The Unknown Enemy ∘ Marvel [3]

Chapter 34: A Warm Up

I probably owed Julianne Caris my life and would forever be indebted to her. I do really wish she'd given me my jacket full of my favorite knives.

HYDRA had ripped that it off of me when putting me in cuffs on the highway. Besides ruining my life, I had lost a dozen of my specialized blades and my motorcycle courtesy of the people who had tortured on me for months on end.

"None of them are poisoned tipped, but they should do the job." Hill set a black, plastic case on the table inside of an enlarged closet that had been converted into a poor man's armory. Metal boxes of ammunition were stacked upon each other with guns laying or displayed on ranks on the opposite wall. Several gadgets were scattered haphazardly throughout the assortment of weapons, most either small explosives or specialized mechanical devices keen on other forms of destruction.

Maria opened the case and laid it out before me. Several assorted knives were nestled inside, some long daggers best utilized for deep stabs. Other were significantly thinner and meant for throwing or simple cuts. A switchblade somehow made it into the menagerie of edged weapons. I couldn't deny that seeing such things did lighten my mood.

I picked up one of the daggers by the hilt, judging its weight before throwing it up and catching it with my opposite hand, "They'll work just fine."

Hill nods, seeming to go about her own business while I assess the other blades. I don't miss how she stops before the door, her movements stunted to briefly watch me. I don't pay any mind to her as I strap the knives onto my belt, waiting for her to say something. She doesn't and proceeds to leave.

I'm left to myself. Try not to think about how close the walls are, I reassured invasive thoughts  as I outfitted my new change of uniform. The door opens. You aren't trapped.

Maria had given me a spare SHIELD jumpsuit to wear earlier. While it wasn't one of my tailored combat suits, seven months ago the fit would've been just fine. Now, the material was looser than it should've been. While I had gained back healthy weight since my arrival, I had lost most of the muscle mass I'd spent years training for. Malnourishment for months had stolen most of my strength and the uniform revealed a figure that was thinner because of it. That meant my fighting capability would be significantly less effective.

Hand-to-hand combat would have to be minimal. With a long sigh, I realized a few knives and a pistol wouldn't make up the difference. What I couldn't put my fist into, I could surely shoot at. I just didn't enjoy the prospect of firing on people who would be my colleagues.

Nazis, I repeated to myself, not SHIELD agents. Nazis.

My focus went to the far wall decorating by multiple choices when it came to the realm of firearms. Many were rifles with long barrels, suited for sniper work and taking down targets from farther ranges. I specifically searched the more compact choices, lightweight so carrying the thing wouldn't be a hindrance. The familiar build of a P-90 was lined up near other options of similar make and model, but I was more practiced with the submachine gun.

Footsteps came from outside while I grabbed the correct magazines and ammunition, throwing in a few rope billets for good luck. The heavy metal door gave a long creek as Sam Wilson pushed it open. He peered into the storage closet, surprised at my appearance there, "Oh, hi."

I moved back to the face him, several clips in one hand and a box full of the correct bullets in the other, "Seems we keep running into each other."

"In a place like this, it's kind of hard not to." The man cleared his throat, stepping into the cramped space to procure a weapon of his own. He set a heavy case on top of the table, which caught my attention to some degree. I became more intrigued with the large, white title EXO-7 FALCON printed across the side.