GOD, there were just some people who shouldnât live. ( If God were listening, he probably wouldnât much like Steve thinking things like that â if even his ma was listening, she probably wouldnât like it either. ) But the pair of âem were like the fucking HORSEMEN; Crossbones was playing War, Sin playing Pestilence, both tearing the world up as they went.Â
Hatred was too small an emotion for what Steveâs feeling, and he wants to turn back â to make sure HIS TEAM is ready for the two â but heâs got to trust âem all, trust that they can take of themselves as well as each other. This is what theyâve prepared for.Â
âWANDA, SAM â Watch yourselves.â The warning slips through all the same, and Steve stops running. âAnd give âem ALL YOUâVE GOT. Iâm goinâ in.â
He doesnât wait anymore. Theyâll do their job, same as him.Â
He sprints out in the open again, sprints as fast as he can and then faster still, and when he gets just a little closer, just enough, he uses the next car to propel himself forward right at Brock Rumlowâs UGLY MAW. Thereâs A GUN in Steveâs hand, and it doesnât matter that heâs never been great with the weapon ( heâs no SHIELD agent ), it doesnât take an expert to pull the goddamn trigger.
Hereâs the trick: HEâS JUST THE DISTRACTION.
WATCHINâ SIN WORK WAS ITS OWN THRILL, the swath she manages to cut right through the ex - Captainâs cavalry impressive in about every way. Distraction comes for Rogers first : heâs givinâ orders like heâs still got that flag on his chest, and maybe the papers were right, MAYBE HE HAD FINALLY LOST IT.
They still gotta flier, and wherever Rogers is, Barnes canât be that far behind. ( You gotta wonder âbout them, that way. ) Brock keeps up his dodge - and - weave between cars even as space opens up wider the further back in tâ the garage they get, head spinninâ around best he can to try and figure out where BARNES has gotta be hidinâ up high.
( A fuckinâ WASTE, is what it is âââââââ all that time, all that attention, the Soldier was supposed tâ be the best of them and it turned out he was just as WEAK as the rest of the rats that didnât go down with the ship. )
Brock spins to face Rogers again, another TAUNT half - formed before Rogers launches himself forward, wavinâ some pissant nine millimeter like he thinks heâs SOMEBODY. Gauntlets engage with a metallic crunch while he plants his weight, reachinâ out to twist the gun from Rogersâ grip before he can hurt himself PLAYINâ WITH IT.  â Donât yâknow these ainât toys â â ? â
SO MUCH HAPPENS INSIDE THE NEXT SECOND IT SEEMS TO TAKE AN HOUR TO UNFOLD : Brock sorts out Rogersâ gambit a split - second too late, takinâ the full force of that weight to the torso like a freight train ; a SCREAM echoes, but he canât spin back to see from where ; a SHOT RINGS OUT, not close enough tâ be the sidearm heâs doinâ his best to crunch into garbage inside a metal fist ; that question gets answered a split - second later when Brock buckles with an animalâs noise, his left knee foldinâ up like broken china beneath him. BARNES.
The gun tossed aside, Brock grabs at whatever bit of the Captain he can reach to DRAG HIM DOWN Tâ THE PAVEMENT along with him. He tastes salt, tastes sour, feels his own blood poolinâ up inside his boot as they both hit the pavement in a messy GRAPPLE, the sound of his gauntlet windinâ up again loud even past the helmetâs soundproofing. Heâs gonna gut this fuckinâ rat himself. â YOU FIGURED OUT WHAT HEâS GOOD FOR, huh ? â Hell, it worked once.
THEY THINK THEMSELVES A TEAMÂ Â Â itâd be cute if it wasnât so damn funny. Â Â ( Â Â Funny like blood pooling in her mouth, like the stray hail peppered down by Falcon that grazes her cheek and tugs something raucous from her, teeth gleaming blood red. Â Â )Â Â She hears Captain Nothing command them while the rest of the lemming recalibrate, position themselves.Â
With the witch down and out, twitching like an old dryer and Hawkeye tending to her, thereâs another that needs tending. But Barnes is like a fucking shadow.   (   Made well, at least.   )  Still, she hears that wounded sound from under the pulsing of blood in her ears and sees them, there, rounding out on Crossbones like she was told they would.
There are things to do, events to allow to unfold. She was told so, she always does as sheâs told   ââ-
â   ââ-  Fucking wings.   â   Any move made towards rounding off the group and evening the odds matters little when the eclipse of blood blocks the streak of red heading her way. The glorified glider cracks into her with another laugh escaping from the pop of ribs buckling under the pressure. Grappling line wrapped quickly around his neck. Guns and knives and that fucking bird while her feet dangle over the concrete end below. Itâs red, red, and red still with her face slick with it, with the wall caught by the mess of limbs and struggle.Â
The comme pops and crackles, maddening in its own way, yet still she spits out.   â  Handle them.   â