fateandfortune | 「 жулик 」

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"Mission report."

How many times has she listened to those succinct explanations of events, delivered dispassionately and with no sign of the man beneath the soldier. And if ever there was even the slightest hint... It wasn't until two years into her assignment that Rogue first encountered that particular Winter Soldier. There was something more together about him, a ghost of humanity in amongst the wreckage of a mind scrambled and taped back together with lies. He wasn't just a shell filled in with HYDRA's brainwashing, he was... broken.

Broken but not irreparable.

That was the first time she ever lied to her superiors. While every inch of her loathed HYDRA from the moment they recruited her, she had played her part to perfection, calling on every mental resource she had to evade their detection methods, to make them believe she was devoted to the cause. There was no other way to survive, and— She wanted to survive. She wanted to live, to somehow find the peace that had been taken from her. She wanted to have a home again. But the only way to do that was to become what they wanted.

Interrogation was her main role, along with occasional handler for some of the assets. Never the Winter Soldiers, they were far too volatile to be handled by anyone but the upper echelon, but when one of them fractured—

He was saying things unrelated to the mission. Pieces were falling that weren't part of the puzzle. Examine his mind, find the fissures, tell them what to fix. It should have been so easy. But when she'd touched him, there had been a faint, fuzzy memory of a scrawny kid with a thick New York accent, a friend lost long ago. Someone he would have died to protect.

It's that glimpse of humanity that is her downfall. There was no possible way she could have kept her distance from him after that. Someone she'd talked her way into working with him again, time after time, one mission after another, always peering into his mind to look for breaks in the facade. Unfortunately there was no way to avoid the wipes, not without drawing attention to what she was trying to do, and not when she couldn't be certain that he himself wouldn't notice that something strange was going on. But she did manage to skip a few, to let him linger in those memories a little longer, dredge up a few from the silt at the bottom of his mind. For each memory he found, she gathered up the pieces and kept them safe for him, biding her time and watching for any opportunity to get them out of this hell. To give him a chance at becoming himself again.

Fifteen years of being frozen and thawed every few weeks didn't make it easy.

And then Alexander Pierce had taken him to DC and everything had... accelerated. HYDRA exposed, the Soldier on the run, and the man who had once been that scrawny kid— She felt no remorse as she killed the agents who kept her prisoner, disappearing the way they'd taught the Soldier. She might never have been in the field in this world, but she didn't need that experience when she had the memories of others, imprinted psyches that were more killing machine than man. Half a decade of war was a hard thing to forget, at that.

It wasn't hard to find that kid from Brooklyn, the one who shouldn't be the way he is, who shouldn't be here now. But he is and he's the catalyst for all of this, so she watches him, waits for an opening, and then slips a folded piece of paper into his jacket pocket as she passes him on the street, so many weeks after the entire world changed.

I can help you find him. 2300, Central Park.

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It had been a long, long day. They all felt like long days anymore, though. Ten at night, and Steve was just getting back to his apartment - his third in almost as many years, and wasn't that a kicker; he hadn't lived in so many different places his entire life until he'd wound up in the future. The future seemed to have as hard a time figuring out what to do with him as he did with it.

Drawing his keys from his pocket, a piece of paper fluttered to the ground, catching his eye. He tensed slightly, going on alert, because if he had any receipts, they always went in the other pocket, so his keys were clear. There shouldn't be anything except keys in his right pocket. And all the recent espionage had his mind racing, even as he bent to pick up and unfold the paper.

His paranoia had been right - more espionage. He grit his teeth; he'd have to skirt if not outright break several traffic laws to reach the park in time. There was no doubt in his mind who the 'him' was that the note referred to. The only question was, who thought they could help him find him, and why did they care? Was it a trap?

A small, dark, simmering part of him wanted it to be a trap. After chasing shadows and ghosts for the past few weeks, he was ready to let loose and pound some bad guys.

Traffic laws were indeed completely ignored on his trip to the park; but he also had his shield slung on his back in plain view, so if any cops had spotted him, they'd left him alone. He wasn't suited up, but the shield in the open made enough of a statement: I'm ready for whatever you've got.

This better not fizzle. Or Steve really was going to pound something.

Listening to police radio chatter let her know he was on his way. Captain America speeding through the streets caught some attention, but none of the uniforms on duty were willing to mess with an Avenger. Knowing the direction let her take up a spot on a roof overlooking that side of the park, some high-rise apartment building that she'd never have been able to afford in any lifetime. She doubted that he would bring backup, it wasn't really his style, but she had to be sure before putting herself out there.

If anyone captured her, she wouldn't be able to help him.

Parking the bike, Steve strode into the park, going only a little ways before stopping, feet braced apart and hands on his hips, eyes tracking. The place was deserted. At least this section was; and what kind of person just said 'Central Park' for a meet, but didn't specify even a street entrance? The park had 4 sides, and spanned over 50 blocks just on one side.

He had to assume they were keeping an eye on him already, knew how to locate him - someone had to slip that note into his pocket in the first place, after all. (And didn't he feel like an idiot, a native, veteran New Yorker, who didn't even feel a hand in his pocket - he would've deserved to be pickpocketed.)

He should call Natasha, or Sam. Maybe even Tony, who'd been making noises about tracking HYDRA bases and wanting to destroy them. Steve had his own agenda in that regard, but Tony was aware of and perfectly all right with it.

But dammit, if someone had intel on Bucky, he didn't want to spook them by bringing the Avengers, any of them, with him tonight. And if they wanted to try to ambush him, he didn't want to share the fight with anyone.

The park was open for another two hours, but on a weeknight it was the perfect place to meet. A quiet haven in the city, easy escape routes in so many directions. And no one looked twice at the woman in a baseball cap and dark green hoodie walked behind him with a coffee cup in hand.

A few feet past him, she speaks, knowing he'll hear her. "Won't you join me, Captain?"

There's a bench nearby and that's where she'll head, perching on one side and sipping at her drink. She doesn't look like a HYDRA agent; she's just an average woman out for a stroll on a cool summer night. The white of her hair is hidden, the brown hanging out the back of her hat in a ponytail. Even her usual gloves aren't anywhere to be seen; she knows Steve Rogers is a good guy, but one can't be too careful these days.

Edited (i can words i swear) 2018-03-16 05:07 (UTC)

The first tendril of unease makes its way down Steve's back, because until she'd walked past him, he hadn't even been aware of her; not her breathing, no footfalls, nothing. Yet another ghost, and in conjunction with the note alluding to Bucky, it puts him on edge even more.

As for looking average - he's seen Natasha look average as well. She's not dressed to stay unnoticed by him, but by any other passers-by. But Steve follows her, a few paces behind, pausing for just a second when she sits, before also claiming a spot on the park bench, an arm's length away from her.

"I'd ask who you are - I'd ask a whole lotta things," Steve admits, wry humor breaking through his stern voice for a moment, "but I'm pretty sure you wouldn't answer."

If and when they get to know each other better, she'll do her best to drop the ghost act. She knows all too well how frustrating it can be, but it's also effective, and that's what she needs right now. Glancing at him from the corner of her eye, she gives a little shrug and takes another sip before lowering the cup.

"My name is Rogue," she informs him, letting her southern drawl come through and feeling a tiny fraction more like herself. The woman she'd been a long time ago. "And you can ask me whatever you'd like."

Whether she'd answer all his questions... Well, she's already given him her name. He probably won't like it, but it's still a truth that she didn't have to offer.

Steve snorts. "Yeah, and I was born yesterday," he mutters. Rogue isn't a name, it's a codename, just like Captain America, Winter Soldier.

Shaking it off, he gives her another, speculative sidelong glance. She reminds him of Natasha; not exactly in looks, although they're both attractive women, not quite in demeanor, although again, they're similar.

"All right, here's one. What do you want?" What he really wants to ask is, 'what do you know?' but figures he should ease around to that one.

Once upon a time, she would have argued about her name, the matter a sore subject in her early years, but now she just lets the ache wash over her and slip away like water over stone. There's no point in feeling things for herself now; she has a mission to fulfill.

"I want to see him get back what they took from him." She looks away from him, out across the pathway that leads deeper into the park. How many times had she walked that path during her trips into the city? A different city, a different park. "He didn't deserve what they did to him. I'd like to try to make it right."

Leaning back, Steve crosses his arms over his chest. He knows it comes off as intimidating, but right now it's the only thing he can think of to do with his hands, suddenly on rocky, unknown footing.

She - this Rogue - sounds like she's on his side. Better, she sounds like she's on Bucky's side. But the way she moves, speaks, holds herself, all say HYDRA. A defector? He didn't think such a thing existed... but then, there was Natasha. Not the same organization, but enough background similarities.

Evil organizations should really learn to stop using women. They were a hell of a lot smarter than men, most of the time.

"Why?" he asked. "What do you care?"

He shouldn't have to ask that question. Who wouldn't care about an innocent man, a good man being tortured for decades, made into a weapon and stripped of his identity? What kind of person could just stand by and let something like that happen?

Except she had. Her hand trembles ever so slightly as she lifts the cup again, using those few moments to compose her thoughts. If she doesn't play this right, if she can't get his help, this will all be so much more difficult.

"I couldn't help him before now," she answers with an honesty he might not comprehend. "I had to watch them strip away the man until all that was left was the weapon. I have to make amends for that."

Plenty of people could, and had, done exactly that. They'd left him, hadn't given a single thought to the man, only how efficiently the weapon was running. He'd learned a lot over the last few weeks, and all of it made him sick. He couldn't understand it, but he knew it happened.

His shoulders drop slightly as she starts talking. He can hear it in her voice, she's not justifying her actions - or in this case, inaction - but explaining. There's always a choice; but if trying to help Bucky earlier than this had gotten them both killed, no doubts about the outcome, it would be better, smarter to wait. So it sounded like she had.

Letting out a long sigh, sounding as weary as his actual 95 years, Steve leans his elbows on his knees and scrubbed his hands through his hair, just resting his head in his hands for a moment.

"Okay. Okay," he repeats. "What can you tell me?"

That inaction had made her feel no better than the monsters who had stood by while Erik was tortured in World War II, or all the people who had let mutants be rounded up and massacred for the sake of a better world. She could have tried, could have done... something. Anything. Even if she knows it would have ended horribly, she still could have tried. No apology will ever be enough for what she's done, so she has to do what she can to give him back his life.

"He still remembers you." Her voice isn't quite flat, but it's impassive and matter-of-fact. He's compromised by emotion; she can't be as well. "It's only bits and pieces and none of it makes any sense to him, but at least part of him is still in there. If we can find him, I think I can... help him recover more of his memories."

He still remembers you. Steve's fingers clench, digging into his skull for a second. He squeezes his eyes shut, glad his arm is hiding most of his profile from her, this stranger, so she can't see how close to tears he is.

Taking a slow, deep breath, he raises his head, nodding. "I knew he did. He..." He raises a hand to brush it against his cheekbone. Completely healed now, but he could still remember the way Bucky had slammed his fist into it, over and over again. "He was too angry, at the end, to not remember anything. From what I was told, led to believe... the Winter Soldier didn't have emotions. That was the whole point. And..."

He'd saved Steve from the river. Steve hadn't really seen him, had caught disjointed, blurry images as he wavered in and out of consciousness, but he'd seen enough to know in his gut that it had been Bucky who'd pulled him out of the Potomac.

But he wasn't going to share that. Not with her, not when he doesn't know anything about her. "Finding him is gonna be the problem. There's a whole world out there, and if you know how, it's easy to disappear into it. And he knows how, now."

This has to be so hard for him. The old Rogue would have tried to comfort this man who was struggling with something no one else could possibly understand - but that's not who she is now. He wouldn't accept her actions regardless, so there's no use in even attempting to offer a sympathetic hand or embrace. She's a stranger, and he doesn't deserve her butting into his personal affairs.

"He'll go somewhere he can blend in," she points out, already narrowing down the list of possibilities. "Asia is out. The Middle East, most of Africa and South America - anywhere he couldn't easily disappear into the native population." Diaspora communities weren't even considered; they were usually close-knit and would notice a quiet new arrival in their midst. "The US is too much of a reminder of what he can't remember, and he won't go to Russia. My bet is Europe, one of the major cities."

That still leaves a lot of ground to cover, but ruling out a chunk of the world at least makes the process seem a little less daunting.

Strategizing helps clear his head a little, and he nods as she lays it out. He knows he's too close to this, isn't on top of his game. But really... It's like playing tag, with someone who doesn't know they're in the game.

"Not Spain," he murmurs, looking out into the park, but not really seeing the trees and greenery around him. He's imagining the continent. "He may know the language - I don't know anything about the Winter Soldier, but I know Bucky. If he's gonna blend in, it should be somewhere he can feel comfortable. He's Italian, knows the language - knew it even before whatever other lessons they crammed into his head. But..." he shook his head. "Until close to the end, Italy was an Axis power. Like I said, I don't know what the Winter Soldier would think, but I don't think Bucky would be comfortable there, even all these years later."

And then it hits him. "Shit. Ireland. He heard Ma tell stories all growing up, could probably fake the accent if he wanted. He's got the looks - dark hair, blue eyes." He turns to Rogue, wanting her input. She knows the Soldier, and right now they don't know what's more in control - the man, or the programming. But if it's Bucky, Steve's gut says Ireland.

Accents and languages aren't a problem for the Winter Soldier, he's got at least a dozen under his belt and could pick up a dozen more with ease, thanks to similarities between families. It's all second nature to someone with his programming. But underneath all of that... She could see him following instinct in the absence of orders.

"It's as good a place as any to start," she reasons with a nod. "There's no telling what's influencing him more right now, so might as well check it out. I'll leave tomorrow."

Steve raises his eyebrows, his disbelief palpable. "And leave me spinning my wheels, wondering if I'll ever hear from either of you again? Do I look like I fell off the back of a turnip truck?"

He closes his eyes and grimaces almost as soon as he says it. Thinking about the past, Ireland and his ma, suddenly he's talking like her.

"Maybe not a turnip truck." It slips out as easily as his remark had, and affects her just as strongly. That hint of teasing like a beacon of who she used to be, so many years ago. Who perhaps she could be again...

"You can do whatever you like. Come with me or stay behind, my statement wasn't exclusive to either."

...Oh. Well, now he kinda feels like an idiot all over again. He has no idea what to make of her first comment, and the fact she wasn't trying to shut him out has thrown him for a loop.

"...Sorry. I've been in the dark about so many things it seems like, or left behind, I just assumed." He nods to himself. "Right. Tomorrow. I can be ready."

He glances at her wryly. "Do we meet somewhere, or are you just gonna show up on my doorstep? Because that seems to be the MO for Spook Women in my life."

Of course he would assume that; if she were anything like most agents for either HYDRA or SHIELD, she probably would have left him behind. But he's the one who can connect with Bucky - if they find him, she'll need Steve to get through to him.

"Well, I do hate to be predictable," she replied with a ghost of a smirk and a hint of mischief in her eyes. Fishing a nondescript phone out of her pocket, she sets it on the stretch of bench between them. "I'll send you the details in the morning. Be ready to leave by noon."

Oh, good, Steve thinks dryly as he reaches out for it, a burner phone. I really am in a frigging spy movie.

"Not a problem," he tells her. He knows how to pack light and fast. And he doesn't need much sleep. But he's got a lot of food in the fridge at his place; he'll probably use most of his time accumulating calories and protein, and getting rid of his perishables.

It's clear their little rendezvous is finished for the night, so Steve stands up, ready to go home.

If he was in a spy movie, they would have met under an overpass somewhere, or she would have just been wanting for him in his apartment. She'd considered that last one, actually, before deciding on the park. It had seemed a bit too cliche, and not likely to win her any points.

"Thank you," she says as he stands, keeping her position on the bench. "For being as good as the man he remembers."

Edited 2018-03-16 08:07 (UTC)

Steve freezes at her words, doesn't look at her - doesn't dare. So many emotions go crashing through him, all he can do for a few seconds is try to breathe through them, weather the storm. Hope is in there, the bone-deep conviction that no matter what's happened, Bucky can be saved. Fear, that he'll be too late. And surprisingly - or maybe not, because he knows how his own feelings work - anger. Anger at everything; his circumstances, at fate for doing this to his best friend (even in the tumult of rage, he instinctively shies away from being angry at God), and at this unknown woman, who talks as if she knows Bucky. Which adds to the fear, and the hurt he's been carrying around like an open wound - unseen, but clearly felt. What if she does? What if she knows him better than Steve, now?

Some of his bitterness comes through as he says, "I don't know what he remembers."

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