Titanium (Ti)
Atomic Number: 22
Atomic Weight: 47.867 amu
Solid at room temperature; strong metal resistant to sea water, chlorine, and aqua regia; easily oxidized; relatively abundant in the atmosphere
Warnings: Fire hazard, potentially explosive
[...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
They sit across from each other, their respective superiors by their sides, discussing terms. The spy and the soldier, both trained on their own yet forced together.
She regards him with a vacant stare as if nothing lingers beneath. Just a hollow pit of nothingness, her voice gone raw from testing again and again. He meets her stare with the gaze of a general accessing his squadron. His head tilts up to intimidate her, but she simply leans forward and narrows her eyes.
They both remember the other. Deep in their minds, they know. He can hear her screaming for mercy, and she can feel his flesh turned to metal.
"Your first mission." Both look at the file thrown on the table separating them, the image of a man on top. "Eliminate."
"Aura will take care of entries, exit strategies, getting you back here unharmed."
"The Winter Soldier will deal with any problems that might arise."
"No problems will arise. We've trained her perfectly."
"Nothing is perfect."
"No, it's not."
The girl, Aura, meets the Winter Soldier's gaze. "I suggest you follow my lead," she says. "It'll make everything so much easier."
"Don't get in my way," he replies. "We both have a job to do."
"So be it."
Bucky shoots up from the couch, sweat sticking to his skin as he pants and looks around the small Berlin apartment. It takes a minute, but he evens out his breathing as he plants his feet on the ground, wiping his face free of liquid.
Aura—Malka—whoever she is. Sometimes, he sees a girl overwhelmed with feeling. Other times, she is a husk of a human being, nothing but a vessel to follow orders. None of the information he found gives him anything, but they all reference a specific file he has yet to read from his latest haul from a safe house in the countryside.
A knock at his door makes him groan. His landlady, bless her heart, has taken to scolding him when he screams late at night by knocking on his door to explain that people need sleep, then apologizing the next day with some beer.
"Es tut mir leid!" He says as he makes his way to the door. "Es tut mir leid, Ma'am. Ich verspreche, ich—" (I'm sorry! I'm sorry, ma'am, I promise I—)
He stares at the visitor standing before him. Blood soaks her sleeve, her hair matted atop her head as she stares ahead. It takes a moment for her to look up, hesitantly meet his gaze, and look away.
