Steve doesn’t understand what he’s doing, not consciously, at least.
There’s no recollection of who he is, who his targets are, they were
merely nameless faces slid across a battered table under thumb and
forefinger, a sadistic grin toying at the chapped lips of his trainer.
There had been a single, while scanning the hefty file, faint images
of laughter between two men, an argument between another, a single
moment of recognition. A frustrated sigh slipped into the silence, a
crease forming on his brow as ivories sunk into a lower lip, but there
would be no remembrance, they were assured of that as they forced
him into the torn chair, metal pressing against each temple, a bit
thrown into an unwilling mouth. The rest he wouldn’t recall, he
couldn’t, not now.
Eyes narrowed, azure hues slitting, narrowing cautiously as a single
shift beyond the darkness of splintering paneling, drawing acute sense.
His muscles pulled taut, shoulders widening as a chest pressed forward,
gun daring not to lower as the click, c l I c k of a gun’s barrel cocking
backwards, readying itself for a bullet to unfurl—within seconds the
echo of a shot fired assaulted the asset’s ears, forcing a body to react.
He would stoop low, knowing the other was blinded by the window,
but not for long. A lithe form emerged from it’s darkened spot, lunging
forward into the dimly-lit room, without word, another poorly-aimed,
a rushed shot, fired at a foot, intended to wound, rather than kill. He
shuffled backwards, body aching with each movement, seeking solace
in a strange room. He would not let another slow him, end his mission
before it began.
A hissed aspersion precedes another round fired from an automatic,
though his rushed movements sends the bullet just beside the unknown
target, a spent cartridge rattling to the floor. He’d spent no time waiting
for the woman’s words, though none came. She was silent, features
veiled beneath a thick hood, ebon shadows dancing over pale ski—that
much he could see, though nothing further.
The stretch of a long torso pressed flush against an obscured wall, a
an inaudible sigh escaping, finger twitching against a trigger.
S t o i c, she’d started, with a mesh of leather and grunt of rage, and stoic
she’d remain. Perhaps there would be joy in this one—a true fight, alive
with the brunt of blood and shattering of bone, to force the adrenaline to
surge through her. Perhaps she’d enjoy the ebbing of life that darkened
and dwindled into nothing more than a carcass to feed to alley dogs. The
warehouse was huge, an echo of solitude and jarred with the littered
broken glass and piled wood. The two would dance, dodging the shards
and daring to face each other with naught but the glare of vengeance.
If the Punisher had laughed, it would’ve been then. The way the jape crawled
off the tip of his tongue, harsh and accented, heavy and clamorous and
ricocheting off the corners of the walls, would form a hint of amusement
behind her eyes, but nothing more. She’d answer with silence, a writhing limb
attempting to kick forward do jab him in the thigh.
A soldier, she’d been, and a soldier she’d stay. Strength mattered little to her-
and though she trained, day in, day out, and at peak physical condition,
gauging eyes could only discern the bulk of muscle beneath his Kevlar
uniform. It was thick, strong, groaning beneath the strain of fired rounds, and
w a s t e d. She knew the clash of red and black anywhere; HYDRA was
everywhere, a ghost of its former self but haunting those too close.
“The Punisher. Even got a name, Soldier?” Was the low, hissed response.
It only took a moment, for glacial eyes to raise and meet his own—for
recognition to swoop across her features, and a frown to crease on her
forehead.
Captain America. “Well I never.”
Stunned, though she was, an elbow would cinch, a thump into ribs and
allowing the glare of one of her guns to graze down his left side- how
deep it went, was undetected, as a swift fumble of limbs thumped the
hilt of the weapon up into the crook between lip and nose of her assailant.
