December // A Winter Soldier Story

4

Ｄｅｃｅｍｂｅｒ １８ｔｈ， ２０１３

２１°

𝓉𝒽ℯ 𝓈ℴ𝓁𝒹𝒾ℯ𝓇

The plan to get into the compound quickly, quietly, and unseen didn't seem to be working.

A bullet whizzes past his ear as he runs as fast as he can through the hallways inside. A group of three guards are right on his heels, but if he were to stop to kill them, it would just take up more time.

The guards hadn't been stationed where they were supposed to be according to the soldier's superiors, so what was supposed to be a relatively clear entrance had been heavily guarded. He'd been forced to try another entrance, and there had been guards at that one, too. So now he is definitely anything but unseen as he forces his way through to the second floor of the facility, where his target, a prominent S.H.I.E.L.D. leader, is supposed to be.

Another bullet flies by, this time just barely grazing his ear. He doesn't need to lift his hand to know he is bleeding. Angered, he whips around and shoots. He gets lucky. One of the guards goes down, blood pouring from a wound in his chest. The other two slow down for half a moment, but then continue in their pursuit of the soldier.

As he turns a corner, he finds a stairwell, and immediately flies towards it. He shoots and kills the two guards that are unfortunate enough to be on the stairs at the same time as him and throws himself around the landing. As he climbs, the guards that had been chasing him before are now below him, and vulnerable. He uses this to his advantage and shoots them both down without even blinking.

He reaches the second floor. By now, alarms are blaring, and a voice on the intercom is shouting that the facility is being evacuated due to an unknown threat. The unknown threat knows he must find his target quickly before they manage to escape.

The target's office is just down the hall. His feet move him towards the door. But just a moment before he gets there, a woman comes flying out of the room and takes off down the hall in front of him, glancing at him for just half a second before speeding away.

The soldier recognizes the person's face; it is his target.

The soldier stops and lifts his gun, taking a shot. His target goes tumbling down, blood dripping from a new hole in her leg. She lets out a yell. From where the bullet went, the soldier knows that he hit a vital point on her thigh, right along her femoral artery. She's in a lot of pain, and will bleed out quickly.

He stalks towards her, dark and menacing. He knows that he is something to be feared. He knows his appearance is frightening, and that usually when people see him, they run. But the woman cannot run with a bullet in her thigh, so she simply stares at him, fear radiating from her skin. Helplessness darkens her eyes. She pushes herself against the nearest wall, holding onto her leg so tight that blood is pouring through her fingers and down her hands.

She is about to die, and she knows it. But still, she fights to pick her chin up, so she can at least die with dignity. When he arrives beside her and stands with one foot on either side of the uninjured leg, she glares at him with a shaking jaw and a glance full of venom.

"Who are you?" She growls, as if she has any authority over the situation. The soldier does not answer, instead choosing to narrow his eyes and crouch to stare at her.

She is relatively young, and her deep brown hair has been neatly curled. Her makeup is dark and brings out her features. He can see her tight arm muscles, her thin frame. She is well put together, strong, determined. She had not planned on dying today.

He had always hated killing women more than men. He didn't know why it felt so wrong, but it was without a doubt worse to kill a woman than to kill a man. The men are so often arrogant and rude and pompous while the woman are usually calculating and smart and admirable. The few women he'd been sent to kill before were all young, strong, and brave. They were targets because they were quietly powerful, and the men who are in charge of the soldier seem to hate that. He doesn't understand why, but then again, it's not his place to question orders.

He isn't sure where the instinct comes from, but he is suddenly inundated with an urge to help the women he'd just shot. She is now struggling to keep her eyes open as the shock wears away and pain begins to overwhelm her consciousness. Blood coats the floor beneath her. He is, very briefly, taken aback by his own actions.

He is hit with a wave of strange feelings, most of them unfamiliar. He can't even fathom how to describe the pain in his chest. This is not any type of pain he has felt before, but that's as much as he can really say with certainty, besides that his target is reminding him of the girl in the house -- the one that was so beautiful – and it's making him sick to imagine her pretty face looking like how his target's face is looking right now. Pale, weak, tragic.

He suddenly remembers the name of what he is feeling: disgust.

For the first time since he can remember, killing is not easy. The act is revolting him.

But by the time he figures this out, his victim is dead, and he has loitered for far, far too long. He needs to get out of this facility immediately before he is killed. Or worse, caught.

He shakes his head and, after casting one more look at the girl who is now still at his feet, he turns on his heels and sprints back towards the stairs. Most people wouldn't expect a highly trained soldier to leave the same way he came, but the beauty of that is that the guards are unlikely to heavily surround the stairwell if they doubt he'll return to that spot. So as the soldier runs, he hopes the guards at this facility are not smart enough to cover the stairs again.

He turns the corner and drops right down to the next floor, pleased to see no guards. His gun is both heavy and light in his hand as he tears through the facility to the nearest exit. He slows just before he gets there, ever so slightly, and as he is running trades his small handgun for the massive rifle strapped to his back. Then he bursts through the doors, and comes to a skidding stop as he takes in the unfortunate scene before him.

Rows upon rows of guards are standing outside. They've been waiting for him to exit this whole time. The soldier's breath leaves his lungs as he stands defensively, automatically prepping for the first shot. Sweat drips down his forehead.

The situation seems hopeless, but he is used to that. He's never really had any hope anyway.

A single man steps forward from the first row of guards.

"You have taken lives from us, and now we will take your life from you," he spits.

The soldier nods, numb, and speaks for the first time in days. Perfect Russian flows from his lips. "You will try."

The bullets fly.