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A week after the helicarriers crashed into the Potomac, Maria Hill was lounging by the tiny pool of a nameless motel, somewhere in Jersey. The water was sparkling and blue in the mid-day sun, but weeds poked up through cracks in the concrete surrounding the pool and the grass around the fenced enclosure was ragged and full of dandelions. The traffic from the interstate was a dull roar in the background. It was an all-together unappealing location. However, no one knew she was here: not Coulson, not Fury, not even Romanov. It had been a tough week and with Fury apparently dead and Pierce actually dead, much of the fallout was landing on her shoulders. She missed Victoria Hand more than she wanted to admit.
In two hours, she was going to walk into Stark Enterprises. In three hours, she expected that she would be sending her resignation into SHIELD. In the meantime she was idly scrolling through the unread messages in her inbox while she still had access to them. Most were dreck: meeting reminders, requests for tedious information she had never answered, or messages she had just forgotten to reply to and the answer was now moot.
A subject line caught her eye. “Referral of potential agent”. It was dated from sometime in February. Curious, she tapped the screen of her tablet. The message expanded to fill the screen. “Hello Ms. Hill,” it read. There were several paragraphs below the salutation so she propped the tablet on her knees and read on.“My name is Moesha Lester and I work in personal at the Washington D.C. Veterans Administration. I don’t know who to contact about this, but after looking at the SHIELD website, I see you are the Deputy Director. If your director is anything like my director, it seems likely that you will have more use this information than he will.
“You see, I watch the news. I see what SHIELD does. After decades of working for the military, I know that for every thing that makes the news, there are a hundred things that don’t. I know that for SHIELD to work, there has to be hundreds, thousands, of men doing the work. Work that is dangerous. Work that requires a good head on their shoulders. I know that for every hundred hot heads that go through training, there’s maybe one man who’s the kind you really want. I want to tell you about a guy you want.
“There is a man who works here at the VA as a counselor. He’s pararescue and he did a couple of tours in the Middle East. He lost his partner on a mission and one thing led to another and he is now retired. However, let’s just say, I don’t think he really wants out, out. I think he’d just had enough of the Air Force. Master Sergeant Sam Wilson is man with a good head on his shoulders and I think that if you asked him right, he might be willing to join your organization. You could do a lot worse than having Sam Wilson in your ranks. I have attached some excerpts from his personal file. Please let me know if you have any questions.”
Maria Hill, amused and incredulous, re-read the message. Her words from a week ago echoed in her head. She had first met Sam Wilson when she’d finally found Romanov and Rogers. “Who is this guy?” she had demanded of Cap and Widow. She had been thinking - how do I get rid of this guy before we get to Fury? Pity she hadn’t read her mail earlier. She clicked the attachment.
The first document was lightly redacted. The date and exact location were blacked out but the shield of the Bakmala Police Department was emblazoned across the top of the form. The labels on the form were in some Arabic language that Hill could not read, but the form itself was filled out in English. With a flick of her finger, she scrolled down to the narrative.
“Mr. Ferid Farad of [redacted] was removing the garbage from his home at 5:11 AM when he was attacked by three feral dogs. Mr. Sam Wilson, who was jogging on the street, saw the incident and rushed in to help. Mr. Wilson reported to the police that he scared the dogs away but Mr. Farad reported that Mr. Wilson’s involvement was more significant. Mr. Farad said that Mr. Wilson leapt onto the back of largest of the dogs, one that had its jaws on Mr. Farad’s arm, and Mr. Wilson pried the dog’s jaw open with his bare hands. Once Mr. Wilson had the dog’s jaw free of Mr. Farad’s arm, Mr. Farad reported that Mr. Wilson “flung” the attacking dog against the wall to the residence, where it lay stunned. Mr. Farad reports that Mr. Wilson picked up a stick from the ground used it to beat the dogs off. Once the dogs were gone, Mr. Wilson provided treatment to Mr. Farad until the ambulance arrived and transported Mr. Farad to the hospital.”
Maria shook her head. Jumping on the back of an attacking dog? She flipped to the next page.
The entire top of this page was blacked out, even the letterhead. The form was in English and from the font, it looked like a standard US military report. The narrative was heavily redacted, but she powered through the blacked out sections. “[XXXXXXXXXX] and [XXXXXXXX] were dispatched during a class seven storm to recover two [XXXXXXXXX] who had led an attack on [XXXXXXXXXX] and were overdue. They found their targets among the wreckage of [XXXXXX]. The three meter waves and hurricane force winds had overturned their Zodiac and blown it away. One of the two [XXXXX] was injured by the boat’s outboard, Nearby, an enemy gunship was patrolling the wreckage and shooting survivors as they found them. [XXXXX] provided a distraction for [XXXXXX], allowing him to approach the injured targets. Assessing the situation, [XXXXXX] extracted [XXXXXXX] and carried him to the [XXXXXXXXXXXXX], which was standing by. Meanwhile, [XXXXXX] led the gunship away from the remaining [XXXX], giving [XXXXXX] time to return and retrieve the second man.”
The description did not identify the time of day, but Maria Hill had no trouble imagining a night time sea, and Wilson, with a partner, flying low over the waves to recover some downed sailor. In her mind, she saw the wind had whipped the black waves into frothy, seething turbulence.
The next document was also on some military form and was also redacted. It said, “Riley and I departed at 2145, as planned. We approached the compound from the south, as the intelligence suggested that would be the clear path. RPG fire came from a previously unidentified foxhole. We performed evasive maneuvers but Riley took a direct hit. I watched him fall. I fired on the foxhole. There was no more resistance and I was able to give the Rangers access.”
That one, Maria Hill recognized. She had heard of that mission - Khalid Khandil - a weapons smuggler and trainer of terrorists - had been apprehended by U.S. forces a bit over a year ago. Khandil had had been smuggling some of the old Stark Industry weapons and any time anything Stark hit the news, Fury had it crossing her desk.
That was the end of the file. She set the tablet aside and leaned back in her chair. She mused that it was funny how things worked.
***
Elsewhere, Sam had his back to the wall, a gun clenched in his fists. He was at a turn in a corridor. The corridor was in a Hydra base, or may be a SHIELD base, or maybe it was US Air Force. Well, maybe not USAF seeing as this fucking corridor was underground. Nothing made sense anymore. He hated that he was suspecting everyone he had ever taken an order from was evil. He missed his apartment. His clients. His boring walk to his depressing office.
Gunfire flew up the corridor from behind him. Bang. Bang. Bang. The bullets were pounding the wall in front of him. Every few seconds, he twisted around and popped a few shots off, before putting his back to the wall again. “Steve!” he bellowed.
Steve came running up from his side.
“Did you get it?” Sam asked.
Steve stuck his head around the corner and pulled it back.
“I told you this was a bad idea,” Sam said.
Steve held his shield in front of him and charged down the corridor, into the gunfire.