closest to him and yanked her up and away from his friend. She stumbled, blood trickling down her chin from a split lip as she gazed up at him. Her head inclined, as if confused, and Steve felt a pang of remorse.
It was short lived as he caught the wrist aiming the blade towards his midsection. Steve let go of her other arm to grasp her by the throat and he dragged her slight weight to the wall. She impacted with a grunt and a bearing of blood covered teeth. Steve pushed down on her right arm, willing her to drop the weapon as he ground her closed fist against the brickwork. Green eyes narrowed before she worked her free hand between his bicep and wrist to grasp at the hand crowding her throat.
Her fingers wound around that wrist and compressed. Up until this point she’d used speed and subterfuge as her weapons of choice, but Steve felt the shifting of his bones as she jerked at his hand. She was strong; much stronger than the average person, but not nearly as strong as him. He dragged her forward by that wrist before shoving her backwards with more force.
The wall concaved behind her and she sagged in his arms, chin resting against his wrist. Both arms fell to her sides and the brass knuckles clattered to the asphalt. Steve eased his grip and spared a glance behind him to see Bucky pulling himself to his feet. There was a slight sway to his step and blood decorated the side of his friend’s face, but he seemed well enough.
Small hands slipped over his shoulders and his grip on the woman’s throat was broken as she leapt upward. Her thighs wound their way around his midsection before her hands fisted his jacket. She compressed his chest, pressuring building over the wound she’d inflicted with the knife. Her forehead connected soundly with his own. Twice.
His eyes watered, the world blurring and the pressure around his middle lifted as a leg snaked around his neck. Her weight, which wasn’t substantial, was tossed backwards and she swung to the side while her momentum propelled him into the wall. He felt it give under the impact and Steve shook off the blows as he pushed himself over and onto his back.
“He’s a better dancer than you.” Steve watched the confusion chase across the woman’s face at her casual statement a moment before Bucky engaged her with a kick that sent her back into the wall.
Steve frowned at the force behind that blow. Realizing, belatedly, that Bucky had been holding back. The woman shook her own head, her movements lethargic and Bucky’s next blow was with his bionic arm. It struck her temple with enough force that Steve winced and she collapsed.
That arm was then offered to Steve and he accepted it without hesitation. The sudden tug to his feet did something funny to his vision, but he ignored it to look down at the unconscious woman. “So you know her.”
“I knew her,” Bucky corrected with a smirk, “It’s been a few years.”
“She’s like you?” Steve made it a question even though the answer seemed obvious enough.
Heavy footfalls interrupted Bucky’s chance for a response and Steve turned towards the entrance of the alley. Sam skidded to a halt a few feet back from them and frowned first at them and then the woman at Bucky’s feet. “What?” he coughed. Shook his head and tried to catch his breath before clarifying, “Know what? Tell me later. When we’re not assaulting people in broad daylight!”
“Technically, she assaulted us.”
The defensive tone to Bucky’s voice didn’t stop Steve from correcting, “Actually, you did assault her first.”
“Really,” Sam stressed, “Not the time for this discussion.”
01.1999
The live feed was similar to that of time lapse photography. It recorded an image only every five seconds making all movement spasmodic. Thick brows rose as Feliks Olvo watched the screen with interest. The subject used trickery to defeat her opponent. The sudden disintegration of the mad man was only a mild curiosity to him; instead his focus remained on the smaller figure as she knelt to free her mother.
That connection would need to be severed. It would happen sooner rather than later as no witnesses were to be left in regards to the subject’s victory. He ordered the neutralization of the problem with his team before addressing Quentin Travers, the man who’d made this acquisition possible, in the same level tone. “She is cunning.”
Pale eyes turned from the screen to him and Travers’ lined mouth curved upward before he nodded his agreement. “Her aptitude is astonishing.” A smile formed as the smaller man admitted, “If her obedience were closer to the same ideal I wouldn’t feel the need for this arrangement.”
Olvo turned his attention back to the screen as the mother’s throat was ravaged by a metal contraption invented by the Watchers’ Council. A construct of manmade teeth that was used to motivate a Slayer to come to arms when they were in want of inspiration. He could see the subject continue to struggle against his men as they injected her with a neural depressant that had been created to suppress the autonomic nervous systems.
It took several moments for the concoction to have the desired effect and during that time his team dispatched the second threat before it entered the room. It shrieked as it crumbled to ash and he smiled before adding, “Hopefully she retains that ingenuity after the treatment.” Both men watched as she slumped to the floor and he continued, “Our current asset is adequate, but we are in need of something more specialized.”
“I assure you that Miss Summers will not disappoint. However, with a Slayer’s healing ability she may require more extensive treatments to properly condition her.” He watched Travers out of his peripheral vision and the man turned to study his profile as he completed the assessment with, “Her mind may be more resilient to the wiping process.”
“Resilient minds can still be broken.” His next comment was derailed as his team reported in that they’d subdued Rupert Giles outside the residence. A line appeared between his brows as he addressed Travers. “Mr. Giles has entered the killing field. My team has rendered him unconscious.” Another burst of intel was reported and Olvo clarified, “He remained unaware of their presence.”
Travers’ mouth thinned and his gaze narrowed. “Are you certain?”
“My men are thorough and loyal to our cause.”
The pinched-look faded and Travers gave a hesitant nod. “Very well, Mr. Olvo. I conceded to your expertise, but please have your men break his arm. We want this scenario believable, do we not?”
He relayed the order before returning his gaze to the screen and watched as the extraction team set up the scene for Mr. Giles to discover once he awoke rather than be ordered to report in by Travers. The subject was tossed carelessly to the floor, her arms lank and her head lulled to the side at an angle that was minutely adjusted by one of his men. One of the primary toxins in the neural depressant would affect the parasympathetic nervous system and a side effect of that toxin now stained the front of her overalls.
His mouth thinned in distaste—not with the presence of such a humiliation, but rather the scent he and his men would be subjected to until they could hose the subject down. They watched as his men made minor alterations to the scene before extracting themselves. He turned to share a smile with Travers before offering, “Mr. Giles’ presence will speed up the timetable considerably.”
Travers hummed his agreement before clearing his throat, “Yes, well he does appear to have a father’s love for the child. Pity.”
“That will work in your favor. I believe.”
“I suppose it shall.” Travers studied the screen one last time before squaring his shoulders. “Miss Summers is nearly in your control. Do you think perhaps now would be a good time to discuss Mayor Wilkins?”
His mouth curved inward, paling the scar that bisected his lip and curved down across his chin, as he assured Travers, “Mayor Wilkins, while meticulous, hasn’t yet started his Dedication and thus he shall be easily eliminated. Do not fear, Mr. Travers, Hydra always honors its agreements.”
“Of course.” Travers nodded his head, perhaps a bit too rapidly, “I didn’t mean to infer—”
“An ascension at this time would be problematic,” Olvo interrupted the back stepping.
“An ascension would be problematic at any time.”
A brow rose with the sudden appearance of the other man’s spine. “You would think,” his tone was void of emotion and welcome to interpretation.
Travers nodded, accepting the words as an agreement, before he offered, “I suppose I should awaken Rupert. He has quite the night ahead of him.”
“As do we, Mr. Travers.” He stepped back and allowed the other man to pass in front of him. He watched his steady progress across the room before calling after him, “Hail Hydra.”
Travers paused and turned to back to meet Olvo’s gaze he echoed, “Hail Hydra.”
He watched him leave and saw it unfavorably as a retreat. He shook his head and returned to his study of the feed. The pool of blood beneath the subject’s mother grew exponentially before Mr. Giles entered the room. The feed added a haunting quality to his movements as he fell to his knees beside the subject. His left hand, as his right arm hung useless at his side, brushed at a lock hair that had fallen across her cheek. That hand slipped to her neck, fingers searching for her pulse point.
Olvo knew the toxin would slow the heart to nearly nonexistent, but Travers interrupted the moment and his hand slipped away from the subject. He watched the spastic movement of Mr. Giles’ shoulders as the man began to weep and his smile widened with the implication before he addressed his team to stand down.
The secondary measure of eliminating Mr. Giles and Travers wasn’t required—not at this time.