The Secrets of Agent Parker

Chapter One : How's Life, Mister Parker?

It was dark.

It always started out dark.

Loose emotions, loose thoughts, and nothing to hang onto to prove that what was happening was not fact, but fiction and that this was a dream and not a twisted reality.

It was remembrance, not revisitation. 

He couldn't see, his eyes were covered, the bandana the same as usual, preventing him from seeing the attacks as they came at him.

In pattern, he was to prevent the attacks coming at him from the others, block their punches and dodge their kicks with his other bullshit senses.

Smell their sweat, taste their fear, hear the change in wind patterns with the elevation of their- he didn't really give a shit. They wanted a show? He'll give a show.

With every punch thrown he threw one back, with every kick launched he reversed and doubled the force of his own, everything they tried to do to knock him down he took as sturdiness to build himself up.

He kept fighting and fighting and fighting the people who laughed at him, again and again, and again until his final enemy walked up.

His hair was short in this memory.

Would it still be short if he were still alive? 

Or long and brushing his shoulders with tentative touch every time he took a step?

It didn't matter either way, because this always ended the same.

The Winter Soldier approached him steadily.

His memories were in place with the facade they'd both planned out, each one needing to fake their hatred and cold efficiency without effort to fool their creators.

Bucky made the first move, and so Peter followed.

Again and again and again- until the blaring of his alarm clock awoke him.

~

It was two days after Thanksgiving according to the calendar portraying kittens, the days prior x-ed out in efficient red color.

White flashes burned behind the blinds covering the window to the right of the calendar, snow falling in a steadfast manner to catch up with the rest of the country.

His room was impersonal in a personal way, the lone bed shoved to the right of the window made with military precision approving of the fact.

A nightstand sat to the left of the bed, his well-used desk to the left of the nightstand sitting flush both beneath the cats and with the corner of the room.

In a further corner left of the entry door was a small dresser bearing nothing but clothing and a chest that stored all of his weapons, Fury's request for him to remove it be damned.

Peter rose strode from his nightstand and towards his small dresser, gathering various items along the way to prepare a trip to the bathrooms with a shower in mind all the while.

Before he could leave his room a trio of knocks sounded only seconds before the devil himself entered the room.

Fury appeared as he usually did, put together and so uncaring of everything else that he could be called careless.

"Parker," The tone used was one that Peter rarely heard, one that signaled a need for change on the director's part.

The 22-year-old's resounding "Sir," was short and toned without any friendliness.

Fury blinked at him once before continuing.

"It has come to my attention that you are useless here."

Never assume the man couldn't be straightforward, as he said things as plain as they were.