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He's run into various SHIELD agents recently….but none of those were on hand to see him try to assassinate their Directrix. There've been reports of his presence - apparently aimless and bewildered, no clear mission. Just popping up now and again, without any of that usual precise and focussed violence.
And there he is now, walking along out of Hell's Kitchen, in search of a barbershop that doesn't look like it's run by Sweeney Todd. Union Jack suggested a disguise, and step one is to get rid of the scruff and the hair long enough tobe pulled back, which is definitely distinctive, even in the more bohemian bits of New York. He's in an old greatcoat, military surplus, a faded shooting sweater, and jeans - all of it enough to ward off any hint of the spring evening's chill. What a difference from their last encounter.
*
Ava, on the other hand, is much as she was the last time the pair met. Knit cap, fingerless gloves, oversized coat that hides the pistols and the saber hilts hidden about her person. Just another nameless, faceless nobody in the streets of New York. But she's one who watches and listens, even if others don't watch or listen to her.
When reports started crossing desks stating that the Winter Soldier had been seen again, she decided that finding him was her new mission. Since she didn't tell that to anyone else, there was no one to argue with her about it. And after a few leads and a few pieces of luck, she's found him, trailing behind at a respectful distance as she tries to figure out just what he's up to.
*
Wandering, apparently. Getting distracted by posted handbills, store signs. Not weaving like the drunk or the drugged, but….no real evident purpose. That predatory air that's as much of a tell as the metal hand is nearly nonexistent. He's wary, eyes darting, but…..he doesn't seem to suspect a tail or a follower, let alone be trying to shed one.
*
Which is odd, so far as Ava can tell. Whoever he is, he put her down hard at least once. He's good - which means she expects he must have seen her. Still, she's cautious, creeping closer through the crowd, biding her time until there aren't bystanders who might be put in danger if she can't put him down quickly enough.
Or bystanders who would object to seeing a girl electrify a complete stranger. People react poorly to that.
*
He was good, once upon a time. Now the assassin's apparently way off his game….or the new software update last time he was 'home' in Siberia's just gone drastically wrong. But Buck turns down an alley into the kind of assemblage of tenements that they call a 'rookery' in London - narrow alleys hung with laundry, where from the windows comes homey chatter in dozens of tongues. Now he's picked up his pace, a bit, gone from a lazy amble to something a little more purposeful, slipping past the locked doors towards a building older and shorter than those to its sides…..and already marked as condemned. A squat, of course.
*
Ava has her share of such hidey holes - partly out of habit, but partly out of necessity. She's spent a long time on the streets here. She knows that sometimes a safe place is everything. Tailing is a little bit trickier when you're not surrounded by people though. Her window of opportunity may be closing. So once she's clear of the street, she reaches for the pistol at the small of her back, a spark of blue-white light in the back of her eyes as she charges it, then fires a bolt of electric energy at the arm that she knows from unpleasant experience is made of metal.
*
There's an odd rippling sound, as the plates slide and then lock, the glove hand clenching into a fist. He turns on her, shock plain on his face, blue eyes wide. "Lady, what the fuck?" he demands….in a voice without any hint of a Russian accent. The hand made only of flesh has a knife in it, one sent hurtling at her, nearly as swift as thought. Some of the old instincts are in there. The moment it's left his hand he's dodging for another alley. No intention of standing and fighting, not when she's armed with God only knows what.
*
Ava curses under her breath in Russian when the man turns, already ducking and rolling for cover by the time the knife has been thrown. Distance should be her friend. He's bigger, stronger, and from what she can remember, faster than she is too. Also probably better trained. Shit.
Ava should call in for back up, but that would mean losing track of him. And she might be carrying a little bit of a grudge. So instead, as he darts down the alley, she takes off running after him, jaw set in a stubborn line.
*
He dodges down the narrow ways of the back alleys, leaping over trashcans, slipping under clotheslines, and in one instance, barreling right though a pack of kids playing handball off the wall of a closed-down store. There's a series of shrieks from them, more delighted than frightened - they don't really know what just passed them by. He's fleet of foot indeed, but it's his stamina that's impressive - keeping up a sprint speed for far longer than he should be able to. Determined to keep out of her range, especially as he waits for the servos and wires of the arm to acclimate to that last shock.
*
Ava is quick, but when it comes down to it, she doesn't have the sort of enhancements he has. Only training, and most of that stolen in its own way. She may be lighter over the obstacles, but in a dead sprint, he's going to win - and quickly. Once they pass the children, she takes another shot even as she runs, thinking through the neighborhood as she goes, trying to guess where he's likely to turn.
*
It wings him - there's a curse from him, muffled, and it throws him off balance enough that he caromes off a brick wall. A beat or two of him stumbling, and then he's pounding for the route that'll put him back facing a main street. A busy one, in fact….but it doesn't dismay him at all. He keeps going, flat out, vaulting the hoods of cars, slipping through taxis mired in traffic, all to a chorus of horns from dismayed drives. The Winter Soldier, guilty of multiple counts of murder, arson, and now….jaywalking.
But what she may well know, if this is her turf, is that the alley he's heading into dead-ends into a T-intersection….and both of its arms are blocked off. One with the door that leads into a tenement's basement, the other a stretch of cyclone fencing. He may be able to climb it, but it'll slow him - he's not the Hulk, he can't bash right through it, and even with a working arm, it'll take him valuable time to rip it apart.
*
Pick a side, pick an angle. Ava watches as she runs, following behind him through the traffic, before turning toward the side with the fence, hoping to cut him off and herd him toward the basement instead. Hopefully there won't be anyone in there. That could end poorly. But past experience hasn't led her to believe that this is the sort of thing they're going to be able to just talk out.
*
She succeeds - seconds apart, as she breaks left and he heads straight on. And then they're meeting on opposite sides of the fence; there's a beat where they're face to face with only the veil of chainlink between them. He meets her gaze for a panicked second before turning on a heel and heading down the opposite arm of the T, longer and twistier than the one that ends in fencing.
*
For a split second, Ava considers shooting at him from across the fence. Until a bit of better sense reminds her that she could end up electrifying the whole thing and making things more difficult for herself that way, and instead she rattles at it as she climbs over, still cursing breathlessly in Russian. "Stop!" she finally shouts after him. As if that's going to work.
*
It's a steel door at the other end, around a little dogleg. She can hear him trying to shoulder it open, then attempting to break the lock, before she comes around the angle.
And there he is, cornered - the door won't yield, the walls are climbable but that'd mean valuable seconds with his back turned to her. No fire escapes, no windows he can reach in a leap. So he's turned, facing her….and now his good hand has a pistol in it, an ugly little Soviet automatic, aimed right for her.
*
"I will shoot you first," Ava gasps as she gets closer, her own odd little modified pistol held up in front of herself. It might be enough to give pause - there's no clip in it, nothing to suggest it's actually loaded in any way. And yet she's been shooting him with something. "Choose your next words carefully, because if I hear one of them in Russian, I will shoot you. I don't know what you did, but I'm ready for it this time."
*
"You can't beat me that way," It's a flat statement, no threat, no bravado. "At this distance, it'll be a headshot. Even if you spasm, you might mess me up, but it won't kill me. I will kill you." Finally, a hint of the old Soldier…..but what follows has an edge of genuine pleading to it. "Don't make me kill you. Back away, turn around, and leave. I won't pursue and I won't shoot you in the back. You can walk away from this alive." …..when has he ever spoken like that? Ever wavered from his purpose? He's pale and sweating in a way that the run can't explain. Not even breathing hard, after all. But there're no ruby-hued lenses to cover his eyes, no tactical mask to conceal his face. The signs of near panic can't be missed.
*
"What happens if I say the words this time?" Ava is definitely breathing hard. And to be entirely honest, she doesn't look intimidating, even with a gun raised toward him. She looks like a teenager, like she ought to be in high school with nothing more pressing to think about than a math test, and the oversized coat doesn't help - she's practically drowning in it. She's pale too - the freckles across her nose stand out in stark contrast, just like the lock of deep red hair that sticks to her brow.
*
She's puzzled him. That little indent appears between his brows. The pistol doesn't waver. "Words?" he asks her. The question was a non sequitur, by his reaction. "C'mon. Go. You can't win this stand off. I don't know why you're hunting me, but this can't be a cause worth dying for."
*
"Like last time?" Ava's jaw clenches, a flash of anger in her eyes. "You tried to kill a pregnant woman. You tried to- Whatever it was, you tried to mess with my head to get me out of the way. Making sure that you can't do that to someone else? Yes, that is a cause worth dying for."
*
The Soldier's voice is level, matter of fact. "I don't know what you're talking about. But I'm starting to suspect I was used to kill any number of people. The only words I know right now that will get you out of my way are 'Makarov pistol'. If you're going to try to kill me, then get it over with. I'll regret having to kill you, but I'll do it."
*
Ava is silent for a long moment, weighing his words. Weighing what she knows. If he tried to use something on her that would control her, make her do something she didn't want to, then it's not impossible to imagine someone might have done the same to him. "Do you know what the Red Room is?" she finally asks, starting to lower the gun.
*
He's steady as a rock, the pistol never wavering. "I don't," Buck states, flatly. "What does it have to do with this?" The pale eyes are fixed on her face, his own expression reverting to that habitual impassivity.
*
Ava grimaces, gun lowered but still at the ready. "The last time I saw you, you used moves, training…trigger words that all came from there. Things meant to control people. They…mess with your head. Not just yours, though." Her eyes narrow, suspicious. "You really don't remember?"
*
There's the faint beginning of confusion, stealing over his features the way cloud shadows move over the ground. "I don't remember," he says, more softly. "Not clearly. I remember the cold. I remember the blood. I remember the faces of the dead, but I don't know their names. There's no reason or connection. Just fragments."
*
Ava catches the inside of her cheek between her teeth, still watching him suspiciously. "You…should come with me," she finally says, though she doesn't sound like she likes it either. "To SHIELD. Whether you remember it or not, you tried to kill the director. Who was pregnant at the time. There is an entire agency looking for you, and you won't be able to kill them all forever. And other people are going to get hurt in the meantime. Every time you run. Every time they chase you."
*
"…..why would I do that? What's SHIELD? Is that the agency that's looking for me?" There's that growing bewilderment, like the ground is starting to crumble under his boots. "And if I've been killing their agents….." HE shakes his head, more as if to rid it of that disorientation than in denial. "They'll siphon me dry and then either kill me or trade me or imprison me. Better to let you kill me here."
*
"Trying," Ava corrects. "You didn't succeed. Although I had several broken ribs and a dislocated shoulder to show for it." That's right, Bucky. You beat up the little girl. Finally, she tucks the pistol away beneath her coat, taking a slow step toward him. "They took me from the Red Room when I was just a child. They're not perfect, but they don't just kill people. Not trained, potentially useful people who weren't in control of what they were doing. Not if they come in with an agent."
*
The little girl who's apparently armed with lightning, his particular vulnerability. His left arm's still hanging limp and dead, a burden rather than a weapon. "Don't get any closer," he warns her, taking a pace back, and there's that tone in his voice that means it's no idle threat. "What is the Red Room?"
*
Ava grimaces at that question. "Something terrible," she answers. "A secret beneath secrets. Training people - girls, mostly - to infiltrate society here, to be activated at need. It isn't enough for them just to train, though. If the Red Room is the secret within the Russian spy agencies, then even the Red Room has its secrets. OPUS is where I was. You…I don't know where you must have been. But you fought like we do. You used trigger words to try to stop me. Maybe someone had used them on you."
*
It's like dropping a stone into a crevasse to test its depth - you wait and wait for the echoes. But her explanation resounds off something, and for a moment his eyes have an odd filmed look, like those of an animal nearly blind with age. When he speaks again, it's halting. "….but you remember. Why don't I?"
*
"Because I was eight years old when a former graduate worked with SHIELD to bring OPUS down," Ava answers quietly, the slightest hint of sympathy in her voice. "Because OPUS was trying something different. Trying to link the minds of its subjects with other important people. I only caught the worst of it second-hand."
*
He grimaces at that, all disgust, revulsion. His breathing's started to go ragged, as it didn't even when he'd been sprinting, and then fighting with the door. "You need to go now," he tells her, and his voice is no longer that even deadpan, but tight with strain.
*
"No," Ava says slowly, standing her ground, though she watches him warily. "I can't do that. Like I said, SHIELD is looking for you, and people are going to get hurt. I don't think you want that, or you would have shot me in the first place."
*
"I don't want to kill anyone," And it's a pained hiss, now. "Not even you. But SHIELD can't have me. Go away!" His aim's started to waver, as little tremors start to appear, but his finger's tightening on the trigger.
*
"You don't want to kill anyone, so you're going to stay out here alone, with an entire agency looking for you? What if SHIELD aren't the only ones who are looking?" Ava counters, shoulders tightening against the urge to raise her own gun. "What if the Red Room is looking for you too? Do you really want to face them alone, risk them making you do something else you don't have control over?"
*
"I can't," he says. "You have to understand, I can't," And what he's admitting to isn't readily clear. Face the Red Room? Risk their control? Then all the strain, that fear, is wiped away, replaced by that mask of calm. There's a moment of hesitation, the kind that's enough to raise the hairs on one's nape….and just enough to telegraph his possible intent. There's a solution that'll make sure that neither side has him as a pawn or a weapon, one right to hand.
The pistol's barrel turns from that spot right between her eyes to the underside of his own jaw. HE's quick, but they're in that adrenaline-fueled span where time seems to stretch, every moment all but statuesque in its deliberation. Is she fast enough to stop him?
*
"No!" If she had time to think about it, Ava would probably let him do it. It would solve all of the problems, really. But in that split second of realizing his intent, she can't just let him do it. It isn't who she is. The electricity that coils deep inside of her is already sinking into her gun, raised to fire another bolt of that electrical energy at him. There's a strength where it could freeze his muscles, keep him from pulling the trigger. There's another that could cause him to spasm. Hopefully she's used the right amount.
*
There's the sharp report of the pistol, the sound of a ricochet off brick….then the thud of a body dropping, the pistol clattering from his hand to go skittering down the alleyway.
…but it's followed by him gasping for air, spine arching in response to the shock. That jolt was like a punch right to the diaphragm. She succeeded, and now there's a blessed interval where his muscles won't obey him, metal or flesh. The former scrabbles at the ground, an animal scratching, little spastic motions.
*
Ava skids to a stop next to him, letting out a relieved breath when she doesn't find brains all over the pavement. "You are stupid," she sighs, leaning down to help him sit up against the wall. She collects the gun in the process, dumping the bullets out on the street. "What are you going to do, let them win? Stupid."
*
"Knock me out," he tells her, in an airless croak. "Do it fast. I can't let myself be captured again, not willingly. Not by anyone." His eyes are redrimmed, rolling to look at her sidelong. "The programming will kick in again and I'll fight you. I can feel it."
*
Ava grimaces, giving him a dubious look. But when it comes down to it, she knows the feeling. And she's ruthless enough to take him at his word. "I am sorry," she says first. "You will probably not feel very good when you wake up." But she has options, at least. And he seems relatively durable. So hopefully, when she sets a hand against his shoulder and lets the electricity travel into him, it's just enough to put him under for long enough to call for back up.
*
He has just enough time to nod assent before the shock takes him. A moment where he stiffens, muscles going taut….and then he's sliding over, unconscious and limp as a kid's discarded doll. At least he's still breathing, if shallowly.
*