Fault Line

by Livya_Brook

Summary:

1956 The KGB is losing control of the Winter Soldier. Ready to scrap the entire project, they learn of a new mind-control serum—one that might finally perfect their weapon. But to retrieve it, they’ll have to trust their unstable experiment to succeed, paired with a sharp Red Room graduate who doesn’t trust him at all.

2027 During a mission with the Thunderbolts, Bucky is recognized by someone who knows more about his past than he does. This man intends to use what he knows to bring the Winter Soldier back under his control.

Notes:

I’ve been working on this story for a while and I am so excited to start posting it. I want it to have a similar vibe to Winter Soldier: Cold Front where two stories from the past and present connect.
Similarly to Cold Front, Bucky goes by a code name while working with the KGB.
Enjoy! 💜

Chapter 1

1956
Shilovsky

The concrete wall was freezing against Shilovsky’s back, and the puddle around his feet had thin crystals of ice forming along the edges. Still, he sat as straight as he could, not daring to move even an inch—though his whole body trembled from the cold.

The mission briefing room was the worst in the whole underground base. The walls were raw concrete with no insulation and the room was always damp. It was the place he would stop first after returning from a mission to be checked over or relay any important information before being sent for a full exam.

A few men in white coats moved briskly around the room, their voices low and clinical as they took down notes or checked on various instruments. None of them so much as glanced in his direction. Careful to keep his eyes downcast, Shilovsky waited until one of them approached.

“I’ll need to draw your blood,” the man said, already reaching for Shilovsky’s right arm before finishing the sentence. His tone was flat. Shilovsky let the man turn his arm over and probe for a vein. He flinched the slightest bit as the needle pierced his skin, the sting fading into the dull ache of numb flesh.

Across the room, the solid metal door swung open and slammed against the wall with a sharp metallic clang. Shilovsky kept his gaze forward, expression as carefully schooled as he could manage when two men entered the room. Both spoke in clipped tones as if they had been arguing.

Agent Petrov, his most recent handler, held a small battered notebook in one hand, flipping through it as he walked. Beside him, Doctor Ivanov was already scribbling something onto a clipboard.

“…After initial hesitation, the asset was given orders to eliminate the target twice before he finally pulled the trigger. This is not the first time he has hesitated to eliminate a target since I’ve worked with him over the past six months.” Petrov glanced up from the notebook to look at Shilovsky. His mouth twisted into a brief sneer before he snapped the notebook shut and shoved it into his coat pocket.

Shilovsky felt his eyebrows scrunch together ever so slightly. Petrov said they had been working together for six months, but he had only been Shilovsky's handler for roughly a month. Maybe he has been working indirectly on the same missions?

“I can send my notes up the chain, but there isn’t much I can do,” Doctor Ivanov said, shifting his gaze to Shilovsky and looking him over like a malfunctioning tool. “I’ve noticed—his eyes never seem to stay dead for long anymore.”

He jotted something else down on the clipboard and placed it on top of a neat stack of papers. “Morozov really wants you flying out tomorrow morning? You just got back. It’s ill advised.”

Petrov hooked his foot around a metal stool and dragged it across the floor with a sharp, grating screech. He didn’t even flinch at the sound as he dropped down onto it.

“Yes. We believe Durand may have sent a signal before he was eliminated. We’re leaving at 0400. Will he be ready by then?” Petrov tilted his head toward Shilovsky, who still sat perfectly still, hands folded behind his back.

“That’s only eight hours away,” Ivanov replied, motioning to two of the men in white coats. They both nodded and hurried out of the room. “It’ll be close, but I think I can make it work.”

“Good,” Petrov said, rising from the stool. “I need to check in with Morozov one more time, then get a few hours of sleep. I’ll be back at 0300 to pick him up.”

“I will have him waiting for you in his quarters.” The doctor said as the heavy door shut behind Petrov with a dull thud.

Doctor Ivanov turned toward Shilovsky, pushing his glasses higher on his nose.

“I did not hesitate to pull the trigger,” Shilovsky said, keeping his eyes forward but tightening his grip on his forearms until his knuckles whitened. “I fired as soon as I had a clean shot. Agent Petrov is mistaken.”

Ivanov sighed softly, as if weary of the repetition. “I’m sure you did.” He glanced up when the two men returned. “We just need to run through your post-mission physical. It shouldn’t take too long. Then you can rest before the next assignment. Let’s go.”

Shilovsky swallowed hard and stood. The full physical after every mission was routine, but the ritual never stopped the churn in his stomach.

He followed Ivanov down the hall in silence. The air smelled faintly of bleach and metal. The next room was cleaner but the harsh cold still stuck to the air. The white tile on the floors and walls was almost glowing under harsh fluorescent lights. Shilovsky climbed onto the examination table, wincing as the chill of the metal cut through his pants.

Without being told, he began to unbutton his shirt, taking as long as he dared to retain just a little heat. Ivanov murmured something to the nurse before leaving the room, his footsteps echoing down the corridor.

Her eyes glanced in his direction as she listened. Shilovsky couldn’t remember her name but she had been the one working with him last time he was in the exam room. Her tight blond curls bounced when she moved and she had a small but deep scar just under right right eye.

The nurse washed her hands at the sink, her movements brisk but practiced. “Good evening, Agent Shilovsky,” she said as she dried her hands and began arranging instruments. “I hear your last mission was a success.”

She didn’t wait for him to answer before placing small adhesive pads against his skin, connecting each to a machine beside the table. The machine hummed softly before emitting a steady, rhythmic beep.

“Mission was a success as always,” Shilovsky said flatly. He didn’t tell her about the man who nearly escaped before he put a bullet between his eyes.

“Always good to hear.” The nurse removed the wires and picked up a small flashlight, shining it into his eyes. “How’s the arm? Any issues?”

He gave his head the slightest shake, flexing the fingers of his metal hand. “No. Everything’s functioning just fine.”

“That’s good to hear. Open your mouth.” She lowered the flashlight to peer inside, her face unreadable in the harsh fluorescent glow. “Your throat’s a little red. Does it hurt?” She turned away to scribble a note in the file beside her.

Shilovsky swallowed. “Maybe a little scratchy, but it’s nothing much.” He hadn’t even noticed the faint irritation until she mentioned it.

“I see.” The nurse looked back up, pen poised over the page. “Doctor Ivanov says you’re leaving again in a few hours?” She raised her eyebrows. “That’s unusual. You’ve already been in the field for nearly ten days straight.”

“Last mission was not as successful as it could have been,” he admitted quietly. “May I put my shirt back on?” The cold air on his bare skin was starting to feel unbearable, goosebumps prickling along his arm.

“Yes, but roll your sleeve up. I’d like to give you some antibiotics, just to be safe.” She crossed the room as he quickly pulled his shirt back over his head, fingers clumsy with the chill.

The nurse pulled an IV bag from a cupboard and began prepping it with mechanical precision. She drew a syringe filled with a light blue liquid and slowly injected it into the clear fluid through a narrow tube before setting the syringe back on a tray. The faint click of glass against metal filled the silence.

“What is that?” Shilovsky asked as he rolled his right sleeve up. The nurse shot him a sharp look—one that reminded him he wasn’t supposed to ask questions.

“Just a little immune system support,” she said, her tone clipped but smooth. “I don’t know how long you’ll be out this time. This will help your body fight off anything you might be coming down with. Sit back and try to relax.”

Her fingers were cold as she pressed against the crook of his arm, searching for a vein. He looked away as the needle slid beneath his skin, feeling the faint pressure and burn that came after.

“Once this is done, you’ll have a few hours to rest,” she said, stepping back but remaining in the room.

She busied herself with a shelf of glass bottles, her movements brisk but unfocused—like someone pretending to work.

Shilovsky leaned back against the table and tried to relax his muscles. The metal surface was still cold enough to seep through his clothes, and the air smelled faintly of disinfectant and iron. He desperately hoped their next mission would take them somewhere slightly warmer. If the temperature stayed above freezing, he’d be content.

His gaze wandered until it landed on the IV bag hanging beside him. The liquid inside seemed to drip impossibly slow, each drop catching the light like a bead of glass. For a moment, he wondered if it was so cold that it might have started to freeze.

As he watched, his eyelids began to grow heavy. His breathing slowed, deep and sluggish. “Miss… should I be feeling tired?”

The nurse glanced over her shoulder, expression soft but distant. “Oh, yes—that’s normal. Drowsiness can be a side effect of the antibiotics. Nothing to worry about.” She gave him a faint smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes before turning back to her work.

Shilovsky tried to focus on her silhouette, on the bottles and shelves and the low hum of the fluorescent lights, but his thoughts blurred at the edges. The sounds grew distant. The cold didn’t bite anymore.

Darkness slipped over him before he could wonder why.
_____
“Get up.”

The voice snapped through the haze of sleep in Shilovsky’s head as harsh fluorescent lights flooded the room. He squinted, struggling to focus on the man standing in front of him.

“My name is Agent Petrov,” the man said crisply. “I’ll be your new handler for the foreseeable future. I want you up and ready to leave in ten minutes.”

As Shilovsky’s eyes adjusted to the brightness, the man’s features came into focus—sharp jawline, dark hair, uniform pressed to regulation perfection. He looked vaguely familiar. Shilovsky might have seen him around the compound, though he rarely interacted with anyone outside of his missions.

Petrov snapped his fingers in front of Shilovsky’s face. “Did you hear me? Now you have eight minutes.”

“I heard you. I’ll be ready.”

Shilovsky pushed the thin blanket aside and swung his legs over the edge of the cot. His limbs felt heavy, his mind foggy. He couldn’t remember how late he’d gone to bed.

He stood, smoothing the blanket and tucking the corners tight out of habit. The bed needed to look perfect—it always did. Yet as he worked, a faint unease crept in. He couldn’t remember lying down at all. He shook it off. He must have been more tired than he realized.

When the bed was pristine, he moved to the small metal dresser beside it and pulled out a clean uniform. The fabric was stiff and faintly smelled of disinfectant.

After changing, he took a moment to splash cold water on his face from the tiny sink at the opposite end of the room. The shock helped chase away some of the fog but not the dull ache behind his eyes. When he turned back, Petrov was reentering the room.

Shilovsky immediately straightened to attention at the foot of his bed, hands folded behind his back.

Barely glancing at him, Petrov motioned toward the door. “I’ll brief you on the plane. It’s a cleanup mission.”

Shilovsky nodded and followed him into the hall. The corridor was lined with concrete walls, each section identical to the last, the air tinged with that same sterile chill. Their footsteps echoed as they moved toward the staircase leading to the above-ground hangar.

Now more awake, Shilovsky tried to think back to the night before, but his mind remained blank. Most nights, if he wasn’t on a mission, he was confined to his quarters unless training. Maybe he’d been pushed harder than usual. Maybe that’s why he couldn’t remember.

Up ahead, Petrov was already holding the door open to the hangar. The moment Shilovsky stepped through, a sharp gust of icy air hit him full in the face. If it was cold inside, the air out here was worse.

“Something wrong, soldier?” Petrov snapped as Shilovsky hesitated.

“No, nothing’s wrong. I was just thinking.”

Petrov slammed the door behind them. “Well stop it. You’re not here to think—you’re here to act.” He pointed toward a sleek jet where the ramp was beginning to lower. “Get inside and shut up.”

Shilovsky obeyed, deciding silently that he wasn’t going to like this new handler.

Inside the jet, he strapped into the passenger seat and slipped the headset over his ears. The cockpit hummed to life as Petrov climbed into the pilot’s seat beside him.

Moments later, the jet began taxiing out of the hangar. The concrete walls fell away, replaced by a barren stretch of snow and steel-gray sky. Shilovsky braced himself as the engines roared and the aircraft lifted off, pressing him into his seat.

Petrov glanced over, noticing the way Shilovsky’s hands gripped the seat until his knuckles turned white. “Would you cut that out?”

“Sorry,” Shilovsky said. “I’ve never flown before.”

“Yes, you have,” Petrov replied flatly. “You just don’t remember it.”

He leveled the jet and pressed a button on the console, letting go of the controls. “One of our agents failed to eliminate a hostile before the man sent an emergency signal. We tracked it to a safe house. That’s where we’re headed. Hopefully, they haven’t cleared out yet.”

Shilovsky nodded, but he knew better than to ask questions. He stared out the window instead, watching the clouds pass beneath them like frozen waves.

Still, he couldn’t stop wondering what kind of agent had made such a costly mistake. Letting a hostile send out an emergency signal was a pretty big deal and he was sure whoever slipped up was paying for it dearly.

He shut his eyes briefly and exhaled, trying to steady his thoughts. The hum of the engines filled the silence, steady and cold.

Shilovsky tried to close his eyes and focus on anything but the clouds outside. He felt both wide awake and bone tired—like he had been up for twenty-four hours while somehow also asleep for that time.

Unfortunately, sleep didn’t come, and far too quickly he felt his stomach drop as the jet began its descent. After explaining the details of their mission, Agent Petrov hadn’t spoken another word for the rest of the flight.

As soon as the jet touched down, Petrov was on his feet, loading his weapons and surveying the snowy expanse outside the window. Shilovsky stood as well and rolled out his stiff shoulders. Time for speculation was over. He had a job to do.

“How many hostiles are we expecting?” he asked, already checking the chamber of his own weapon.

“The safe house is small. We expect anywhere from two to six bodies, but they’ll likely be heavily armed and well-trained.” Petrov pulled the lever to open the side hatch, and frigid air immediately filled the cabin.

“Understood. Any intel to retrieve, or is this an elimination-only mission?” Shilovsky joined him near the door, squinting as the cold stung his eyes.

“Elimination only. Shoot anything that moves—and do not hesitate.” Petrov said the last sentence slowly, emphasizing each word.

Shilovsky wanted to argue but knew better. He didn’t hesitate—he never did—but maybe Petrov was referring to the agent who’d let the man send out a signal in the first place. Instead of responding, Shilovsky followed him out into the snow.

The safe house was only a short walk from where they’d landed. The structure didn’t really look like a house at all. Two shipping containers sat half-buried in snow and fallen debris from nearby trees, forming a crooked V-shape.

If Shilovsky hadn’t noticed the welds where the containers joined, or the way the rust and damage looked just a little too deliberate, he might have thought they were nothing but abandoned junk. Which, he realized, was probably the point.

“What’s the plan?” he asked under his breath, though the howling wind likely would have drowned him out even if he’d shouted.

“There’s one entrance—around the back. You go through there and take out everyone inside. I’ll be right behind you.” Petrov motioned him forward toward the containers.

As far as plans went, it was about as simple as they came. But then again, a cleanup mission in the middle of nowhere didn’t need to be complicated—as long as it was effective. Shilovsky started moving forward, eyes locked on the structure.

There were no windows, no visible defenses. That should have made things easy, but instead it set him on edge. It made the place feel too exposed. His gaze swept the metal walls, searching for any sign of a camera, a sensor, anything out of place.

The sides, though dented and pockmarked with rust, appeared completely ordinary.

When he reached the narrow metal door, he took a slow breath. Confident as he could be that they hadn’t been spotted, he rested his hand on the handle, counted to five, and yanked it open.

A volley of gunfire erupted from the darkness. Shilovsky threw up his left arm to shield his face, trusting the reinforced fabric of his shirt to hold. With his right hand, he leveled his weapon and fired back into the shadows.

The barrage eased almost immediately after a cry echoed from inside. Behind him, a sturdy hand pressed against his shoulder, urging him forward. He didn’t hesitate—he advanced.

Without the blinding reflection of snow, his eyes adjusted quickly to the dim interior. The containers were larger inside than he’d expected, the walls stripped down to bare metal. One man lay sprawled on the ground in a widening pool of blood. Behind him, three others crouched behind crates and half-walls, weapons raised.

Shilovsky moved deeper into the room, pistol steady. The moment the nearest man leaned out, Shilovsky dropped low and fired—a clean hit. The man went down hard, a thin stream of blood tracing down his cheek.

A gunshot cracked beside Shilovsky’s ear, the sound deafening. He flinched instinctively, ears ringing, but saw another hostile collapse under Petrov’s shot.

Before the last man could react, Shilovsky closed the distance. He didn’t give him the chance to raise his weapon. The blade slid cleanly into the side of his head.

The echo of gunfire faded, leaving only the sound of Shilovsky’s breath and the low whistle of wind seeping through the metal walls. The safe house had gone utterly silent.

“I’m going back to the jet where it’s warmer. Check the rest of the containers—remember, no witnesses.” Petrov flipped his jacket collar up and turned to face the wind again.

Shilovsky moved more slowly, deeper into the container. The rest of the section appeared empty, but near the back a jagged hole had been cut between the two containers and welded together to form a single shelter. He ducked low and stepped through.

This half looked like living quarters. Rolled sleeping bags and messy piles of clothes lined the floor. Near the makeshift doorway a small bullet hole had been crudely patched with a scrap of cloth. From the outside it would have been nearly invisible, but it must have been how they knew the pair was coming.

A soft sneeze came from the darkest corner. Shilovsky spun, tightening his grip on the gun, and moved in with careful, measured steps.

Pressed as tight as they could be against the wall were a woman and a young man. The woman looked to be in her mid-forties. Clutched in her arms, the young man—no older than twenty—was pale and sweating. His eyelids drooped; he could barely lift his head, but he still tried to pull himself forward to shield the woman when she cried out at Shilovsky’s shadow.

“Please, not see anything. Will stay quiet. My son, he is sick,” she said in broken French, squeezing the boy closer. Shilovsky lowered his weapon a fraction.

“How long have you been here?” he asked quietly, also in French.

Shock crossed her face for a half-second before she recovered. “Maybe two weeks. My husband not come back. Says we must leave. But Louis too sick to move.”

Shilovsky swallowed. This must be the family connected to the man the other agent had failed to eliminate. He also knew what Petrov wanted. He felt the same old pull to follow orders without question, the same training that made killing feel like a task on a list. But these two were not combatants. They were a woman and a child.

“Agent Shilovsky, what the hell are you doing!” Petrov’s voice cut across the metal room, sharp enough to snap him to attention.

“I was—” Shilovsky began.

“That was a rhetorical fucking question,” Petrov barked. “Here’s another one: what part of no witnesses do you not understand? Shoot them and get your ass back to the jet.”

Shilovsky looked back at the woman. Her eyes met his, wide and pleading. She mouthed the single word please. The boy’s breath came in thin, raspy pulls.

Then he fired—two shots, clean and quick—one through each skull. And just like that, the containers were plunged back into silence.

Chapter 2

Notes:

After this chapter switch, I will do a few chapters in 1956 then a few in 2027. It won't be every other chapter. I will also make sure to label when each chapter takes place.

Hope you enjoy!

2027
Bucky

“Ava!” Bucky shouted, pinching the bridge of his nose. “The point of this exercise is to work with your teammate.”

Ava rolled her eyes and sheathed her weapons. “I rescued the hostage, didn’t I? What does it matter if I worked with him or not?”

Bucky reached over to remove the handcuffs from Bob’s wrists. Bob had been playing the hostage in the last training scenario. “Because that is not the point.”

“Well, if you want me to work with my teammate then put me with someone like Yelena.” Ava strolled across the training room and leaned against the wall.

Once Bob was free, Bucky waved the handcuffs in John’s direction to indicate it was his turn. “Because you already work well with Yelena. You do not work well with Walker. That is why we are training.”

“Hey, I don’t like working with you either.” John muttered, holding out his wrists.

“Yeah, because you don’t like working with someone who shows you up every time.” Ava reached for the red bandana Yelena held out, the marker that meant she would be playing the bad guy in the next scenario.

“No, it’s because you’re mean.” He said, rolling his eyes.

“Oh, cry about it. Baby.” Ava snapped.

“That’s exactly my point.” John climbed up to the ledge meant to simulate a destroyed building or other debris.

Resetting the stopwatch in his hand and crossing his arms, Bucky turned his attention to the wall where Yelena and Bob waited. “You two can begin as soon as you’re ready.” He waited until they started moving before he pushed the button.

The pair rushed forward. Yelena worked on taking Ava out while Bob kept Alexei distracted. Bob did not have the best aim, but firing repeatedly in Alexei’s general direction kept the man on his toes. Paintballs splattered against the concrete, but none made contact.

Closer to the hostage ledge, Yelena let off controlled rounds, each one aiming just outside where Ava had last been. Every time Ava vanished from sight. A sudden shout behind her drew Yelena’s attention.

Bob stood with his fist raised and a huge grin on his face. A few feet away, Alexei remained motionless, glaring at a splotch of blue paint across his chest. The brief distraction cost Yelena valuable seconds and, when she turned back, she felt a sharp sting against her shoulder.

“Ouch!” she shouted, bringing her hand up to touch the spot. Her fingers came back streaked in blue. “Really, Ava? Do you know how hard this is going to be to wash out of my hair?”

“Sorry,” Ava said, lowering the gun a few inches. “I was aiming for your chest but you moved.” Before Yelena could answer, Ava raised the paintball gun again and fired a second round just past her.

Yelena turned to see Bob staring in shock at the matching blue across his own chest.

“Congrats. You’re both dead, and so is the hostage." Bucky motioned to the ledge where John sat, glowering down at all of them. He had a splotch of blue on his own chest and one spread across his hands and the cuffs.

Bucky clicked the stopwatch off and pushed away from the wall he had been leaning on. “Okay, Bob. Let us start with you. What did you do wrong in this scenario?”

Bob was still staring at the paint on his chest. Yelena crossed the room to a stack of clean, damp clothes. She grabbed three and tossed one to her father and one to Bob before using the third to wipe the paint from her shoulder.

“Um, I got shot.” Bob whimpered, dabbing gently at the stain.

“Yes, obviously. But why did you get shot?” Bucky prompted.

“Because Ava shot me?” Bob finished wiping as much as he could with the cloth.

Sighing and rolling his shoulders, Bucky glanced over at Ava for a fuller answer.

“You got shot because you shot Alexei and then started celebrating as if the fight was over when you still had one more opponent to face,” Ava said.

“Exactly.” Bucky nodded. He glanced around at the team. John had managed to slide off the ledge and held his wrists out to be uncuffed. “You also weren't aiming at all and shot your hostage twice. One more round. Alexei, you will be the hostage this time. Yelena, John, and Ava will all be the hostiles. Bob, you are with me.”

Bucky walked back to the door to set the stopwatch down and remove his jacket while the rest of the team swapped bandanas and handcuffs and got into position.

“Remember, there are three hostiles, now. The mission is not over until they are all down and the hostage is free. Understand?” Bucky picked up a spare paintball gun from the metal rack. “Whenever you are ready, we can—”

A red light blinked above the door and a soft alarm chimed, cutting him off.

“Yes,” Yelena said under her breath, a grin cracking through. “An actual job to do. Goodbye, training room.” She laid her gun on the ground and slid it toward the weapons rack, earning a glare from Bucky.

“Go get cleaned up and changed. I’ll go upstairs and see what’s going on.” Bucky made a dramatic show of placing his weapon back on the rack. He raised an eyebrow at Yelena, wordlessly telling her to do the same.

She rolled her eyes but picked her paintball gun up off the floor.

Leaving them in the training room, Bucky headed down the hall toward the elevator. The cool air of the facility carried the faint chemical smell of gun oil and paint—remnants of their mock battle. As the elevator doors slid shut behind him, the muffled sounds of Ava and John’s bickering faded into the background hum of machinery.

He pressed the button for the third floor from the top. This level served as their main mission control—an open, high-tech space lined with reinforced glass and flickering holographic displays. A central interface connected them directly to government networks and agencies that might assign them missions.

Since the team had only been working together for a few months—and together was a term Bucky used loosely—their assignments had mostly been small-time. Glorified law enforcement, really. Stopping robberies, intercepting weapon shipments, seizing minor intel, occasionally assisting local police when manpower ran low.

It wasn’t glamorous, but it was something. After years of chaos, Bucky was just grateful to be doing something that resembled purpose.

The elevator doors chimed open, and he stepped onto the polished metal floor. Rows of inactive workstations lined the walls, the only light coming from the massive transparent screen that dominated the far side of the room. He approached it and tapped a few invisible controls. During his time in Wakanda, he had grown used to this kind of tech.

The red light blinking on the main interface opened into a file filled with photos and blocks of text. He scanned the data quickly, noting the CIA watermark on the corner of the documents. Looked like they had intercepted plans for a major weapons deal and wanted the team to meet the seller in the man's place.

It wasn’t much, but it sounded better than another subway robbery.

The elevator chimed again behind him.

“I’m just saying, maybe I did you a favor. Your hair wouldn’t look bad if you dyed it blue. Or maybe just the tips.”

“I don’t want to dye my hair blue. You’d better hope this comes out with shampoo.”

Ava and Yelena stepped out still mid-argument. The streaks in Yelena’s hair had lightened but spread farther, giving her hair a streaked, watercolor look.

“The paint’s washable,” Bucky said without turning from the screen. “Should come out soon.”

Yelena shot him a suspicious look but didn’t comment.

A few minutes later, the elevator opened again. John emerged, polishing his shield with a soft cloth. He’d been ordered to keep the taco shield for press events—apparently it was “iconic”—but had been allowed to swap it for a new one in the field.

One by one, Bob and Alexei joined them until the team stood in a loose half-circle facing the transparent display.

“Ooh, black market weapons sales. That sounds fun,” Yelena mused, tilting her head to read.

“Fun isn’t exactly the word I’d use.” Bucky tapped a few controls, clearing the clutter of text until only a few photos remained. “According to the CIA, this man—Thomas Warren—was arrested before he could meet his contact. The contact hasn’t seen Warren in person, so they want someone to take his place, complete the deal, and arrest the seller.”

“The seller doesn’t know Warren’s been arrested?” John asked.

“No. He was taken in last night. They’ve been using his phone to keep communication open.” Bucky swiped to display an aerial image of a large dock.

“Still sounds fun,” Yelena said with a grin. “So, what’s the plan?”

“Bob is going to pose as Thomas Warren. You’ll meet the contact here.” Bucky pointed to a spot on the image. “When he sees you approach, he’ll say, ‘Looks like fine weather for sailing.’ You’ll respond, ‘Yes, but I’m always prepared for a storm.’”

“That’s a stupid code phrase,” John muttered. “You sure that’s right?”

“The CIA is,” Bucky said flatly. “Anyway, Yelena, you’ll take the high ground here—best vantage point. Signal us if anything feels off. I’ll be here with Alexei. Ava and John will be positioned here.”

He didn’t have to turn around to feel Ava glaring holes into the back of his head.

“Really? Why can’t I be with Alexei? You take John.”

“Because you failed your training exercise, so think of this as round two.” Bucky pressed another control and the screen went dark. “If everyone’s done complaining, we can move out.”

“We can move out,” John said, already heading toward the elevator, “but I’m sure Ava’s not done complaining.”

Bucky followed, shaking his head as the group filed in. The elevator ascended smoothly, and when the doors opened, they stepped into the crisp night air atop the building. The rooftop landing pad was bathed in soft blue lights, reflecting off the sleek black quinjet that waited with its ramp lowered. The engines gave a low hum, warming up in preparation.

“I want to fly,” Yelena said, shoving past John with a grin.

“No. I’m flying.” Bucky’s tone left no room for argument.

“You can be a bit of a control freak, you know?” Yelena muttered, her cheer dimming only slightly as she followed the rest of the team aboard.

“I know.” Bucky offered the slightest grin as he stepped onto the ramp of the jet. “You can take copilot if you want.”

Yelena was already dropping into the seat before he finished talking, fastening the harness across her chest. “Wait—where are we going?”

“Virginia. A little north of Norfolk.” Bucky began running his preflight checks, fingers gliding over the control panels before lifting the jet smoothly into the air.

“Why do you hold your breath every time we take off?” Yelena asked, absently tracing a finger along the glowing buttons in front of her.

“I don’t like flying,” Bucky admitted, his tone tighter than usual.

“Then why insist on being up here? You could sit back there.” She pointed toward the rows of seats behind them, where the rest of the team had settled in. Ava and John were still quietly bickering, their voices a low hum, while Alexei shuffled a deck of cards and began dealing them out to Bob.

“Even if I can’t see out,” Bucky said, eyes on the horizon, “I know I’m in the air. Up here, it feels like I’ve got a little more control over what happens.” He gave her a sidelong look, one she understood immediately.

“I get that.” She spun around in her chair, grinning. “Deal me in! What are we playing?”

Bucky let their voices fade into background noise, focusing on the rhythmic sound of the engines and the faint vibrations beneath his boots. He didn’t love flying, but the control stick in his hand steadied him.

After a few rounds of cards, Alexei packed the deck away while Yelena stretched her arms behind her head.

Bob pulled his knees up onto the seat, resting his chin on them. “We still have a ways to go, right? I’m gonna try to nap.”

Bucky checked the GPS. “About forty minutes. Make sure you’re alert when we land.”

He considered giving Yelena the controls just long enough to stretch his legs but decided against it. Behind him, Ava and John had fallen into a silent standoff, glaring instead of arguing.

By the time the quinjet descended through a veil of pale clouds, the sun was beginning to sink low on the horizon. The light shifted from gold to gray as they dropped toward the coast. Below, the jagged outline of docks and warehouses took shape against the dark water.

Bucky guided the jet toward an isolated landing strip tucked between rows of rusted boats. The engines’ low roar died into a soft hum as the ramp lowered, letting in a rush of cold, briny air. The smell of salt and fuel mixed with damp wood.

“Everybody knows their roles,” Bucky said as he unbuckled his harness. “Let’s move.”

They disembarked quickly, boots echoing across the metal ramp before meeting the creaking boards of the dock. The air carried a faint fog, enough to blur the line between sky and water.

Ava nudged Bob to make sure he was awake enough to focus as they gathered gear and reviewed the plan one last time. They landed just after 4 p.m.—the exchange was scheduled for five. That gave them enough time to get into position and survey the area.

Yelena scaled the side of an old boathouse, flattening herself against the weathered roof tiles to secure her vantage point. Both Ava and John shot Bucky a matching glare before disappearing into the luxury yacht moored at the end of the dock—an ideal hiding spot.

Bucky double-checked Bob’s comm before sending him toward the meeting point. “You’ve got the briefcase?”

Bob lifted it slightly. “Got it.”

“Good. Remember—keep your earpiece hidden and your hands steady.”

Once Bob moved off, Bucky joined Alexei at the far side of the dock, using the stacked crates for partial cover. From this angle, they’d barely be able to see Bob, but they had the clearest line of sight toward the opposite approach.

“Alexei and I are in position,” Bucky said quietly, pressing the button on his earpiece.

“I’m ready,” Ava replied, followed by John’s short, “Same here.”

“I’m in position,” Yelena added. “Bob, you need to look more confident. You’re fiddling and rocking like you’re about to pass out. Stop it.”

“I am nervous,” Bob whispered. His comm was always on, which meant every breath and muttered reassurance came through to the team.

“You’ll be fine,” Bucky said calmly. “You’re wearing a vest, and if anyone raises a weapon, Yelena, Ava, or John will have your back.”

“Plus, you’re probably still bulletproof,” Ava chimed in.

“That too,” Bucky said, half a chuckle in his tone. “Just try to—”

“Hold that thought,” Yelena interrupted. “I see movement. A group of men approaching from the south end of the dock.”

Bucky’s focus sharpened instantly. “All right, everyone—nice and easy. No one moves until the exchange happens. Understood?”

He watched as ten figures came into view, led by a man in an expensive suit. They moved with practiced precision—too confident to be amateurs.

Bob’s grip on the briefcase tightened. The suited man smiled in a way that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Good evening. Looks like fine weather for sailing, doesn’t it?”

Bob cleared his throat. “Yes… but I’m always prepared for a storm.” His voice trembled slightly.

“We should get Bob into acting lessons or something,” Yelena murmured through the comms.

“Stop talking and focus,” Bucky said sharply, though he couldn’t entirely disagree.

“You have my money, Mr. Green?” the man asked. The team hadn’t been prepared for code names, and Bucky silently hoped Bob wouldn’t try to improvise one.

“Yes, it’s all here.” Bob held the case out in front of him. His arm trembled even though the case wasn’t heavy.

The man motioned to one of his men. “Count it,” he snapped, never taking his eyes off Bob.

The subordinate stepped forward, took the case, and flipped it open. He began counting the stacks of bills with practiced precision. Bob squared his shoulders, trying to look calm. “It’s all there.”

“Looks good, sir,” the man said, closing the case and handing it back before stepping behind him again.

“Good to know,” the man in the suit said, his fake smile fading. “Especially since a little bird told me my contact was taken into government custody last night.”

Bucky didn’t wait for the rest. “Move, now!” he barked, springing up from where he’d been crouched. The rest of the team moved instantly.

Bob barely had time to react before the man in the suit raised his pistol and fired. The shot hit Bob square in the forehead—and bounced off.

“Well, he’s still bulletproof,” Yelena said dryly, rising to one knee and firing at the man’s foot. He dropped with a cry, the gun and briefcase sliding in opposite directions.

“It still hurt,” Bob complained, rubbing at the reddening mark on his forehead as he darted back toward Ava and John.

“Yeah, I bet,” Ava muttered, handing him a spare pistol before focusing her aim back on the chaos.

Bucky already had two men down, both cuffed with their hands behind their backs. Yelena vaulted down from the rooftop and snapped cuffs on the man in the suit, who was now screaming about his foot.

“Yeah, you might want to get that checked out,” she said without a hint of sympathy.

Bucky gestured for Alexei to move in and assist as he turned toward the last two men clustered at the far end of the dock—backup, by the look of them.

He raised his left arm, catching a volley of bullets against the vibranium plating before lunging forward. One kick sent a gun spinning from a man’s grip, knocking him flat.

Bucky seized the second man’s rifle, wrapping his palm around the barrel. “Go ahead,” he said coldly. “Pull the trigger.”

The man froze, staring up at him with wide eyes. “It’s you.” His weapon clattered to the ground.

The first man scrambled forward, reaching for it, but Bucky stepped down hard on his hand, pinning it. His eyes stayed locked on the other man. With his vibranium arm, Bucky gripped the man’s wrist and yanked him upright, snapping a pair of cuffs over his hands in one fluid motion.

The second man didn’t run. He just stared back at Bucky, a strange mix of awe and fear twisting across his face. “So, the rumors were true,” he said in Russian. “This changes everything.”

It took Bucky a second to process the language shift. His muscles went still. “What did you say?” he asked, also in Russian, his tone quiet and sharp.

Behind him, Yelena’s voice crackled through the comm. “We’ve got everyone down. You’ve got those two, right? Cops are on their way for pickup.”

At that, the second man bolted, sprinting down the dock.

“Damn it,” Bucky muttered, shoving the cuffed man to the ground and giving chase. He rounded the corner—but the dock was empty. The only movement came from a dinghy tied to a post, rocking gently in the water. The trees beyond swayed in the cold wind. The man was gone.

John rounded the corner a second later, gun drawn. “Where’d he go?”

“I don’t know,” Bucky admitted, scanning the shadows. “I was right behind him.”

They turned back toward the sound of sirens. Red and blue lights reflected off the water as Ava dragged the last restrained man toward the arriving officers. She was already giving a quick debrief to the lead cop.

Bucky turned his back to the flashing lights, eyes fixed on the empty dock. A hand brushed his arm, and he flinched before realizing who it was.

“Sorry—just me,” Yelena said softly. “You okay? Walker said you let that last guy slip.”

“I didn’t let him escape,” Bucky snapped, a little sharper than he intended. “He got away. I turned the corner, and he was just—gone.”

“Hey, it happens,” she said gently, lowering her hand. “You sure you’re okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Bucky’s gaze flicked once more toward the dark stretch of dock before he finally turned back to the team. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Just caught off guard, that’s all.”

Chapter 3

Notes:

I really love writing the friends/sibling like banter between Bucky and Yelena. It is so much fun.😁

2027
Bucky

Valentina was waiting for them when they returned to the tower. She stood near the tall windows of the control room, the city lights painting sharp reflections across the glass. A steaming cup of coffee rested in her manicured hand despite the fact that it was nearly eight at night.

There was no real reason for her to check in after their missions. She had no operational control, no clearance for real information. But she still liked to appear now and then, hovering at the edges of briefings to remind everyone that she could.

Bucky saw her silhouette in the glass as he brought the jet down. He lingered in the cockpit, pretending to double-check the instrument panel.

“Nope,” Ava said, giving him a push toward the ramp. “If we have to talk to her, you have to talk to her. Let’s make it quick—I’m starving, and that mission barely lasted two hours.”

“Ooh, we should order pizza,” Bob said, falling into step beside Yelena.

“I don’t know, I was thinking pho,” Ava mused, glancing back to gauge the other's reactions.

“I say burgers. We need something with more protein after a mission,” John countered.

“A mission that was less work than a normal training session?” Yelena shot back with a smirk. “I don’t think so. Besides, Bob’s the one who got shot, so he gets to pick.”

Everyone agreed that was fair, and Bob grinned. They filed out of the jet, boots echoing on the metal floor.

“There you are,” Valentina drawled, her tone dripping with mock concern. “It’s getting late. How did everything go?”

Behind her, Mel typed quickly on a tablet, barely looking up.

“Pretty standard,” Bucky said, keeping his voice even. “We intercepted the deal. They figured out who we were, but we stopped them anyway.” He glanced briefly at Mel, who kept typing.

“Bucky froze up and let one man get away,” John said, eyes locked on him.

Yelena turned her head sharply. “You were right behind him, weren’t you? Why didn’t you catch the guy?”

“Yeah, I was behind him,” John shot back. “And we wouldn’t have been chasing him if he hadn’t let the guy slip in the first place.”

“Whatever,” Valentina said, waving her hand like she was shooing away flies. “It’s one man. I’m sure you informed the police, right?”

“Yes,” Bucky said, fists tightening at his sides.

“Then no big deal.” Val shrugged. “It was an empty boat dock. Just don’t let that sort of thing happen during a public incident." She took the last sip of her coffee and turned the cup slightly in her hand until Mel darted forward to take it from her.

“So letting a dangerous man escape is fine as long as no one sees it?” Bob asked, brow furrowed.

“Now you’re catching on.” Val smiled and turned toward the elevator. “I was just checking in. Sounds like you have things under control. Don’t forget to email the mission briefs to me if I’m not here.”

Bucky muttered under his breath, “Yeah, we’re not gonna do that.”

The team waited in silence until the elevator doors closed and the soft hum of it descending faded away.

“Well,” Yelena said, pulling out her phone, “I’m ordering pizza. What does everyone want?”

“Pepperoni,” John said immediately.

“Hawaiian,” Bob added.

“Just cheese. Or veggie,” Ava said.

“Anchovy!” Alexei announced.

Yelena squinted at him. “Yeah, no. One large cheese, one large Hawaiian.”

“Hey, what about pepperoni?” John protested. “You can just pick it off yours, then it’s cheese.”

Yelena ignored him, already ordering.

“I’m taking a quick shower while we wait on the food,” Bucky said, already heading for the elevator. The exhaustion in his voice didn’t quite hide the tension still lingering from Val’s visit.

“Good idea,” Yelena said, brushing a streak of paint from her hair and glaring at Ava. “I’ve got to get this out before it really starts to stain. Pizza’ll be here in fifteen. Bob, can you get the door?”

“I can do that.” Bob grabbed a ten-dollar bill from the “shared money jar”—really just a stash Yelena had built from the cash she’d quietly lifted off Val over time.

As Yelena followed Bucky toward the elevators, the rest of the team’s voices drifted through the room—arguing over toppings, movie choices, and whose turn it was to do dishes.

Inside the elevator, Bucky pressed the button for floor eighty-nine, where all of their rooms were. Each space was laid out like a small studio apartment, complete with a kitchenette and bathroom, though they usually ate together in the common areas.

Yelena waited until the elevator doors slid shut before speaking. “Don’t let John get to you. He’s just mad he got paired with Ava again. No one’s perfect. We could take down a hundred guys and still have one slip through eventually.”

“It’s not that he got away,” Bucky admitted quietly. “It’s what he said to distract me.”

Yelena straightened, her voice rising with curiosity. “What did he say? Did he threaten you?”

“No. It’s nothing. Not a big deal.” The elevator chimed, and Bucky stepped out before she could press further.

“Oh, come on,” she called after him. “You can’t just drop something like that and then go silent.”

But he was already unlocking his door and closing it behind him.

The soft click of the lock echoed faintly in the quiet room. Bucky stood there for a moment, staring at the wall, then slid down until he was sitting on the floor, his arms resting loosely over his knees. The room was dim, lit only by the city glow bleeding in through the blinds.

“It’s you.”

The words replayed in his head.

He tried to picture the man’s face again: the lines around his eyes, the angle of his jaw, the half-grin that wasn’t really a grin at all. But it slipped away every time he reached for it. He’d seen thousands of faces over the years—soldiers, handlers, targets. Some he remembered too vividly. Others blurred together.

He wasn’t on the list Bucky had made in Steve’s notebook. Bucky had checked that list too many times not to know.

Maybe the man had just recognized him from the news, or from some leaked Hydra file. But that look—that flicker of understanding—hadn’t been recognition. It was familiarity. Like the man knew him.

A faint vibration against the floor pulled him out of his thoughts. His phone lit up beside him.

| Pizzas here. Alexei won Rock Paper Scissors, so we’re watching Night of the Living Dead. |

Bucky glanced at the time and blinked. He’d been sitting there nearly twenty minutes.

He pushed himself up off the ground and changed into clean clothes. He splashed cold water over his face and through his hair—enough to make it look like he’d just showered—and forced himself toward the door.

On his way to the common floor, he made a quick stop in the control room to grab a tablet.

Upstairs, laughter and the smell of pizza hit him the moment the doors opened. The team was crowded on the couches, plates balanced precariously, with two open boxes sitting on the counter behind them. The cheese pizza was almost gone.

Bucky grabbed a plate and set two slices of Hawaiian on it before settling at the far end of the couch. The movie had already started, but he barely registered the flickering black-and-white screen. He ate mechanically, more out of habit than hunger, then pulled out the tablet and opened the surveillance feed from the dock.

There weren’t many cameras—just a few grainy feeds from traffic or security—but he scrubbed through the footage until he found a brief shot that caught the man’s face clearly enough to scan. It wasn’t perfect, but it would have to do. He started a facial recognition search and set the tablet down on the armrest, eyes flicking halfheartedly to the movie.

Behind him, Ava jumped and yelped.

“Scared of a movie?” John smirked. “I thought your name was Ghost.”

“First of all, zombies aren’t ghosts,” Ava shot back. “Second, that has nothing to do with my name. Third, we didn’t exactly have movie nights in the lab prison I grew up in.”

She kicked her foot toward him, but he dodged just in time.

“This is nothing compared to the horror movies we had in Russia,” Alexei said, reaching for another slice. “You want scary, you watch Viy.”

“Viy is not scary,” Yelena countered, rolling her eyes.

“Shhh!” Bob hissed, a handful of popcorn halfway to his mouth. “You’re missing the best part.”

The conversation faded into background noise. Bucky’s attention drifted back to the tablet. The progress bar at the bottom spun slowly, endlessly. His reflection stared back at him from the screen.

He didn’t even notice when the room grew quieter, or when the credits rolled.

A sharp tap to his shin pulled him out of it.

“Earth to Bucky,” Ava said, leaning forward to peer at him. “You paying attention?”

He blinked, snapping out of the fog. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m paying attention. The movie’s… really good.”

Ava snorted. “The movie ended five minutes ago. We’re planning a new field training exercise.”

“Oh.” He shut the tablet, sliding it against the side of the couch.

The digital clock on the far wall read 11:15. He’d wait until everyone went to bed. Then he’d keep looking.

“Field training exercise,” Bucky repeated. “That sounds great. What were you thinking?”

Yelena spun around so she was kneeling on the couch, facing him with a grin. “I’m glad you asked. Here’s the plan. We all have plenty of experience working in urban environments, right? But not much in, say, humid jungle terrain.”

She looked toward the rest of the team, clearly enjoying the attention.

“Most real-world ops happen in cities,” Bucky said, one eyebrow lifting. “But I’m listening.”

Ava leaned forward, gesturing with the crust of her pizza. “Exactly why we should mix it up. We don’t have much experience in tropical conditions—or beaches, or, like, volcanic areas. It’d be good training if we could find somewhere with all that.” She flashed him an innocent smile.

“Jungle, beach, and volcanoes,” Bucky said slowly, crossing his arms. “Are you trying to convince me we should go to Hawaii?”

“Hawaii! That’s a great idea!” Yelena said immediately, pretending it had been his suggestion all along. “Perfect climate for training.”

Alexei nodded solemnly. “Yes. Good heat. Builds stamina. Also tan.”

“Pretty sure you would burn the second you stepped off the plane,” Bob muttered, earning a laugh from Ava.

Bucky glanced at the clock again, tightening his folded arms. “Do you think I was born yesterday?”

“No,” John said under his breath. “More like five hundred years ago.”

Bucky gave him a flat look. “A hundred and eleven, actually.” He pushed himself to his feet, grabbing the tablet and tucking it under his arm. “And no, we’re not going to Hawaii.”

“Bahamas?” Yelena whispered as he walked away. “I’m just saying, sand is a valid tactical obstacle.”

“Goodnight,” Bucky said over his shoulder, already pressing the elevator call button.

The doors slid open, and instead of going down to floor eighty-nine, he hit ninety—the control room.

The space was dark except for the glow of monitors lining the far wall. Bucky crossed the floor, the quiet hum of the electronics filling the silence. He set the tablet down, connected it to the system, and a moment later the large screen came to life.

He pulled a chair over and dropped into it, elbows braced on his knees as he watched the progress bar crawl across the display. The facial recognition software was still running, matching image fragments against archived databases.

He leaned back and rubbed his eyes. Part of him expected nothing to come up. Still, that voice—It’s you—kept echoing in his head.

The spinning bar froze, then flashed green.

Bucky straightened, heart kicking up. He clicked the folder icon that appeared, and a clearer image filled the screen: the man’s face, sharp now, almost familiar.

Mikhail Volkova.

Bucky clicked the arrow beneath the name, expecting documents, field notes, something—anything. Instead, two scanned documents popped up, both with entire lines and locations blacked out.

“Come on,” he muttered, jaw tightening as he opened the first file. The screen filled with a blurred header and thick lines of censorship. He groaned softly, dragging a hand down his face before forcing himself to start reading what little text remained.

One document mentioned Volkova Laboratories, a pharmaceutical company founded in the late 1950s. Bucky knew he was the last person who should judge someone’s age by appearance, but he was pretty sure this Mikhail Volkova wasn’t from the fifties.

The rest of the file seemed useless. The company’s research had focused mainly on immunosuppressants for tissue and organ transplants—nothing unusual, nothing helpful.

The second document was only slightly more interesting, but just as uninformative. Mikhail Volkova had been listed as a witness in a murder investigation. The police report was detailed, but his name appeared only twice—just a passerby, not a suspect.

Bucky closed the files, letting the photo of the man’s face fill the screen again.

“You know, I didn’t take you for the obsessive type. Although… maybe I should have.”

Yelena’s voice cut through the silence behind him. He spun around but didn’t bother closing the image.

“What’re you doing?”

Yelena dragged a chair over and dropped into it beside him, the legs screeching lightly across the floor. She leaned forward, making it clear she planned to stay. “Is this the guy who escaped earlier?”

“Yes.” Bucky turned back to the screen.

“So… what? You’re trying to track him down and arrest him? I’m sure the police are already on it.” Yelena grabbed one of the tablets from the dock and propped it against her knee.

“Not exactly. I just wanted to know who he is—and what he knows.” Bucky reopened the first document, splitting the screen in half so it shared space with a search window. He typed Volkova Laboratories.

“Did he say something to you about the KGB?” Yelena asked suddenly.

The question caught him off guard. He turned toward her. “What? Why would you think that?”

Yelena tilted the tablet closer to her chest, hiding the screen. A grin crept across her face. “First, you tell me what he said. You share what you know, and I’ll share what I know.”

Bucky glared at her but caved almost immediately. “He didn’t say much. He saw my face and said, ‘It’s you.’ Then, ‘So the rumors were true. This changes everything.’ The last part was in Russian.” He rested his elbows on the table and steepled his fingertips beneath his chin.

“That’s it?” Yelena nearly dropped the tablet. She raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “I mean, it’s weird, yeah—but not run-the-guy-through-facial-recognition-and-get-obsessed weird.”

“It wasn’t what he said,” Bucky replied. “It was how he said it. How he looked at me.” He frowned, searching for the right words. “I’m used to people recognizing me and looking at me with fear—but this guy was different. He was afraid, sure, but he was also… I don’t know. Happy? Excited?”

“See, now that’s weird. Who would be happy to see your grumpy face?” Yelena gave him a playful punch on the shoulder, her teasing softened by the small, reassuring smile that followed.

She turned the tablet to face him. “So… when my family took out the Red Room, I may or may not have found clearance codes for an old KGB database. And I may or may not have memorized them, which may or may not give me access to all their old files.” She could barely contain her grin as his eyes widened.

“And you’re just now telling me this? Yelena, that’s huge.” He reached for the tablet, but she pulled it just out of reach.

“It wasn’t really relevant to anything—and it’s never come up. But the name Volkova sounded vaguely familiar. Aside from the pharmaceutical front, I mean—which, by the way, was just a front.”

Bucky made another grab for the tablet, growing impatient. “Okay, you mentioned the KGB. Why?”

“Fine.” She turned the screen toward him and handed it over. “Mikhail Volkova isn’t mentioned, but a Vincent Volkova is. He didn’t work forwith them as a consultant from 1958 until his death in 1993. The project he was part of is redacted—at least in this document. But I’m sure I could find it somewhere.”

Instead of taking the tablet, Bucky leaned over Yelena’s shoulder to peer at the screen. “Does it describe the program? Or mention anything he did for them?”

“Not in this document.” She scrolled aside and opened another file. “Neuroscience, maybe? That’s brain stuff, right? Pretty broad topic for the KGB.” She frowned thoughtfully. “My mom worked in neuroscience too, but she worked on projects for the Red Room. Using data collected from… uh, other projects.” Yelena trailed off, finishing the sentence quickly. Her scrolling picked up pace.

Bucky looked from the tablet to her, the unspoken question hanging between them. He wanted to ask about those “other projects,” but the weight behind her tone stopped him. Some things didn’t need to be revisited tonight.

“I have to find him again,” he said instead. “Talk to him.”

“Why?” Yelena asked, finally glancing up at him. “I mean, I get wanting information, but I’m not sure I understand why you care so much.”

Bucky exhaled slowly, turning his attention back to the frozen image of Volkova’s face glowing across the monitor.

“He said, ‘This changes everything.’” Bucky’s voice was quiet but firm. “I want to find out what everything means… before something inevitably happens.”

Yelena studied him for a moment. Then she clicked the tablet off and tucked it under her arm.

“Okay.”

“Okay? Okay what?”

“Okay, I’ll help you look for this guy.” She stood, hefting the chair back with her free hand. “But I’m doing my research from bed. It’s more comfortable.”

Bucky stood too, a faint frown forming. “Yelena, no. I’m not asking you to help me.”

“I know you’re not.” She gave a little shrug, as if the decision was already made. “But I’m still going to. We’re in this together now.”

Dropping the chair against the wall where it belonged, she crossed toward the elevator, her footsteps soft against the floor. As she pressed the button, she covered a yawn with her hand.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” she said over her shoulder. “Try not to stay up all night obsessing over this, okay?”

Bucky gave a dry half-smile, watching her step inside the elevator. “No promises.” As the doors slid shut, the room fell silent again—save for the quiet hum of the monitors.

Chapter 4

Notes:

Back to Shilovsky (aka, Bucky in 1956 if that wasn’t clear enough). It’s a challenge switching gears and jumping from one part of the story to the next. I’ll start writing Bucky and then just want to keep going, or I’ll make myself move onto writing Shilovsky and not want to switch back again. 😅

1956
Shilovsky

The trip back was much tenser than the trip there. Petrov did not so much as glance in Shilovsky’s direction; the man’s anger hung in the cabin like a physical thing. It made the air feel thinner, colder.

“I didn't mean to–” He tried to explain but was cut off.

“Shut up. I don’t want to hear it.”

Shilovsky's mind wandered back to the man who had hesitated to kill the hostile before, the reason they had been sent on that clean up mission in the first place. If Agent Petrov was this angry at Shilovsky disobeying orders over a woman and her kid, he couldn’t imagine the hell the other agent must have found himself in.

But he hadn’t disobeyed the order, he just hadn’t killed them right away. An argument could be made that he was about to shoot them when Petrov had walked back in.

As the base came into view, Petrov set the jet down a little harder than necessary. Shilovsky lurched forward against the harness, the straps biting into his chest. Petrov rose without a word and strode from the cockpit, boots thudding on the metal floor as he crossed the ramp and headed straight for the heavy door that separated the hangar from the rest of the facility.

Ice had formed in the seams of the door. Petrov yanked at the handle twice before it gave with a brittle groan. Shilovsky followed just behind, matching his long, purposeful steps as they stamped down the narrow metal stairwell toward the briefing room. Petrov still did not look at him. When they reached the door, the man snarled over his shoulder, “Go inside and wait for instructions. I’m going to find Doctor Ivanov.”

Shilovsky obeyed. The briefing room was as cold as ever; the fluorescent lights hummed and cast a faint sickly glow over concrete benches and a metal table. The smell of damp and disinfectant clung to everything. He sat on the concrete at the back of the room, folding his hands in his lap, and tried to breathe slowly enough to calm his heartbeat.

Voices in the hallway grew louder, carried through the metal door. Petrov’s cut through first—sharp, furious. “Every damn mission is worse than the next. I can’t work with him!”

Ivanov’s reply came softer but strained, as if the doctor was holding himself back from shouting. “I was not able to fully wipe him last night. I didn’t have enough time. What I was able to do was reset his memory, but it clearly did not affect behavior.”

“Clearly!” Petrov barked. The word landed like a blow; Shilovsky felt it as if directed at him. Petrov’s tone turned hot. “I am done putting my ass on the line for this defective, worthless piece of shit. You could have told me he wasn’t fully wiped!”

Shilovsky’s fingers tightened on the bench beneath him.

There was a pause, then Ivanov’s voice softened in a practiced way. “I will fully wipe and reset the asset. He will be good as new in a couple of days, I promise.”

Petrov laughed once, sharp and incredulous. “Wipe him, don’t wipe him—Frankly, I don’t give a fuck anymore. I’m going to Morozov and requesting I be reassigned. Your programming is failing, doctor.” His voice dropped on the last sentence, quiet and dangerous.

Ivanov’s answer took on an odd cadence. “Don’t you think I am aware of that? We are wiping him more and more often and it is becoming less and less effective every time. But I will continue until ordered otherwise. Who knows—maybe if he is taken out of commission, Morozov will let me slice open his brain and see what is going on in there.”

“Well, prepare to be disappointed,” Petrov replied as his heavy footsteps faded down the corridor. His voice carried still, bitter and old. “I’m sure it’ll be as useless as he is. Damn American.”

Shilovsky’s body went still, his muscles relaxed the slightest bit. He thought they had been talking about him, but that wasn’t right. He wasn’t an American.

Another voice replaced Petrov’s—quieter, clipped—and Shilovsky had to lean forward on the bench to catch it. “Sir, would you like us to wipe him now or wait to hear what Morozov says?”

There was a long, measured pause, like Ivanov was trying to compose himself. “Follow regular procedure unless ordered otherwise. Do a full wipe and reset. I will confirm whether he should be placed back in cryo.”

“Understood, sir.”

A minute later the heavy briefing room door swung open. Shilovsky straightened, expecting Ivanov to appear in the doorway. Instead two unfamiliar men in white coats stepped inside, their breath fogging faintly in the cold air.

The first man spoke firmly. “We’re to take you to the exam room for a full physical. No mission brief today, soldier.” He waved a gloved hand towards the corridor and the second man held the door open like a butler.

Shilovsky rose and followed them down the long concrete hallway. The lights overhead hummed, their fluorescence throwing hard-edged shadows. His boots echoed against the floor in a steady, solitary beat. They didn’t exchange words.

In the exam room the metal table awaited, its surface already cold enough to sting through the fabric of his uniform. Shilovsky ran the heel of his hand across it and felt the chill crawl up his skin. He settled onto the table and drew his legs in, folding them against the cold.

A woman entered seconds later, her steps soft. She hesitated at the threshold as if waiting for permission to proceed. Up close, Shilovsky noticed her hair—a tumble of pale blond curls that framed her face. A thin scar cut under her right eye, pale against the skin. He realised he’d never seen her in the facility before, she must be new.

“Am I just checking vitals or—” she began, voice low and professional, as if asking herself more than him.

“Prep him. Ivanov wants a full reset,” the first man barked without looking up. His eyes flicked up briefly to meet Shilovsky’s.

“But didn’t we just—” the woman started, and then she was cut off.

“I said prep him. That is your job, is it not?” The man’s tone left no room for argument. She nodded once, a tight, small motion, and turned toward the sink. “Call me when he’s ready.”

The man’s footsteps receded. The click of the door closing sounded louder than it should have in the small room. The nurse moved to the sink and began washing her hands with a meticulous, almost ritual rhythm.

“Agent Shilovsky,” she said, stepping forward with a friendly professionalism that barely reached her eyes, “I need you to remove your shirt so I can check your vitals.”

He did as he was told, shrugging out of the fabric and bracing as the cold air hit skin already chilled by the table. The room seemed to close in a little.

“What did that man mean by ‘prep me’?” Shilovsky asked, keeping his voice low. “Prep me for what?” The question felt foolish as soon as it left his mouth—orders were orders—and he knew better than to talk out of turn.

The nurse froze for a heartbeat, her fingers pausing in the motion of drying. Her lips pressed together in a thin line, like someone stopping themselves from saying more than they should. “Prep you for an upcoming mission,” she said finally, choosing her words carefully. “That’s what the physical is for—ensure you’re in peak condition to go out in the field. Now hold still.”

She moved with quick, efficient motions—placing adhesive pads against his chest, the sticky film tugging at his skin as wires traced away to a small monitoring unit. The device began a steady, rhythmic beep; the sound was almost soothing in its predictability..

“All right,” she said, softer now, “I’m going to look in your eyes and then your throat, okay?” She reached for a small flashlight on the tray beside her, the metal cool under her fingers. She picked it up and clicked it on.

Shilovsky forced his eyes open as wide as he could while the nurse shone the flashlight directly into them. The light was sharp, reflecting off the steel walls and making the room feel even smaller. When she was satisfied, she tilted his chin downward and moved on.

“Open your mouth, please.”

He obeyed, the edge of the flashlight brushing against his lower lip as she leaned close. Her breath smelled faintly of mint.

“Hmm,” she murmured, peering into his throat. “A little red. Does it hurt at all?”

Shilovsky swallowed, feeling the slight burn for the first time now that she’d mentioned it. “Maybe a little. I hadn’t noticed.”

“Must be the cold weather.” She set the flashlight aside with a soft clink. “Nothing serious, but I’ll give you some antibiotics. It’ll clear up in no time.”

Her tone was brisk but kind, the sort of gentleness that didn’t quite reach her eyes. She turned away, rummaging through the cupboard beside him until she found a sealed IV bag and a syringe filled with pale blue liquid. “I’ll need your arm in just a minute.”

He extended his arm without question and watched as she injected the faint blue liquid into the clear solution.

“Just lay back,” the nurse said, hanging the bag from the hook beside the table and reaching for his arm. “It won’t take long. Then you’ll be done here.”

The table was cold enough to sting when his bare back met the metal, but he forced himself to relax, staring at the low ceiling and the sterile light flickering above. “Do you know what I’ll be doing after this?” he asked quietly.

The nurse paused mid-motion. Her hands stilled over the tray of jars she was tidying, and for the first time, her composure faltered. “I’m not sure,” she said carefully. “I assume Agent Petrov will come to retrieve you. After that… I wouldn’t know.”

Her voice was calm, but Shilovsky noticed how her eyes flicked toward the IV bag before quickly returning to her work. The fluid inside shifted lazily, each drop sliding down the tube like it was counting seconds.

“Petrov was angry,” Shilovsky murmured. “I messed up on our last mission. I—” He blinked hard, trying to focus. His eyelids felt suddenly heavy. The edges of the room blurred, color fading to soft gray. “Should I be… tired? Really tired?”

The nurse’s breath caught, then escaped in a long exhale. “Yes,” she said softly. “That’s normal with the antibiotics. Rest for a bit. I’ll wake you when we’re done.”

Her voice sounded distant now, like it came from the end of a long corridor. He tried to nod, but his head felt too heavy to move. The steady beeping of the monitor grew slower, deeper—more like a heartbeat echoing in the walls than a machine beside him.

Darkness swept over him, smooth and quiet as falling snow.
_____
“You sure he’s out? Could’ve sworn I saw his eyes move a second ago.”

“He’s out. Probably just a muscle twitch. Help me lift him.”

The voices floated in and out of reach, disjointed and mechanical. Shilovsky felt hands grip his arms, dragging them across rough metal. His wrists were lifted—then the sharp bite of cold steel closed around them.

He tried to move, to speak, but his body refused. It was as if his veins were filled with molten lead.

Another hand pressed against his chest, forcing him upright. His head slammed backward against something hard. The clang of metal reverberated through him. He thought he was sitting, but his balance was gone, his senses slipping in and out of alignment.

The last clear thing he remembered was the nurse. The IV. The bag of pale blue liquid.

Something cold circled the crown of his head. There was a faint click, then another, and small, sharp points pressed into his scalp. He tried to open his mouth, but his jaw wouldn’t obey. Panic flared briefly in his chest, but even that felt muffled, dulled by whatever they’d given him.

“Doctor Ivanov, he’s ready whenever you are,” one of the men said.

“Wonderful,” came the doctor’s voice, smooth and eager, like he’d been waiting all night for this. “You may begin the procedure.”

“Right away, sir—”

The man’s response was cut off by a white-hot flash that split through Shilovsky’s skull. The needles that had only pressed before now burned, each point searing through skin and bone. A strangled cry tore from his throat, half-formed and desperate.

The pain vanished for half a breath—long enough for him to gasp—and then it came again, sharper, deeper, drilling through every nerve. His arms strained against the cuffs, but they didn’t move. His muscles convulsed, his vision a blinding white behind closed lids.

“Sir, his brain activity is spiking—should we—”

The voice dissolved into ringing. A shrill, all-consuming tone filled his ears, swallowing everything else. The pain surged again, wave after merciless wave.

By the fourth round, his mind felt like it was being peeled apart. The edges of his thoughts blurred, fragments slipping through his grasp.

Darkness took him again and this time it felt like a relief, as escape from the searing pain.

And then there was nothing.

Chapter 5

Notes:

Okay, I rewrote and changed this chapter a few times until I was satisfied with it and it still doesn't feel quite right. I'm excited for the actual action with Shilovsky but building to that action has been a little difficult. Hopefully it sounds okay. 😅

1956
Shilovsky

 

“Agent Shilovsky?” A soft voice hauled him back from a syrupy sleep. A hand pressed lightly on his shoulder, shaking him with gentle urgency. “Agent Shilovsky, are you awake?”

He blinked slowly. The room was a blur; the face leaning over him even more so. Blond curls bobbed as the woman shook him again. “There you are. Good morning.”

He tried to clear his vision. As the nurse’s features came into focus, he realized he’d never seen her before: pale blond hair, a small scar under her right eye—an unsettling detail he would have remembered. She must be new.

“Sorry… did I fall asleep?” He attempted to sit up but his body protested with an ache that burned under the skin. He squinted at the dim ceiling and then around the exam room; it was the same sterile place he’d been sent to before, yet he couldn’t recall any recent missions.

The nurse reached out, steadying him. “How are you feeling?” she asked, picking up the small flashlight from the tray. “You hit your head pretty hard on the last mission. We kept you overnight for observation.”

The beam stung his pupils, but he kept his lids open as best he could. Hit his head? That would explain the brain fog.

“Agent Shilovsky, did you hear me?” Her expression had shifted; worry creased her brow. Her hand hovered near a red button on the panel behind her, a finger ready to press it if he slipped.

“Yes. Just… tired.” He rubbed his temple, hunting for a bruise or cut but finding none. “You said I hit my head?”

“Yes.” She spoke with the clipped confidence of someone reading notes. “According to my chart, you fell from a maintenance tower after an explosion collapsed one of the support columns. Agent Petrov said you landed hard. How are you feeling right now?” Her fingers flicked a small black switch on the side of the tray, and a small red light blinked to life.

Petrov. The name had a vague familiarity but he couldn’t match it to a face. But he had been passed through so many handlers that names blurred together. “I—think I’m okay. Just… fuzzy.” He tried to stand but the room tilted.

The door opened and a man entered, shoulders slumped, hair disheveled as if he’d been running from one crisis to another. There were dark shadows under his eyes; he looked exhausted in a way that suggested many sleepless nights.

“There’s Dr. Ivanov,” the nurse said, stepping aside.

He lifted his chin as if to refocus and then crossed to the clipboard she’d set on the counter. “How long has he been awake?”

“Just a few minutes,” she answered. “Do you want me to redo vitals? I’ve been checking every twelve hours.”

Ivanov rubbed a hand over his face, the movement quick and restless. “No—no, that’s fine.” He hesitated a moment, then added, “Return him to his quarters for now. I—” He cut himself off, jaw tightening. “Actually, run the full physical. If everything checks out, send him to Holding Four.”

The nurse’s voice dropped, incredulous and small. “Doctor—he wasn’t cleared for field duty. Morozov—what did he say about this?”

Ivanov’s eyes flicked toward the door as if the corridor might be listening. He kept his voice measured but sharp. “No, he’s not cleared for field ops. I don’t intend to put him back out there. I want him for an interrogation—there’s a subject we can’t get through to, and his involvement might help.” The doctor’s words were calm, but his fingers tapped the clipboard with an impatience that betrayed urgency.

A faint beeping at Ivanov’s belt made him curse low under his breath. He straightened as if pulled by a string. “Send him down to me as soon as the exam finishes, Miss Makovich. I’ll be waiting.” He turned to leave, shoulders hunched against the strain.

The nurse—Miss Makovich—exhaled slowly once the door closed. She met Shilovsky’s eyes for a second, a flash of something like pity crossing her face before her professional mask slipped back into place. “All right,” she said softly. “Hold still. This won’t take long.”

Shilovsky wanted to ask what that was about, but he knew better. Instead, he watched the nurse as she gathered various instruments onto a tray. He lay back against the cold metal, the fluorescent light above humming like a distant insect, and waited for whatever came next.

“Remove your shirt. I need to check your heart.” She held up an array of sticky pads connected to thin, tangled wires.

He sat as still as he could while her cold fingers pressed the pads against his chest. The adhesive tugged faintly at his skin as she stepped back to let the machine hum to life. A soft clicking filled the silence. He focused on the steady rhythm of the monitor, the rise and fall of his own breathing. When the nurse finally peeled the pads away, he glanced toward his discarded shirt but didn’t dare ask if he could put it back on.

She picked up a clipboard. “How is your head feeling?”

“Fine. Just a minor headache.” He didn’t mention the sharp, lingering ache behind his eyes or the faint ringing in his ears. If he could function, there was no reason to complain.

She made a quick note on the paper. “Good. Any nausea?”

“No. No nausea.”

Another note. Her pen scratched briskly against the board. “Alright, I’ll check your temperature and then send you upstairs. Open your mouth.”

He obeyed, and she slid a cold thermometer beneath his tongue. “Close it and don’t move.”

The nurse leaned in close, watching the thin red line climb until it stopped. “Everything looks good. Put your shirt on and follow me.”

Grateful for even that thin barrier between him and the chill in the room, Shilovsky slipped his shirt back over his shoulders and stood. The moment his feet hit the floor, his legs buckled. He caught the edge of the table, gripping it hard until the dizziness eased.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, pausing mid-step toward the door.

Using the table for balance, he straightened slowly and flexed his knees one at a time. “Nothing. I’m fine.” He took a testing step, then another, and managed to stride across the room to meet her.

“I suppose four days unconscious will mess with your legs,” she muttered, pushing the door open.

“Four days?” He frowned, catching the door before it swung shut. “I thought you said I was kept here overnight.”

“Yes. Overnight. That’s what I said.” Her pace quickened, voice clipped, as she started down the stairwell.

They descended two flights before she stepped off and gestured down a narrow hallway. “Second door to your left.” She didn’t wait for acknowledgement—by the time he turned, she was already halfway up the first flight again, her footsteps echoing away.

Shilovsky rested a hand on the cold metal handle. He was about to turn it when a sharp crack split the air—like a fist striking flesh. He drew in a slow breath and pushed the door open.

The dimly lit room smelled faintly of mildew and blood. Doctor Ivanov stood beside a man dressed in black, both facing a third figure bound to a metal chair. The prisoner’s face was swollen and mottled with bruises, a thin line of blood running from his mouth to the collar of his shirt.

The man in black reared back and punched him again. The impact echoed off the walls. To his credit, the man in the chair barely reacted, only a faint twitch rippling through his jaw.

Shilovsky cleared his throat. “You wanted to see me?”

Both men turned. Under the harsh light, Doctor Ivanov looked even more worn than he had minutes ago—hair unkempt, eyes sunken with exhaustion.

“Yes, Agent Shilovsky. Just the man I needed.” He motioned toward the man in black. “Agent Petrov, you may go.”

Shilovsky’s gaze followed Petrov as he moved toward the door. The nurse had mentioned that name—his supposed handler—but this man was a stranger. As he passed, Petrov’s mouth curled into a sneer. Their shoulders collided, hard enough to jar Shilovsky’s stance.

He steadied himself quickly, clasping his hands behind his back and forcing no reaction.

The man in the chair remained motionless, eyes unfocused and glassy, expression unreadable.

Shilovsky looked away from him and back to Doctor Ivanov, who was wiping a stained cloth across his brow, leaving a faint streak of grime behind.

“Agent Shilovsky, one of our agents picked this man up off the coast of Estonia. He was connected to a raid a few months back on one of our research vessels. We’ve been trying to crack him for two days now with absolutely no progress.”

The doctor’s tired eyes took on a devious sort of gleam as he glanced between Shilovsky and the man in the chair.

“I’d like you to take a crack at him. We want to know why they raided that particular vessel and what information they managed to steal. The ship itself was not recovered.” He took a few slow steps back until his shoulders touched the wall near the door. “You may begin—just try not to kill him.”

Shilovsky turned toward the prisoner. Where he expected to see fear, the man’s face was utterly blank, void of emotion. Blood dripped steadily from his chin, marking the floor in small, dark stains.

Rolling up his sleeves to his elbows, Shilovsky stepped forward. His movements were methodical, detached. He struck the prisoner once—flat and hard, enough to make his head snap sideways. The man didn’t cry out, just exhaled sharply through his nose. Another blow followed, and then another, calculated for effect. The sound of metal meeting flesh mingled with the clink of chains and the low hum of fluorescent lights, until the prisoner’s breathing turned ragged but his expression remained unchanged.

Behind him, another man in a white coat joined Doctor Ivanov by the wall. Their conversation was hushed, nearly drowned out by the drip of blood and the soft, pained groans from the chair. Still, Shilovsky strained his ears to listen.

“I don’t understand it,” Ivanov muttered, sounding more tired than before. “I’ve never known anyone not to break by now—not even a little.”

“It would be truly impressive if it weren’t so infuriating,” the other man replied. “He’s like the perfect soldier.”

“That he is.” Ivanov pushed off the wall, his footsteps heavy and uneven against the concrete. “Agent Shilovsky, I’ll take over for a moment.”

Shilovsky stepped back, folding his arms behind him. The blood smeared across his forearms was already cooling, sticky against his skin.

The doctor leaned in close to the prisoner’s face without touching him, studying him as though he were a specimen under glass. Then he turned to Shilovsky, eyes calculating.

“Tochilin, I want you to take a blood sample,” Ivanov said evenly. “Come find me immediately if you notice any irregularities.”

The man in the white coat—Tochilin—stepped forward, hesitating only briefly. “Irregularities like what, sir? What exactly are you thinking?”

The doctor reached over and took the knife Shilovsky had set back on the small table. He turned it slowly in his hand, inspecting the dull gleam of the metal under the harsh fluorescent light. For a moment, he seemed almost contemplative, weighing both the blade and his next move. Then, with a sharp flick of his wrist, he swung the knife toward the prisoner’s restrained hand.

In one fluid, deliberate motion, he sliced the tip of the man’s ring finger clean off.

A strangled hiss escaped the prisoner’s throat. His body jolted against the restraints, tendons standing out in his neck, but the reaction lasted only a second. He forced his eyes open again, blinking through the pain, his expression flattening back into that eerie stillness.

“Are you ready to talk yet?” Ivanov asked, his tone almost casual, as if discussing something mundane. “Just tell me what you took. You don’t even need to tell me why.”

The man’s chest rose and fell unevenly. Blood dripped steadily from his hand, painting small crescents on the concrete beneath him. When he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse but controlled. “I already told you. I do not know what you are talking about. I was never on that ship.”

He spoke English, though the words were thick with a German accent.

Tochilin cleared his throat from behind them. “Sir? The blood test?”

“Yes, yes,” Ivanov muttered, glancing briefly at the assistant. “I don’t know what exactly you’re looking for. Just tell me when it’s done.” He took a few steps back, his eyes still fixed on the prisoner. “Look at him—he’s the model of a perfect soldier. Complete compliance. Unclouded by emotion. And yet…” His gaze narrowed. “I know he could have cheated the lie detector, but it truly appears he doesn’t remember raiding our vessel.”

Tochilin folded his arms, skeptical. “Are you sure it was him? Maybe Petrov grabbed the wrong man.”

“No,” Ivanov replied firmly, shaking his head. “It’s him. Agent Juergen Klein. He’s led over a dozen covert HYDRA missions that we’ve confirmed—and I’d bet the actual number is much higher.”

He set the knife back on the table and picked up a dirty cloth, wiping his hands clean in slow, deliberate motions. “Isn’t that right, Agent Klein?”

Klein lifted his head weakly, his face pale from blood loss. His lips were trembling, but the glare in his eyes remained sharp. “I do not know who that is.”

Ivanov let out a quiet, humorless chuckle and glanced toward Tochilin. “Well, he’s nothing if not consistent.” His tone turned dry. “You’d better take that blood sample soon, before he bleeds out onto the floor.”

“Right.” Tochilin turned on his heel and hurried out of the room, the door slamming behind him.

Shilovsky shifted his weight, rocking back on his heels. He cleared his throat to remind the doctor he was still standing there. The air smelled faintly metallic, and the blood soaking through his shirt was starting to feel icy against his skin.

“I don’t think we’re going to get anything else out of him,” Ivanov said after a moment. “And I don’t want him losing any more blood until I have that sample. You’re dismissed, Agent Shilovsky. Return to your quarters until someone retrieves you.”

The doctor gave him a slow once-over and wrinkled his nose in faint disgust. “Maybe take a shower while you’re there.”

Shilovsky nodded, saying nothing. He turned toward the door but paused, letting his eyes rest for a moment on Agent Klein. There was still something behind that blank stare—something subtle but unmistakable. A flicker of fear.

He didn’t linger. Straightening his shoulders, Shilovsky quickened his pace and left the room, the echo of his boots fading down the hall.

He rarely walked the hallways without an escort, but the doctor was likely too exhausted to bother calling someone. Even so, the cameras that dotted the walls every few feet were enough to remind him he wasn’t truly alone. Their tiny red lights blinked like watchful eyes, following his every step.

Fortunately, his quarters were on the same floor as the holding cells—a short, silent walk. Once inside, he shut the door and exhaled, the sound echoing faintly in the cramped space. The air was heavy with the scent of metal and disinfectant. Crossing to the small, tarnished mirror above the sink, he caught his reflection under the flickering light.

There were flecks of dried blood scattered across his face, streaks he hadn’t even felt. His expression was blank, eyes shadowed and hollow. He glanced toward the camera above the door, then quickly began stripping off his stained clothes. Privacy was a luxury long abandoned; eventually, you stopped noticing when someone was always watching.

The narrow shower in the corner was separated from the rest of the room by a grimy plastic curtain. It might have once been clear, but time and hard water had turned it an opaque yellow-gray. He pulled it closed and twisted the knob. The water sputtered to life in a thin stream that wasn’t warm but at least wasn’t freezing. Against the chill of the air, it felt almost comforting.

He lathered the gray bar of soap between his hands and scrubbed the blood from his skin. The water swirling at his feet turned a faint pink before vanishing down the drain. When he worked the same soap into his hair, it took several passes before the water finally ran clear. By then, the stream had gone from cool to icy, and he shut it off with a shiver.

A threadbare towel hung between the sink and shower. He used it to wipe the chill from his skin, then ran it through his hair, leaving it damp and disheveled. Hoping it would dry quickly, he crossed the concrete floor to the dresser and pulled out one of his identical uniforms—black fatigues, plain shirt, no insignia.

Once dressed, he sat on the edge of the cot to wait for further instructions. He was usually either training, on assignment, or sleeping; moments like this where he was alone with his thoughts felt wrong.

For a fleeting second, he considered going to find Agent Petrov, but his orders had been clear: wait until retrieved. So, he sat.

He folded and unfolded his hands, crossing the flesh one over the metal one, then switching them. The metal arm was always cold in the base, colder still in the dead of winter. Sometimes, when the temperature dropped enough, the metal at his shoulder would ache and burn where it fused with skin. He twisted his wrists in opposite directions, watching the dull silver alternate with pale pink flesh.

The quiet broke with a metallic whine as the door creaked open. Shilovsky’s head snapped up, muscles tense.

It was Tochilin—the same man who had been working beside Doctor Ivanov earlier. The man’s eyes darted about, restless and unfocused, as if he couldn’t stop moving even if he tried.

“You’re being summoned to Morozov’s office.” His voice was tight, hurried. He glanced over his shoulder, clearly expecting someone to follow.

Shilovsky’s spine stiffened. Summoned. That wasn’t normal. Orders from Morozov were usually relayed through handlers, not delivered face-to-face. Either something monumental had happened—or he was in serious trouble.

“Did you hear me? Now.” Tochilin’s tone sharpened as he gestured urgently toward the hall.

Shilovsky rose at once and followed.

He tried to recall his most recent mission, but nothing came. The nurse had mentioned a fall from a maintenance tower, but the details were gone—blurred and unreachable. He couldn’t remember why he’d been there, what the target was, or even how the mission began. The harder he tried to remember, the more his chest tightened with unease.

“What is this about?” he asked as they approached the stairwell.

“I’m not at liberty to say,” Tochilin snapped. “And you’re not supposed to ask questions, so shut the hell up.”

Shilovsky clenched his fists but kept silent. The echo of their boots followed them up the stairs, the air growing warmer with each level. Morozov’s office was one floor below the hangar—the only room in the entire base that ever felt remotely warm.

As soon as the door opened, the warmth washed over him, tinged with the faint scent of wood polish and smoke. Morozov sat behind a large wooden desk, posture sharp and commanding. Doctor Ivanov stood at his side, speaking quickly and gesturing toward a clipboard, his words tumbling out in anxious rhythm.

Shilovsky caught only the tail end of the conversation before Morozov lifted a hand to silence him. “—that this serum could change everything.”

Then the director turned toward him, smiling in a way that reminded Shilovsky of a wolf showing its teeth.

“Good afternoon, Agent Shilovsky,” Morozov said smoothly. “I trust you’re feeling better after your…” his eyes flicked toward Ivanov, “…recent injury.”

“Yes, sir.” Shilovsky stood straight, arms folded neatly behind his back, chin raised.

“That’s good,” Morozov continued, his tone low and deliberate. “Because I have an assignment for you—one of vital importance. Failure is not an option. Are we clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

Morozov leaned back in his chair and motioned for Doctor Ivanov to step forward. “Doctor, would you share what you’ve discovered?”

“Yes, right.” Ivanov stumbled forward, shuffling through the papers clipped to his board. “Recently, it has been confirmed that a German military organization known as HYDRA has obtained a very important medical serum from our labs.”

“Is that what was stolen from the research vessel?” Shilovsky asked, earning a sharp glare from both Morozov and the doctor.

“Uh—sure, yes, yes, that’s correct.” Ivanov scribbled something down on his papers. “Anyway, this serum is both highly dangerous and highly classified. It would be catastrophic if HYDRA were able to study or replicate it. That is why we’re sending you to locate where they’ve taken the sample and retrieve it. Any questions?”

“Will I be working with Agent Petrov on this mission?” Shilovsky asked, remembering the man’s earlier snarl.

“No. You’re being assigned a new handler for this operation. She should be here any minute.” The doctor motioned toward the door behind Shilovsky. Everyone turned to face it, as if expecting the newcomer to walk through that very second.

A minute of silence dragged by, heavy and uncomfortable, before a sharp knock rang against the metal door.

“Enter!” Morozov barked.

The door opened, and a young woman stepped into the room.
“Ah, there she is.” Morozov gestured for her to approach. “Agent Shilovsky, meet your new handler—Agent Myra Kovac. She recently graduated from one of the KGB’s newest and most elite programs.”

Doctor Ivanov nodded eagerly, motioning toward the woman, who returned the greeting with a small nod of her own.

“Agent Kovac has been fully briefed on the mission. You will follow her orders without question. Is that understood?” Morozov asked, raising an eyebrow at Shilovsky.

“Understood, sir.”

He allowed himself only a brief glance at the woman. She was young—mid-twenties, perhaps—with straight black hair that revealed pale blond roots at the crown of her head. Her sharp eyes swept over him with an assessing, almost predatory focus.

“You’re dismissed,” Morozov said, his tone final. “I expect you back no later than eight days.”

“Yes, sir,” Agent Kovac replied crisply. Her voice was steady and confident as she turned to Shilovsky. “Move, soldier. We have a jet prepped and waiting.”

Shilovsky nodded once and followed her. As the door closed slowly on old hinges, he caught the continuation of the conversation between Morozov and Doctor Ivanov.

“He’s a liability, Doctor,” Morozov’s voice carried just far enough for Shilovsky to hear. “If they fail—or if this serum isn’t what you claim—I’m scrapping the entire Winter Soldier program. This is your last chance.”

“I understand, sir,” Ivanov replied quickly. “I truly believe this serum is exactly—”

The door sealed shut, cutting off the rest of his words.

Notes:

I'm curious, do you like longer chunks for each story before it switches (4-5 chapters each) or shorter (2-3 chapters each)? I've been very on the fence about how often I should switch.

Chapter 6

Notes:

I really love writing the banter and friendship between Bucky and Yelena. Chapters like this one are always fun to write.

2027
Bucky

“Aww, you look like an old man who fell asleep in front of the TV,” Yelena mused from the doorway.

The sudden sound startled Bucky awake. He jolted upright and promptly fell out of the plastic chair he’d been sleeping in, hitting the floor with a solid thud.

“Damn. I wish I’d been recording that,” Yelena said, grinning. “Maybe the security cameras caught it. Anyway, I brought breakfast and coffee.”

Bucky groaned and pushed himself to his feet, rubbing his shoulder. Yelena crossed the room, hooking her boot around a small table and dragging it closer to the cluster of screens. She set down a tray with two large steaming cups of coffee and a paper plate piled with cold pizza.

Bucky eyed it suspiciously. “I thought you said you brought breakfast?”

“It’s cute that you think we have real food in the kitchen,” Yelena replied, picking up a slice. “If you want to eat, it’s either cold pizza or something green and fuzzy that’s been evolving in the fridge for weeks.”

His stomach growled, betraying him. He grabbed a slice.

“So,” she said between bites, “I see you did exactly what I told you not to do and obsessed over this all night. What did you find?”

With her hands full, she used her boot again to drag another chair across the floor and plopped down beside him.

Bucky blinked at the screen, still half-asleep. A digital map of a city filled the display, streaked with red and blue marks. He took a long sip of his coffee and stared at it blankly.

“Did you sleep at all?” Yelena asked, waving a hand in front of his face.

“I don’t know. Apparently, since I was asleep when you walked in.” He rubbed his eyes. “Just give me a second to remember what I was doing.”

Yelena leaned closer, squinting at the screen. “It looks like Toronto.”

“It is.” He shoved the last bite of pizza into his mouth. “Right—Volkova. I set the system to flag any time he showed up on security feeds. He was at the airport last night in Virginia and boarded a flight to Toronto.”

Bucky minimized the map and pulled up a passport image. “He used a fake passport under the name Charles Davidson. Canadian origin.”

“So, we’re going to Canada?” Yelena asked, eyebrows raised. “Because my French is terrible.”

“Je ne sais pas encore. Il me manque quelque chose d’important,” Bucky said with a faint grin.

“Show-off,” she muttered. “So what’s the plan?”

“Well,” Bucky said, pulling the map back up, “I ran the name Charles Davidson through every database we have. The guy’s background couldn’t be more fake. On paper, he’s an accountant at a company called ARDEM—no criminal record, no traffic violations, no family, no real paper trail.”

“Okay, so what is a boring-ass Canadian accountant doing at an illegal weapons exchange in Virginia? And what’s with your little scribbles?”

Yelena leaned forward in her chair, squinting at the lines and symbols scrawled across the map.

“As soon as he landed in Toronto, I started tracking him using traffic cameras.” Bucky pointed to a blue line cutting through the downtown area. “He went to a convenience store here—” his finger stopped on a small red circle, “—then to an apartment complex about six blocks away. He was only there for ten minutes before leaving again.”

He zoomed in closer, the satellite view revealing a row of narrow brick buildings packed together like teeth. “I looked into the store. It’s nothing special—just a corner market that’s been there for twenty years. The owner pays her taxes early, no criminal record, no unusual cash flow. The apartment complex is clean, too. No history of raids, no suspicious tenants, not even a noise complaint.”

Yelena raised an eyebrow. “No evil masterminds hiding behind the vending machines, then?”

“Nope,” Bucky muttered. “I checked the emergency call logs, too. The only 911 call from that building in the last year was from an older woman who slipped in her hair salon on the first floor. She broke her wrist, but that’s it.”

“So, nothing obvious.”

“Nothing at all,” Bucky said, tapping the screen again. “After that, he headed north, through this district—” he dragged his finger along a tangle of overlapping blue lines and X marks “—and that’s where I lost him. There are no traffic cameras in this part of town, I couldn’t even find any building security footage.”

Yelena leaned back, folding her arms. “Okay, wow. Normally, I’d tease you about the creepy stalker thing, but I’m not—because of what I found on this guy.”

Bucky tilted his empty coffee cup back, hoping for one last drop, and sighed when it was bone dry. “What did you find?”

Without answering, Yelena reached for the tablet she’d dropped beside her chair. She wiped a streak of pizza grease off the screen with her sleeve and began flicking through tabs. The map on the monitor changed to a grid of faded documents and black-and-white photos, some stamped with old Soviet insignias.

“You sure you want to go down this rabbit hole?” she asked, glancing sideways at Bucky. His eyes were already fixed on the documents, sharp and focused now.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “Tell me what you found.”

“Okay, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Yelena swiped again, pulling up a photo of a man with sharp features and neatly combed hair. He looked eerily similar to the man they had met at the dock. “So, I didn’t necessarily find much on Mikhail, but this is Vincent Volkova. Mikhail’s father. He was recruited by the KGB in 1959. His official title was medical consultant, though that’s a pretty generous way of putting it.”

Bucky’s expression didn’t shift, but his jaw tightened. “Go on.”

“The only project he’s officially listed under is—” Yelena hesitated for a beat, “—the Winter Soldier program.”

Her words hung heavy in the air. The quiet hum of the computer monitors filled the silence between them.

Yelena kept her eyes on Bucky’s face, watching for even the smallest flicker of emotion. He said nothing at first—just pressed his lips into a thin line and stared at the photo until it dissolved back into static gray.

“I figured as much,” he said finally. His tone was flat, controlled, like he was forcing each word to stay steady. “Continue. What does this have to do with Mikhail?”

“That’s the tricky part.” Yelena flipped to another document, this one written in half-translated Cyrillic, the letters uneven and half-smeared as if someone had copied it in a hurry. “There’s almost nothing on Mikhail himself. I dug through the KGB archives, and he’s never mentioned. My guess is he never worked for the KGB. But then again, the Winter Soldier was only with them for what—forty years or so?”

“About forty-five.” Bucky rubbed a hand across his jaw, eyes still on the screen. “Then who was he working for?”

Yelena shrugged, the motion casual but her tone wasn’t. “I’m sure you’ve come to the same assumption I have. But here’s where Vincent Volkova gets more interesting.” She zoomed in on a set of notes scrawled along the bottom of a page. The letters “Λ-Serum” were circled in red, faded like old blood. “Vincent Volkova was listed as the creator of something called the Lambda Serum.”

Bucky’s brow furrowed. “Never heard of it.”

“Yeah, me neither. Whatever the fuck it is, it’s buried deep. Even the KGB’s internal medical files don’t have any details.” She scrolled down the page, the cursor trembling faintly in her hand. “Just that it existed. No formula, no test results, not even a list of subjects. Like it was erased.”

“Could it be connected to the Super Soldier serum?” Bucky asked quietly. “I know HYDRA was obsessed with recreating that. So were the Soviets.”

“Probably not. Alexei didn’t get the serum until the late 1980s, and this predates that by decades.” She tapped her finger against the tablet.

Bucky leaned back in his chair, the plastic creaking beneath his weight. The blue light from the monitors painted the metal of his arm in cold reflections, flickering with every change on the screen. “So is Mikhail Volkova trying to find the serum? Does he think I have some connection to it?”

“Or,” Yelena said, her tone darkening, “he knows you are connected to it. You just don’t realize it.”

The words hung in the air, soft but heavy.

Bucky didn’t answer right away. He stared at the tangle of maps and documents glowing in the dim light, the hum of the electronics filling the silence. His metal fingers tapped rhythmically against the table’s edge.

“I think what we need,” he said finally, “is access to more information. Old SHIELD files.” His gaze shifted toward the empty plate and the equally empty coffee cups. “And more caffeine. Maybe some real food too.”

Yelena stretched, grabbing the tray from the table. “If you want easy access to SHIELD files, you know who to call.”

“No.” Bucky snapped before she could even finish. The sharpness of his voice cut through the low hum of the computers. He stood up, stepping around her, and pressed the elevator call button with his thumb. “I’m not calling him.”

The elevator doors opened with a soft chime. He reached out to hold them for her as she stepped through, balancing the tray in one hand.

“Okay, but he’d have access to all that SHIELD-slash-HYDRA stuff. How else are you going to get what you need?”

Bucky didn’t answer until the doors opened again into the living area. He stayed by the door while Yelena jogged over to the counter and set the tray down with a clatter.

“Where is everyone?” he asked, glancing around the quiet space. The faint scent of stale coffee and cold pizza lingered in the air.

“Walker’s downstairs in the gym,” Yelena said, waving a hand vaguely. “Ava said she’s not eating cold pizza for breakfast and left in a huff. My guess is restaurant, coffee shop, or grocery store.”

“What about Bob and Alexei?” Bucky’s eyes followed the elevator numbers counting down again.

“No idea. Alexei said he needed help with something, and Bob was the only one who couldn’t come up with an excuse to get out of it.” Yelena brushed her hair out of her face as the elevator doors slid open again. “So, where are we going?”

“Coffee shop.” Bucky stepped into the lobby, the marble floors gleaming under bright white light.

“Really?” Yelena followed, her boots clicking behind him. “I didn’t take you for the Starbucks type.”

“I didn’t say Starbucks. I said coffee shop.” He pushed through the glass doors and out into the morning sun. The air was crisp, cool, and edged with the faint scent of city exhaust. “There’s a small family-owned shop that’s been run by the same family since 1936.”

“Oh. Why am I not surprised?” Yelena rolled her eyes but grinned anyway, falling into step beside him.

Bucky stopped at the crosswalk, glanced both ways, then started across the street before the light changed.

“Bucky Barnes,” Yelena called after him, mock-offended. “The light was still red. You know jaywalking is a crime.”

He glanced over his shoulder, trying for a glare but failing—his lips twitched instead, betraying him.

Across the street, he continued straight ahead until he stopped in front of a narrow storefront wedged between two larger buildings. The door was old wood, painted a fading shade of teal, and the sign above it was hand-lettered in curling script that had seen better decades.

It looked like it had been there since 1936.

Bucky stood there for a long moment, his expression unreadable as the scent of roasted coffee drifted through the cracks in the door. He stepped inside, and the old woman behind the counter lit up the moment she saw him.

“Good morning, Mr. Bucky! It’s been a while since I’ve seen you in here. The usual, I’m guessing?”

“Yes, please, Mrs. Ardelean. And then whatever my friend here wants.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a beat-up wallet, fishing out a twenty and a five. Handing them both to Yelena, he added, “I’m going to make a phone call. Order whatever you want—give her the whole twenty-five. She’ll insist you just pay the bill and refuse to take the change, make sure she does.”

Yelena took the money but didn’t move right away. Instead, she stared up at him with a crease between her brows and a sly grin tugging at her lips. “Careful—you don’t want to jeopardize that ‘grumpy tough-guy act’ you’ve got going.”

Before he could respond, she pivoted and sauntered toward the counter.

Even though she didn’t see it, Bucky rolled his eyes and pulled out his phone as he sank into a small table in the corner. The rickety old chair creaked beneath him.

The man on the other end picked up on the second ring. “Hello? Bucky?”

“Hey, Joaquin. How’re you doing?” Bucky asked, leaning back slightly, his tone casual but weary.

“Uh, I’m okay. Still on desk duty.” Joaquin’s voice was cautious. “Did you mean to call me?”

“Yes. I need a small favor,” Bucky said, getting straight to the point.

“Oh no. If you need a favor, you call Sam. I’m not doing something behind his back.”

“I’m not asking you to go behind his back,” Bucky said, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “I’m working on stopping a potentially dangerous threat and need access to information. I’d call Sam if I could—but you know I can’t. Come on, man, I really need your help.”

He glanced up just in time to see Mrs. Ardelean trying to shove a handful of bills back into Yelena’s hands. When the woman turned to step into the kitchen, Yelena waited a beat, then discreetly tucked the money behind the counter near the register.

“Joaquin,” Bucky said, lowering his voice, “Sam stopped answering my calls a while ago. I eventually stopped trying. But this is serious. I just need access to archived SHIELD and HYDRA files.”

There was a long pause on the other end. Bucky wasn’t sure if the call had dropped or if Joaquin was weighing his options. He continued, “I’ll tell you what—get me the information I need, and once this whole thing’s over, I’ll meet with Sam in person. But you’ve gotta get him to agree to that. He won’t answer my calls.”

Joaquin sighed. “Fine. I’m guessing you’ve got a computer in front of you with the SHIELD database pulled up?”

Bucky used his shoulder to hold the phone to his ear while he set one of their tablets on the table and connected a small keyboard. “Pulling it up now. Give me a second.”

Yelena appeared beside him, setting down two glasses. One was filled with steaming black coffee, accompanied by a single sugar packet and a tiny pod of cream. The other was an iced drink topped with whipped cream and a dusting of cinnamon.

Seeing he was still on the phone, she pointed at his drink and mouthed, Black coffee? Really? before turning back to the counter, where Mrs. Ardelean was setting down two plates.

“Okay, Joaquin, you still there? I’ve got it pulled up,” Bucky said, typing as he spoke.
“Alright—username is JCTorres96. The J, C, and T are capitalized. And don’t judge my password, okay?”

There was a brief pause before Joaquin muttered, “Capital F, Falcon number 4, ever, then 2026.”

Bucky typed it in and hit Enter. “You know that’s not a very secure password for top-secret government documents, right?”

“What’s not a secure password?” Yelena asked, setting the two plates between them. Bucky held up a hand, signaling her to wait.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Joaquin said. “Don’t forget, you promised to talk to Sam.”

“I will,” Bucky said firmly. “I promise. I’ll let you know when this whole thing’s done. Thanks, Joaquin.” He hung up before the younger man could second-guess himself.

Yelena raised an eyebrow. “Really? You called Joaquin instead of Sam? He’s going to be pissed. More pissed than he already is.” She stabbed a fork into her pancakes and took a big bite.

“Sam wouldn’t have given me his login if I’d asked,” Bucky said, turning the tablet toward her. “Joaquin did. Now, do you want to help with the research, or analyze my social life?”

“Do I have to choose?” she asked through a mouthful, grinning.

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Actually, don’t even answer that.” He opened the search bar and typed Mikhail Volkova, pulling up every document with the man’s name on it.

Yelena leaned forward, scanning the headers as the files loaded, all of them stamped with the HYDRA insignia. “Well, none of them are SHIELD documents.”

“Great observation,” Bucky said dryly. He clicked the first document chronologically. “Looks like he was recruited by HYDRA in 1993 as an expert on…” His voice trailed off.

“On what?” Yelena asked around another forkful of pancakes.

“On Lambda Serum. The same stuff his father worked on.” He skimmed further down, scrolling through intake paperwork and faded scans.

Yelena’s eyes lit up. “Oooh. And all the pieces fall into place.” She leaned closer, excitement flickering across her face. “Does it say what Lambda is? Or what it has to do with the Winter Soldier program? If it has anything to do with the Winter Soldier program?”

Bucky didn’t answer immediately. The screen’s pale glow reflected in his eyes, shadows shifting across his face as he read. He scrolled slowly, as if willing the next line to explain everything. But the file ended in blank space—no formula, no test data, nothing concrete.

His jaw tightened. “No,” he said finally. “Not yet.”

He scrolled through the rest of the HYDRA archive, eyes narrowing as line after line of black bars replaced words. Every mention of Lambda Serum was redacted—entire pages turned into nothing but censored rectangles and strings of classification codes.

“Typical,” he muttered, leaning back and rubbing a hand over his face. “SHIELD must’ve wiped out half of these files before the data transfer. Probably to make sure it didn’t fall into the wrong hands.”

“Half?” Yelena asked, peering over his shoulder. “Looks like they torched the whole damn thing. No test results, no formulas, no context.”

“There’s something here,” Bucky said, squinting at a paragraph that wasn’t fully blacked out. The surviving text read: Cognitive manipulation potential… preliminary neural mapping… compatibility unknown.

He exhaled through his nose. “It’s about the mind.”

Yelena frowned. “Like brainwashing?”

“Maybe.” He tapped the screen. “The language here—it sounds more advanced. They were experimenting with something on a deeper level.”

Yelena groaned and dropped her fork onto the plate. “So what, they wanted to build an army of psychic super soldiers or something? Because that’s horrifying.”

“HYDRA’s done worse,” Bucky said quietly, eyes still fixed on the words. “And if Mikhail Volkova’s trying to recreate his father’s work…”

“Then this could get bad.” Yelena finished the thought for him, crossing her arms. The light from the tablet flickered against her face, softening her usual sarcasm into something more thoughtful. “Still doesn’t explain his little cryptic line, though. What exactly did he say to you again?”

Bucky hesitated, fingers drumming against the table. “He said, ‘It’s you. So the rumors were true. This changes everything.’”

Yelena tilted her head, studying him. “Okay, well, that’s vague as hell. What rumors? And what’s supposed to change?”
“I don’t know.” He leaned back, exhaling slowly. “Could be anything. Maybe he meant the rumors that I was alive.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Maybe. That makes sense, I guess. What about the other part, though?”

He didn’t answer right away. The silence stretched long enough for the hum of the coffee shop to drift back into focus—the hiss of the espresso machine, the low murmur of conversation from the few customers scattered across the tables.

Finally, he shook his head. “I don’t know. Whatever it is, I’ve got a bad feeling it’s tied to this serum somehow.”

Yelena sighed, pushing her empty plate aside. “So… we’re hitting a wall here. Files redacted, mystery serum about mind control, creepy family legacy—where do we go next?”

Bucky’s eyes lifted from the tablet. “Toronto.”

Yelena’s lips curved into a grin before he even finished the word. “I was really hoping you’d say that.”

He smirked. “Don’t get too excited. It’s not a vacation.”

“I’m offended you would even say that.” She pressed her hand to her chest in mock pain. “Can we take Bob?”

He gave her a sidelong glance. “Not a chance, I’m not even sure I want to take you. But I know if I told you to stay behind, you would just hide in the jet or something.”

Yelena dropped her hand. “Okay, now I am offended. But, you’re right. I would absolutely hide in the jet. I’m too invested in this to just let it go. Unfortunately you’re stuck with me.”

They finished their breakfast and thanked Mrs. Ardelean and began the short walk back to the tower.

Chapter 7

Notes:

I think this has been my favourite chapter to write so far. It was a lot of fun. 😄

2027
Bucky

“How long are we going to be here? Should we get a hotel? Ooh, I have Val’s credit card numbers memorized—we could get a fancy suite. Or rent an Airbnb. Maybe one with a pool!” Yelena chatted on as they began their descent toward a small airport outside Toronto.

“I already said this isn’t a vacation. And I’m hoping not to be here overnight,” Bucky said, his voice even but tight with focus. “Also, do you really want to go swimming in Canada in November?”

“Good point, good point. Maybe we can find an Airbnb with a hot tub instead,” she said, grinning.

“No hot tub. No Airbnb. Focus, please.” The jet touched down harder than he intended, tires squealing briefly before settling into a smoother roll.

“Fine, killjoy,” she muttered. “But after this, I’m putting in a formal request for a team vacation. As a team-building retreat. Even superheroes need time off sometimes. When was the last time you took a vacation?”

Bucky unclipped his harness and stood. “1931. My family took a trip to my uncle’s lake house for Rebecca’s birthday. I was about sixteen.”

Yelena stared at him, wide-eyed. “You haven’t had a vacation in ninety-six years?” She followed him to the hatch as it lowered, cold air sweeping through the cabin. “Wait—who’s Rebecca?”

“My little sister.” He stepped out and braced against the wind, scanning the skyline. “Volkova’s apartment should be about three miles that way.” He pointed toward the clusters of mid-rise buildings in the distance.

“It’s freezing out here. Can we call an Uber or something?” she said, already unlocking her phone.

Bucky didn’t mind the walk—he preferred the quiet—but he waited with her anyway as she tapped through the app. The wind bit at his face, sharper than he expected. While they waited, he searched for the exact address. It would be less suspicious to give a driver a destination than to tell him, “an apartment complex somewhere that way.”

A few minutes later, a gray sedan pulled up to the curb. They climbed into the back seat, the heater humming to life. Bucky leaned closer to Yelena, lowering his voice. “Calling a ride is fine, but we might need to leave fast. We could still end up walking.”

“If we do, that’s fine.” She leaned back against the seat, eyes half-lidded as the city lights began to blur past the window. The drive wasn’t long, but the streets grew denser and older as they neared the heart of the city. When they arrived, Yelena tipped generously—using Val’s money, of course.

They stood side by side on the sidewalk, looking up at the tall brick building. Its windows reflected the dull glow of the afternoon sun, and the air smelled faintly of rain and exhaust.

“So,” Yelena said, squinting up at the windows, “are we just gonna knock on his door or what? Do we even know what unit he lives in?”

“No,” Bucky said, pulling a folded paper from his jacket pocket, a print out of the map from earlier. “If we corner him at his apartment, he won’t tell us anything. What I really want to know is where he went when the cameras lost him.”

Yelena raised a brow. “So, we’re just going to follow this guy around? That sounds super fun and not creepy at all.”

“Do you have a better idea?” Bucky asked, shoving the map back into his pocket.

“Yes. Give me that.” She snatched it before he could object, unfolding it carefully. “Is this red X the last place you saw him on camera?” She pointed to a spot in the middle of a street marked with a shaky red line.

“Yeah. There’s a camera here.” He traced the path with his finger. “I could see his car until this point, then it disappeared. There wasn’t another camera nearby.”

“Cool,” Yelena said, tapping the map again. “So instead of standing outside an apartment like stalkers, let’s go here.”

Bucky hesitated, studying the street markings. Finally, he sighed. “Fine. Let’s go.”

“See? That’s the spirit,” Yelena said, grinning as she folded the map neatly and stuffed it into her jacket. “Toronto adventure, here we come.”

Bucky just shook his head, pulling his collar up against the wind as they started down the sidewalk.

After a minute of arguing, Bucky finally convinced Yelena that the walk was only a few miles, and with the sun sitting high in the sky, it wasn’t nearly as cold as she claimed. The air had that crisp November bite, but nothing unbearable. Eventually, she relented, pulling her jacket tighter as they started down the busy sidewalk toward the street where he’d last lost the video feed.

Toronto in the daylight felt alive in a way Bucky hadn’t expected—traffic humming, faint music drifting from open café doors, the scent of roasted coffee and wet pavement hanging in the air. They rounded a corner, and Bucky slowed his pace, glancing up.

“Right there,” he said, pointing toward a small camera mounted high on a streetlight. “That’s the last one I saw him on. He was headed this direction.”

“Okay, then let’s go this direction.” Yelena gestured dramatically and started walking ahead before he could reply.

They made their way down the block, moving at a steady, deliberate pace, taking note of every storefront and alleyway. There was an overpriced clothing boutique with minimalist displays, a handful of small restaurants crowded with lunchtime customers, an old used bookstore with dusty windows, and an antique shop that looked like it hadn’t changed in fifty years.

“This place,” Yelena said, nodding toward the antique shop. “If anything shady was going to happen around here, it’s probably in there.”

Bucky didn’t argue. They pushed open the door, greeted by a soft bell and the faint smell of dust and old paper. The aisles were narrow and cluttered with faded trinkets—glass bottles, rusted tools, cracked porcelain dolls. Shelves bowed under the weight of decades.

Yelena wandered toward a shelf lined with boxes of photographs. She pulled one down, rifling through the contents before holding up a sepia-toned picture of a small boy. “Is this you?” she asked, waving it at him.

“What? No,” Bucky said flatly. “That photo’s from 1886.” He gently batted it away and kept browsing through a display of tarnished medals and old military pins.

“Okay, how about this one?” She held up another photo, dated 1863.

“When do you think I was born?” He turned to give her an exasperated look.

“I don’t know, 1805?” she said with a grin.

A woman passed slowly behind them, eyeing a row of fine china. Bucky’s voice dropped to a low murmur. “Sixteen,” he said quietly, keeping one eye on the stranger.

“Eighteen sixteen?” Yelena teased, biting back a laugh.

“Nineteen sixteen. Jeez, Yelena, I’m not that old.” His voice rose a little too sharply, and the woman shot him a startled glance. “Sorry,” he muttered, clearing his throat and giving Yelena a gentle shove toward the door.

They were nearly outside when Yelena paused. “Wait, do you have a photo of him?”

“Yeah, give me a sec.” Bucky dug into his pocket, pulling out his phone. He scrolled through a few images before stopping on Mikhail Volkova’s photo and handing it over.

“What was his fake name again?”

“Uh… Charles Davidson,” Bucky said, raising an eyebrow. “Why? What are you doing?”

“Just wait.”

Before he could stop her, Yelena sauntered toward the counter, where an older man hunched over a glass display case. She held up the photo with a perfectly practiced smile. “Hello, sir. My brother and I are trying to find our uncle—we haven’t seen him in years. His name’s Charles Davidson. Have you seen him in here at all?”

The man squinted at the picture, then at her, his frown deepening. “Can’t say that I have,” he said gruffly. “People around here like their privacy. If you’re lookin’ for your uncle, I’d suggest you look elsewhere.” He waved her off with a wrinkled hand.

“Thanks anyway,” Yelena said, retreating toward Bucky.

“My brother?” he muttered as she passed him. “We look nothing alike.” He held the door open and pocketed his phone.

“Well, you don’t look old enough for me to say you’re my dad, and you’re way too grumpy for me to say you’re my boyfriend. ‘Brother’ felt like the safest option,” she said with a shrug, stepping back out into the chill.

“Where to next?”

Bucky scanned the block. “Split up? I’ll take the bookstore, you take the boutique.”

“What if I want the bookstore?” she challenged, her grin already returning.

“Do you?” he asked, pausing in front of the window. Inside, books towered in uneven stacks, the spines faded, pages yellowed from age.

Yelena eyed it for a moment before shaking her head. “No. You can take the dusty old bookstore. I’m going shopping.”

“Of course you are,” Bucky said under his breath as she headed toward the boutique, her hair bouncing behind her. He pushed open the door to the bookstore, the bell chiming softly as he stepped inside.

The woman sitting behind the counter didn’t even bother looking up from the thick novel in her hands. He sidestepped into one of the narrow aisles, surrounded by shelves crammed with books that spilled onto the floor in chaotic piles.

He pulled one off the shelf and opened it to the first page—an old cookbook. Useless. He shoved it back into place and kept moving. Any one of the thousands of books in this room could have been hiding something—coded messages, a false spine, a hidden compartment.

His gaze followed the worn carpet that wound between the aisles. Some areas still held faint floral patterns, while others were worn through to the wood beneath. The pathways told a story of where people rarely walked, and Bucky followed the least-traveled route, reasoning that if someone wanted to hide something, they’d hide it where curious eyes didn’t linger.

He ended up near the back of the store, several aisles away from the front desk. The books here were older still—outdated textbooks, nonfiction titles about obscure science and military history. He pulled one at random, flipped through the brittle pages, and slid it back into place.

That’s when he heard it—the faint chime of the bell again, followed by heavy footsteps crossing the creaky floorboards toward the front counter.

A familiar voice drifted through the air. “Good afternoon. I’m looking for a copy of Catch-22 by Joseph Heller. It’s for my niece—for a school project.”

Bucky froze. He carefully eased a book off the shelf just enough to peer through the gap. There, standing in front of the counter, was Mikhail Volkova, hands tucked casually in his pockets.

The woman finally looked up from her book. Her gaze flicked around the store, confirming it was otherwise empty, before she sighed and rose from her chair. Without a word, she led Mikhail behind the counter and reached for a thick dictionary from the shelf. Bucky couldn’t see exactly what she was doing, but he heard a faint metallic click—then the entire bookcase slid aside, revealing a narrow passage.

Mikhail stepped through without hesitation. The woman pushed the shelf back into place, another quiet click locking it shut, and sat back down, picking up her book as if nothing had happened.

Bucky slid the book back into its spot and quietly made his way toward the front of the store, keeping low and out of sight. He waited until the woman was completely absorbed in her reading before slipping out the door and back onto the street.

Yelena was already waiting for him, and the first thing he noticed was her new jacket—sleek, light blue, and far too expensive.

“Where did you get that?” he asked, narrowing his eyes.

“I told you I was going shopping.” She shoved her hands into the pockets. “Store owners are more likely to tell you what you want if you buy something first. Plus, I was cold.” She shrugged. “Not that it helped. The lady swore she’s never seen him before.”

“I found him,” Bucky said, unable to keep the edge of excitement from his voice. “He walked into the bookstore and asked for a specific book. The woman took him behind the counter and let him through a hidden door.”

Yelena’s eyes widened. “That is so cool. Did he see you?”

“No. I stayed out of sight.”

“Alright, let’s go then!” Yelena practically bounced on her heels. “This is starting to get fun.” She grabbed his arm, already tugging him back toward the bookstore, but Bucky dug his boots into the sidewalk.

“Wait,” he said sharply. “We don’t know what’s back there. Could be a trap, a meeting, something dangerous. We can’t just rush in blind.” He scanned the quiet street—too quiet—and then nodded toward the small restaurant across from the store. “Come on.”

“What the heck, Bucky? What are we waiting for? So what if it’s dangerous? I’m sure you’re as armed as I am right now. Let’s go!” she argued, tugging his sleeve.

“Just wait. Are you hungry?”

She blinked at him. “What? You want to get lunch right now?”

“This diner has big windows facing the bookstore,” he explained. “We can eat while keeping an eye on the door. See if anyone else goes in—or if Mikhail comes back out.”

“Ugh, fine.” Yelena groaned and stomped toward the restaurant. “But I want it known for the record: this is the most boring plan imaginable. We could totally storm that place.”

“Noted,” Bucky said dryly, following her inside.

He kept one eye on the windows as they ordered. Yelena claimed the seat closest to the glass while Bucky waited for their food at the counter.

When the plates arrived, he set a small basket in front of her and sat across from her. “I saw a couple go in a few minutes ago,” Yelena said between bites of her sandwich. “And they haven’t come out yet.”

Bucky leaned forward, gaze fixed on the building across the street. “Then we wait.”

They sat quietly, eating and watching the bookstore across the street. Two men walked past without slowing. A third went inside and never came out. A couple with a stroller entered the boutique next door, leaving a few minutes later. Then a woman in a light gray pantsuit stepped into the bookstore and didn’t come back out either.

As they stood and cleared their table, another group of three men entered the store.

“See?” Yelena said, tossing her napkin onto the tray. “It’s at least somewhat busy. Are you ready to barge in now?” She was already halfway to the door, her tone more excitement than impatience.

“Fine,” Bucky sighed. “But we’re not barging in. Act like you belong there.”

They crossed the street together, the quiet city sounds muted by the distant hum of traffic. The bell above the bookstore door chimed softly as they stepped inside. The woman behind the counter didn’t look up until they approached.

“Hi, uh—good evening,” Bucky said, clearing his throat. “I’m looking for a copy of Catch-22 by Joseph Heller.” He hesitated for half a beat before adding, “It’s for my niece. School project.”

The woman studied them both, eyes narrowing slightly. Then she stood, pulled the same heavy dictionary from the shelf behind her, and turned a small dial hidden behind it. A familiar metallic click echoed in the still air. She pushed the bookshelf aside, revealing a dark, narrow passage.

Bucky felt alarm bells ringing in his head, every instinct screaming caution. But before he could say anything, Yelena grabbed his sleeve and tugged him forward.

As soon as they stepped through, the shelf slid shut behind them, sealing off the light. The darkness was complete.

A rustle beside him, then the glow of Yelena’s phone illuminated the space—a narrow concrete hallway stretching ahead a few yards to a heavy door. She grinned, eyes bright in the pale glow.

“Secret tunnel!” she whisper-shouted, already walking forward.

He followed, footsteps echoing softly. As they neared the door, faint music seeped through—low and rhythmic, not quite loud enough to place.

Yelena raised a brow. “Think we’re walking into some cult’s murder disco?”

“That’s not even disco music,” he muttered, resting a hand on the latch. “Just—act serious when I open this door.”

“I’m always serious,” she said, miming the motion of opening a door.

He exhaled slowly and pushed it open.

The sound hit them first—muffled conversation, clinking glasses, faint laughter. Then light spilled across the floor—dim, colored bulbs flashing lazily over a crowd. People were gathered around tables or standing in clusters, drinks in hand, while music pulsed softly through hidden speakers.

“So… it’s a speakeasy behind an old bookstore,” Yelena said, taking it in. “That’s—”

“Actually kind of cool,” Bucky interrupted before she could finish.

“Damn right, it is.” Her eyes scanned the room. “So, where’s our guy?”

Bucky followed her gaze. He recognized several faces—former HYDRA agents, smugglers, arms dealers. Too many ghosts from the past. The longer he stood there, the more exposed he felt.

“Yelena, give me your jacket,” he said quietly.

“What? Why? It’s warm in here—why do you need my jacket?” she asked, but she was already shrugging it off, leaving just the thin green jacket she arrived in.

“There are a lot of people here who might recognize me,” he said, pulling the jacket on. It fit snugly but covered the metal arm well enough. “And this,” he flexed the hidden limb, “is kind of a dead giveaway.”

Yelena’s eyes widened as understanding clicked. “Oh. Shit. Like who?”

“Like a lot of people,” he said flatly. “I’m going to stay in the dark corner near the wall. Keep an eye out—tell me if you spot—”

“Mikhail,” Yelena cut in, nodding toward the bar.

Bucky followed her gaze. Mikhail Volkova sat alone at the counter, nursing an amber drink, checking his watch every few seconds.

“Now what?” she asked.

“Did he actually see you at the dock?”

“Nope. I was on the other side. Want me to go talk to him?”

“Yeah. Don’t let him know who you are. If you sense trouble—twist and tug your hair. That’s the signal.” He demonstrated with a small motion.

“Twist and tug. Got it.” She smoothed her windblown hair, squared her shoulders, and walked toward the bar.

Bucky moved closer, keeping to the shadows. From his vantage point, he could just make out her voice—light, casual—as she ordered a drink and leaned against the counter, pretending not to notice Volkova sitting only a few seats away.

He waited, every muscle coiled, eyes locked on her reflection in the mirror behind the bar.

“Hey, okay if I sit here?” Yelena asked, already sliding onto the barstool before he could answer.

Volkova glanced up from his drink. “That is okay, for now. But I am meeting someone soon.” He turned slightly away from her, taking a measured sip.

“That’s okay, so am I.” Yelena lifted her glass and took a small sip, swaying slightly as she balanced on the stool. “I’m Rebecca, by the way. It’s nice to meet you.” She leaned closer, giving a soft, tipsy laugh. “You’re kind of cute. What’s your name?”

Volkova turned to face her more directly, eyes flicking over her in quiet appraisal. “Charles.”

“Well, Charles,” she said, voice dipping conspiratorially, “you wanna know a secret?” She took another drink—spilling a little as she swayed and giggled. If Bucky didn’t know better, he’d think she was actually drunk.

“I’m not actually meeting anyone,” she continued, lowering her voice like it was something scandalous. “I just wanted to sit with you. I didn’t want to be alone tonight. And, like I said—you look kind of cute.” She brushed his arm lightly with her fingers.

Volkova’s eyes darted around the room, checking his watch before finally facing her again. “I suppose... I’m not expecting my friend for another hour or so.” His tone softened slightly, but his expression turned predatory. From his shadowed corner, Bucky’s jaw clenched. He wanted to knock the man’s drink straight out of his hand, but Yelena could handle herself.

“So, who are you meeting?” she asked, finishing her glass and waving to the bartender for another. “Make it a double this time, pretty please.”

“Just a friend,” Volkova said, gesturing for his own refill. “We are discussing some important business.”

“Ooh. What kind of business?” she asked, voice sing-song and curious. “Anything super cool? You give off a strong mysterious vibe.”

The bartender set their drinks down, and Volkova paid for both. “I recently picked up on a project I thought I lost a long time ago,” he said. “I no longer have access to my old lab, but I have a friend who has some property for me.”

“Really?” Yelena sounded genuinely awed, though the glint in her eye said otherwise. “What kind of project?”

“That is classified.”

She tipped her drink back, downing half in one go. Her words slurred slightly. “Ooh, c’mon. I won tell anyone. Jus gimmie a hint.”

“Sorry.” He took another sip and checked his watch again.

“You’re no fun.” She drained more of her glass, always only a few sips from empty. “How ‘bout I tell you somming about me, and you tell me a lil hint about your classified project?”

She threw back the rest of her drink with a loud clink of ice. “Hmm... I may not look it, but I’m a biochemist. Honestly, I even used to work for SHIELD.” She offered him a lazy, exaggerated wink.

“A biochemist? Really?” His eyes narrowed slightly. “Fine. My project actually involves a little biochemistry. Maybe after I meet with my friend, I can pick your brain a bit. If you will still be here.”

“Oh, I sooooo will be.” Yelena tilted her glass back again, getting only ice. “I have to pee. I’ll be right back, okay?”

She slid off the stool, her steps wobbly and uneven as she disappeared toward the restrooms.

Bucky moved through the shadows, careful to stay out of sight as he met her near the corner of the hallway. As soon as she stepped into the dim alcove, her movements straightened. The drunken sway vanished instantly, replaced by her usual sharp precision. She gave a small shiver.

“That guy is so creepy,” she muttered under her breath. “He just gives off murder-you-in-a-dark-alley vibes.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “That was impressive. I was actually starting to think you were drunk, and I was gonna have to rescue you.”

“After two drinks? What do you take me for?” she said with a grin. “How much of that did you hear?”

“Pretty much all of it,” Bucky said, glancing past her toward the bar. “He’s meeting someone about some property—something tied to his old project.”

“Yeah, obviously whatever this Project Lambda thing is,” she said. “I don’t want him to get too suspicious, though. Want me to go back and see if I can squeeze a little more out of him?”

“He said it involves biochemistry,” Bucky mused. “Think you can get him talking?”

Yelena scrunched her brow, clearly thinking. “Maybe. I don’t actually know much about biochemistry, but I’ll improvise.”

Before she could turn back toward the bar, a sharp “Oh, shit” broke the quiet.

Bucky looked up. Volkova stood a few feet away, his face pale and eyes locked directly on Bucky’s. For a heartbeat, no one moved.

Yelena turned her head slowly. “Well... there goes that,” she muttered.

Volkova spun on his heels and bolted into the crowd.

“Of course he runs,” Yelena grumbled, already taking off after him.

Bucky cursed under his breath and sprinted after her, weaving through the shifting crowd and flashing lights. At the far wall, a barely visible door has an ‘emergency exit’ sign on it. Volkova pressed the bar in the middle and disappeared outside.

Chapter 8

Notes:

Finally starting to get into the action for this story. 😁 I like writing action, I feel like I am not as good at the build up to the action

2027
Bucky

Outside, they burst into a narrow alley choked with shadows and the smell of wet pavement. The hum of city noise—music, laughter, distant car horns—hit them like a wall. At the far end of the alley, they barely caught sight of Volkova’s long coat as he disappeared around the corner, his shoes slapping against the concrete.

The door to the speakeasy slammed shut behind them, blending almost seamlessly into the brick wall. For a second, in the dim lighting, Bucky couldn’t see it at all.

Turning back to face forward, Bucky took off first, his boots pounding the ground in steady rhythm, his breath visible in the cold air. Yelena was only a few steps behind, cursing under her breath as she dodged an overflowing dumpster.

They hit the main street at a run, weaving between cars as drivers honked in protest. Volkova sprinted across an intersection, narrowly avoiding a taxi, and bolted down a narrower street lined with storefronts. The amber glow from the streetlights blurred past as Bucky ran, his focus on the fleeing man.

Volkova glanced back once, just long enough to see the two of them closing in. Then he ducked into a side street and vanished behind a string of low brick buildings.

Bucky followed without hesitation, skidding around the corner. His eyes caught the faint movement ahead—Volkova veering off the pavement and onto a dirt trail that cut sharply into a wooded area. The ground was uneven and slick from an earlier rain, mud kicking up behind Bucky’s boots.

He pushed forward, glancing back once to make sure Yelena was still with him. She was a few paces behind, breathing heavily but determined.

“Go,” she called out between gasps. “I’ll… catch up. Don’t… lose him because… you’re waiting for me.”

Bucky gave her a quick nod, then turned back and picked up speed, his breath harsh and steady in his ears. The last sliver of daylight filtered weakly through the trees, painting the trail in streaks of orange and blue-gray. The deeper they ran, the darker it grew.

Up ahead, Volkova’s outline flickered between the trees—then vanished.

The trail curved abruptly, ending at a tall chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. Bucky caught sight of Volkova darting to the right, slipping through a jagged tear in the metal.

“Damn it,” Bucky muttered, sprinting after him. He ducked down, pushing through the same hole, but the sharp edge of the fence snagged his sleeve. The metal screeched and tore straight through the jacket and into his arm.

He hissed in pain as blood welled up beneath the torn fabric. “Son of a—”

No time to stop. He forced himself through the gap, boots landing on the other side in a patch of gravel. Straightening, he found himself staring at a low, wood-paneled maintenance building. Behind it, lights shimmered faintly in the distance, accompanied by the faint hum of generators and the unmistakable sound of laughter and music.

He moved quickly to the corner of the building, peeking around it—then stopped dead. Beyond the small fence line was a bustling amusement park. Strings of neon lights glowed above rides and snack stands. Laughter and the distant creak of a roller coaster filled the air. Kids darted between their parents, holding colorful cotton candy sticks. Teenagers walked hand in hand, bundled against the chill.

Bucky blinked. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

He scanned the crowd, but Volkova was gone—vanished into the sea of faces.

Behind him, the chain-link fence rattled. Yelena stepped through the same hole, pausing just long enough to notice the blood blooming on his sleeve.

She gave him a sharp glare. “Really? You ruined the jacket already?”

He ignored the comment. “He’s gone. Disappeared into the crowd.”

Yelena frowned, stepping closer to peer around the corner. “Of course he did.”

Frustration surged in Bucky’s chest. He clenched his metal fist and slammed it lightly against the wooden wall. “We had him.”

“Yeah, well, we still might—just not yet.” She grabbed his arm just below the tear, careful to avoid the bleeding gash, and tugged him toward the crowd. “C’mon. Maybe he’s stupid enough to think we won’t follow him in.”

They merged into the flow of people, moving past souvenir stands and flashing game booths. The smell of popcorn and fried dough filled the air, mixing with the faint tang of oil and machinery from the nearby rides.

Bucky’s eyes swept the park, scanning for any glimpse of Volkova’s gray coat. “He’s got to be either hiding and waiting us out, or heading for the exit,” he said.

Yelena gripped his arm a little tighter and yanked him toward the left. “There! I just saw him!”

He followed her gaze toward the spinning lights of a small carousel. For a split second, he caught sight of a familiar figure slipping between two kiosks near the edge of the midway.

“Yelena, are you sure?” he asked, already falling into stride beside her.

“Positive. Unless there’s another creepy Russian guy in a trench coat running through a theme park at night.”

They pushed through the crowd, earning a few startled looks from families as they brushed past. The sound of the rides dulled as they crossed onto a quieter path leading toward the far edge of the park. A light drizzle had started to fall, the air cool and damp against their skin.

Volkova was still ahead of them—Bucky caught brief flashes of him between the bright concession stands—but he was moving fast. He ducked past the Ferris wheel and through a service gate marked Employees Only.

Yelena sighed, exasperated. “Why is it never a nice, easy chase through, like, a mall?”

“Because malls have better security,” Bucky muttered.

They slipped through the same gate, emerging into a dim back area of the park lined with maintenance sheds and parked utility carts. The laughter and music of the park dulled behind them, replaced by the hum of distant traffic.

Volkova was already climbing another fence and dropping to the other side, this one was lower than the last. Bucky grabbed the edge and vaulted over with practiced ease. Yelena followed close behind, her boots hitting the ground beside him.

Ahead, the trees thinned, giving way to an open stretch of road. The bright glow of highway lights flickered in the distance, and the faint rush of cars filled the air.

Bucky exhaled sharply, scanning the shadows ahead. “He’s heading for the highway.”

Yelena rolled her shoulders and cracked her neck. “Wonderful. I guess we’re not done running yet.”

Without another word, they sprinted after him, their footsteps echoing into the night as the lights of the amusement park faded behind them.

Bucky was closing the distance between himself and Volkova when the man skidded to a halt at a dimly lit bus stop. The last passengers were stepping aboard, the driver already pulling the lever to close the doors.

Volkova waved frantically, breath fogging in the cool night air. The driver sighed, rolling his eyes, but cracked the door open long enough to let him on.

“Shit,” Bucky snapped, slowing to a stop just as the bus hissed away from the curb.

He heard Yelena’s voice echo down the street behind him. “Go! You can keep up with it if you stop worrying about me. Call me when you get him!”

He glanced over his shoulder long enough to see her jogging to a halt, waving him forward. He gave her a brief nod, then turned and broke into a sprint, chasing the bus as it rumbled down the road.

It wasn’t easy keeping it in sight—Bucky stayed several car lengths behind, close enough to see through the back windows but far enough not to draw attention. The city lights blurred past in streaks of orange and white. Every time the bus stopped, he ducked into a doorway or behind a parked car, waiting until it pulled away again before resuming his pursuit.

The route wound north, traffic thinning as they left the denser parts of Toronto behind. The skyline shrank in the distance, swallowed by stretches of residential streets and clusters of half-lit strip malls. A light drizzle began to fall, slicking the pavement and beading across the metal of passing cars.

Eventually, the bus veered off the highway onto a narrow side street. The streetlights here were fewer, casting uneven pools of light across the cracked asphalt. By the time it stopped beside a blue transit sign, only a few cars passed every few minutes.

Bucky crouched behind a hedge at the end of a driveway, watching as the bus doors creaked open. A handful of passengers stepped out, bundled against the cold. The last to descend was Volkova. He lingered on the curb, glancing up and down the street, his posture tense and wary.

Satisfied that no one had followed him, Volkova adjusted the leather strap of his satchel and began walking quickly down the road.

Bucky followed, careful to avoid crunching leaves or scattering gravel under his boots. His movements were silent, measured. The air was cold enough that every exhale hung briefly in front of him before fading into the night.

Volkova turned down a narrow dirt path wedged between two houses. A half-rotted wooden sign marked it as a public walking trail, open from dawn to dusk.

The trail was lined with trees on either side, the branches bowing overhead like ribs forming a cage. Moonlight spilled through in patches, silvering the ground and painting the world in blue-gray. The smell of damp earth and pine filled the air.

Bucky rounded a bend in the trail—and froze.

A gun barrel was pointed directly at his chest.

The metallic click of the safety echoed in the silence. Volkova stood a few paces away, his hand steady, the faint tremor of adrenaline just visible in his wrist.

“Tsk, tsk,” he said, his accent sharpening the words. “You’re early. I had planned for us to work together soon, but I’m afraid I’m not ready just yet.”

Bucky didn’t move. His gaze stayed on the man’s face, searching for hesitation. “You’re not ready for what yet? What are you planning?”

Volkova’s smirk faltered for only a heartbeat before returning. “You should know better than to ask questions. The programming really has slipped, hasn't it? Not that it matters, you’ll find out soon enough.” He tilted his head, eyes glinting in the moonlight. “Though I do have to applaud you for your little stunt with the cute blonde.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “I don’t have time for games. What is the Lambda Serum? Is that what this is about?”

That got a reaction. Volkova’s composure slipped—a brief, involuntary flicker of surprise. “So, you do remember,” he murmured. “Interesting.”

“Remember what?” Bucky pressed, stepping forward. “What does the serum have to do with me?”

Volkova’s calm returned, the smirk settling back into place like a mask. “I had hoped to wait until things were more stable, but since you insist on meddling…” He lifted the gun slightly. “We can get started now.”

His finger squeezed the trigger.

The shot cracked through the still night. Bucky staggered back instinctively, ears ringing. Somewhere nearby, a dog began barking hysterically.

He looked down—expecting blood, a hole, something. But instead, a small metal cylinder had bounced off his jacket and rolled into the dirt at his feet. The spot it made contact burned like fire and Bucky noticed the tip of the cylinder was sharp like a needle.

“What the—”

When he looked up, Volkova’s eyes were wide. The man’s breath came fast, uneven. He lowered the gun slightly, fumbling one-handed with the satchel slung across his chest.

Realization hit a second too late.

Bucky lunged forward, reaching for him—but his movements felt wrong. Sluggish. His coordination slipped like he was wading through thick mud.

Volkova stepped aside easily, letting Bucky stumble past. “Careful,” he said lightly. “It works fast.”

Bucky tried again, but his limbs refused to obey. His vision blurred at the edges, colors dimming. The world tilted, and his right boot caught his left. He went down hard, the impact jarring through his spine as his head struck the dirt.

The trees overhead seemed to sway, blurring into streaks of gray and black.

Volkova crouched beside him, the grin back in full force. “For a moment, I thought it might not work,” he said, voice distant, distorted. “You are… full of surprises, Soldier.”

He slipped the pistol into his bag and drew out something else—something metallic that gleamed faintly in the moonlight—but Bucky couldn’t make out the shape. His muscles trembled violently as he tried to push himself upright, but every movement made the world spin faster.

The earth tilted again. His hands slipped in the dirt. Darkness lapped at the corners of his vision, spreading inward like ink in water.

Volkova leaned closer, close enough that Bucky could feel the man’s breath near his ear. His words were muffled, almost unintelligible, but a few drifted through before everything went black:

“Don’t worry, soldier. Everything will be back to the way it should be, soon enough. With the sedative, you shouldn't even feel this.”
_____

“Bucky! Come on, wake up—please!”

Yelena’s voice cut through the haze like a blade, sharp and panicked, right by his ear. Her hands gripped his shoulder, shaking him hard enough that his head thudded lightly against the packed dirt beneath him.

Bucky groaned, his throat dry. His head felt stuffed with cotton, and every muscle in his body ached as though he’d been in a fight he couldn’t remember. A low, involuntary sound slipped from his chest as he forced his eyes open.

“Oh, thank God,” Yelena breathed. The relief in her voice was thick enough to be painful.

He blinked a few times, waiting for the world to focus. The moonlight above was dim behind drifting clouds, throwing everything into uneven shades of gray. Yelena knelt on the trail in front of him, her knees pressing into the dirt. Her face was streaked with tears and sweat, and her hair hung in tangled knots around her face. When she dragged the back of her arm across her face, she left a smeared streak of mud where the tears had been.

“Yelena, were you crying over me?” He asked, offering her a small but lighthearted smile.

“No.” She said immediately, not returning the smile. “The cold air is just making my eyes water. That's all.”

Despite the ache burning through his shoulders and the stiffness in his spine, Bucky pushed himself upright until he was sitting beside her. His arms trembled slightly with the effort. As he straightened, something slid off his shoulders and fell into a heap in the dirt.

He looked down. The familiar dark-green jacket Yelena had been wearing earlier lay crumpled beside him. Frowning, he picked it up and turned toward her. The night air bit at his skin, sharp and cold, and it struck him that Yelena was shivering—bare-armed in only a gray T-shirt, her breath visible in faint white puffs. Her wide eyes stayed locked on him like she was afraid to look away.

“Here,” Bucky said roughly, pushing the jacket toward her. “Take it back. It’s freezing out—why aren’t you wearing it?”

He shoved it into her hands before peeling off the heavier coat he’d borrowed earlier to cover his arm. The torn sleeve brushed against the cool air, stinging where the chain-link fence had ripped the fabric—and his skin—with it.

Yelena hesitated for half a second, then pulled the green jacket back over her shoulders, tucking her arms into the sleeves. She didn’t stop looking at him. Her voice, when it came, was soft and tight. “Are you okay?”

Bucky brought a hand to the side of his head. His fingers pressed against the dull throb just above his temple. He ran a quick check—neck, ribs, arm, legs—all sore, all intact. His ears still rang, but he was breathing, moving, conscious. That was good enough.

“Yeah,” he rasped after a moment. “I think so.”

For a split second, Yelena’s expression flickered with relief again. Then her jaw clenched. Without warning, she punched him square in the shoulder—hard enough that the impact reverberated through his arm.

He winced. “Ow—what the hell was that for?”

Her voice came out louder than expected. “Then what the fuck happened, Bucky!?”

A light flicked on in a nearby house overlooking the trail. Both of them froze for a second, the soft hum of the bulb behind the curtain spilling into the dark.

“You scared the crap out of me!” Her voice cracked, still pitched high from adrenaline, though it softened halfway through. “I thought you were dead. What happened?”

He tried to think back. His memory was fuzzy. “I cornered Volkova here, but he was expecting me. After that, everything is kind of a blurr.” He glanced around at the dirt path, the shadows spilling across it. “Wait… how did you find me?”

“Well,” she said, crossing her arms, “after I called you, like, twenty times and you didn’t answer, I called Ava and had her track your phone.”

A light flicked on in a house across the street, followed by the faint sound of a door creaking open.

Bucky sighed. “We should get back to the jet before someone calls the cops.”

Yelena stood and extended a hand. He took it, letting her haul him to his feet with surprising strength. His knees protested the movement, and he winced as his balance steadied. She noticed, but didn’t say anything.

“Why did you give me your jacket?” he asked as he noticed the heavier one still slung over his arm. He draped it around her shoulders, tugging it into place.

“Because when I finally found you, you were face-down in the dirt and your skin felt like ice.” Her voice wavered on the last word. “I didn’t know what else to do.” She folded her arms tightly and started down the path toward the street, shoulders hunched against the cold.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky said quietly as he fell into step beside her. “I didn’t mean to scare you. Everything just happened so fast.”

They stepped out onto the quiet suburban street. The pavement glistened faintly from an earlier rain, catching the pale yellow light of a streetlamp.

“What time is it?” he asked after a few beats of silence.

“Almost nine,” she muttered, checking her phone. “It took me nearly four hours to find you.” She frowned, thumbing through a few apps. “Great. No rides available. Looks like it’s a long walk back to the jet.”

They started walking, their boots crunching against the gravel shoulder. Every few minutes, a car passed by, headlights glaring bright enough to make them squint and look away. The cold crept in again, tightening the air between them until Yelena finally broke the silence.

“Did Volkova say anything before he shot you? Or was that it?”

Bucky frowned, replaying the fragmented memory. “He talked—briefly. But I cannot remember what he said.” His jaw flexed as he thought.

“Really? Did you hit your head or something?” Yelena asked.

Bucky rubbed a hand across his temple, feeling the pounding pain there. “Maybe?”

The trees around them began to thin, the faint roar of wind turbines and the smell of jet fuel drifting in from the open field ahead. Through the break in the woods, they could see the dark outline of the runway, lights from the jet faintly blinking in the distance.

Yelena kicked a loose stone out of the way as they walked. “And he just left you there? I’d expect him to drag you off for whatever evil science project he’s cooking up.” She glanced sideways at him. “Maybe he tried, but couldn’t lift you. You’re surprisingly dense.”

Bucky snorted, the corner of his mouth twitching up despite himself. The tension in his shoulders eased slightly.

As the runway came fully into view, both of them picked up their pace, their weary walk turning into a light jog across the tarmac. The jet loomed ahead, dark and sleek against the night sky.

“You can sit up front,” Yelena called over her shoulder as she climbed the stairs, “but I’m flying.”

“Okay,” Bucky said, settling into the seat beside her as the engines began to hum.

She blinked, suspicious. “Wait—really? No argument?”

He leaned his head back, eyes half-closed. “Nope. Let’s just get out of here.”

Chapter 9

Notes:

It's been so tempting to post a chapter a day, I have a few chapters written already but I am trying to keep to an every-other-day schedule. 😂

1956
Shilovsky

Shilovsky boarded the jet in silence, taking his usual spot in the co-pilot’s seat and clipping the harness across his chest. The cabin smelled faintly of jet fuel and leather; a soft hum filled the small space. Kovac barely glanced in his direction as she slipped into the captain’s seat and ran through the pre-flight checks with practiced movements.

“So, where are we going? Where is this serum we are retrieving?” he asked, gripping the sides of his seat as the jet began to taxi. He kept his eyes on the instrument panel—artificial horizon, altimeter—rather than the ground scrolling by outside.

“That is not information you need to know at this time.” Her voice was flat, controlled. She glanced his way once, her eyes cool and calculating. “We will need a stop for a change of clothes on the way. Are you capable of acting civilized, or would it be best for you to remain in the jet?”

Shilovsky was taken aback by the question. “I am capable of doing anything that is asked of me,” he replied.

“We’ll see about that.” She didn’t look at him as the engines spooled and the jet climbed into the thin morning sky. “What size suit do you wear?”

“I don’t know. Should I know that?” He leaned forward a fraction, searching her face for a hint, but her expression stayed flat and unreadable.

“Why am I not surprised?” she said. “It’s fine. My contact can sort it out.” Without moving her head, she flicked her eyes to him. “A suit jacket will hide your arm, but we’ll need to cover your hand. A pair of nice gloves should do—just try not to draw attention to them while we’re working.”

“I can do that. Are you sure I shouldn’t know where we’re going, though?”

She sighed, the brief exhale a small crack in her composed facade. “We’re going to Berlin—to a decommissioned opera house. Do you even know what that is?”

Shilovsky tried to keep his voice level. “Did I do something to upset you?”

Kovac straightened slightly, considering the question for a beat before pressing a red button and putting the jet in autopilot. Her posture softened only a fraction, enough to show that she was measuring him. Then she turned to face him properly, her gaze traveling from his heavy boots up to his face.

“Not yet,” she said. “But I am not giving you the opportunity. I’ve read your file—everything I could get my hands on in preparation for this mission.” She crossed her arms across her chest, an impassive line.

“What did you find?” he asked.

“You’re incredibly dangerous—more weapon than man. You’re good at what you do, a perfect killer, unclouded by conscience or emotion.” The words came with a strange, almost reluctant admiration. “But you’re also unstable and tend to have a lack of regard for your own safety and for your handlers’. This is my first real mission for the KGB, and if we fail it will be my last. I’m not letting that happen because I got stuck working with you.”

“Why would it be your last?” he asked thoughtfully.

“Did they not tell you the criticality of this mission?” She flipped a few switches, eyes steady on him. “The serum we are retrieving is highly classified and extremely dangerous. If we fail, we will be eliminated as an example.” Her tone hardened as she killed the autopilot and eased the jet toward descent.

“I don’t fail,” Shilovsky said, the confidence in his voice firmer than he felt.

Kovac let out a short, sarcastic laugh. “I’ve heard that too. But even you are not perfect.” She guided the jet down, the fuselage whining softly as the ground rushed up to meet them. “We’re landing outside the city. We will walk from there.”

He opened his mouth to press further—ask what else she’d learned about him—but she was already checking the time and unclipping her harness. “Our first stop will be about a forty-minute walk. Come on.” She rose and moved toward the rear where the cargo doors were starting to unseal with a mechanical whine. “Oh—leave your weapons here.”

The request was blunt, and odd, but it made sense for an undercover insertion. He reached into assorted holsters and sheaths, pulling out blades, three pistols, and a handful of small grenades, and placed them carefully into a small flight safe. Kovac watched with narrowed eyes as he spun the dial and locked it.

“That everything?” she asked, arms folded.

“Yes.” He joined her at the door, the cold air of the landing strip washing over them as the jet’s stairs unfolded.

The air outside was cold, but at least it wasn’t snowing like it had been in Siberia. Shilovsky matched his pace to Kovac’s, and after a few minutes of walking, even the light wind chill barely registered.

They kept to smaller paths and less populated sidewalks, avoiding intersections where pedestrians or taxis lingered. Shilovsky had no idea where they were going, but Kovac navigated confidently—turning corners, cutting through alleys, crossing streets as if following an invisible map only she could see.

When the last of the city noise faded behind them, she finally spoke.
“We don’t currently know where the serum is,” Kovac said, keeping her tone low. “However, one of our undercover agents has been tracking a HYDRA operative who recently defected. The man’s been showing up at a series of underground auctions, selling bits of intel and stolen weapons.”

She glanced both ways before crossing the street, giving a polite nod to a passing couple.

Shilovsky waited until they were out of earshot. “He’s planning to flee the country, then? That’s why he’s selling what he stole?”

“Exactly,” she said. “Defecting from HYDRA is already a death sentence. Stealing from them guarantees it. But selling what you stole?” She gave a small, humorless smile. “That’s suicide. Which is why tonight will likely be his last night in Berlin. He’s offering two sets of weapons schematics and—most importantly—a small sample of something our agent believes is the serum we’re after.”

Shilovsky frowned. “If we already have an agent trailing him, why can’t that agent retrieve the sample?”

“Because it would blow his cover,” Kovac replied, her boots pounding against the pavement with every step. “Besides, we don’t just need the sample—we need the man. He knows where the rest of it came from, who he got it from, and where the formula is stored. The serum is useless without that information.”

They turned another corner, emerging onto a quieter street lined with small storefronts. She stopped in front of a narrow clothing shop with peeling gold lettering on the window.

“I’ll explain the rest after,” Kovac said, pushing open the door despite the large red CLOSED sign hanging in the window.

A bell chimed softly as they stepped inside. The shop smelled faintly of dust and fabric dye. A young woman in the back, bent over a sewing machine, looked up at the sound. Her glare softened when she saw Kovac.

“Myra! There you are!” the woman said, dropping her work to rush forward. She threw her arms around Kovac in a brief, sideways hug that left the agent looking stiff and uncomfortable. “Who’s your friend?”

“His name is not important, Anya. We’re in a bit of a hurry.”

“Right,” Anya said cheerfully. “I have a few options hanging in the back for you. Feel free to try them on. And what’s your suit size, dear?” she asked, directing the question toward Shilovsky.

“He doesn’t know,” Kovac cut in sharply. “I doubt he’s ever worn a suit in his life. And you are to address me, not him.” Her eyes flicked to Shilovsky—a silent order, not a suggestion.

Anya blinked, then nodded quickly. “Understood. I’ll just take a few measurements and see what I have.” She disappeared through a small archway at the back of the store.

“Is she KGB?” Shilovsky asked quietly, raising an eyebrow.

“Not exactly,” Kovac replied. “She doesn’t work for the KGB, but she works with them. She’s useful, but she likes to ask questions. That’s why you’ll keep your mouth shut until we leave.” Her tone left no room for debate. “I’m going to try on the dresses she picked out for me. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

As Kovac slipped into a dressing room, Anya reappeared, notebook and measuring tape in hand.

“I’m just going to take a few measurements,” she said brightly. “It’ll only take a minute. I’m sure I have something in your size.”

She circled him like a tailor at work, efficient but gentle, tugging lightly at his sleeves and making notes. Shilovsky stood still, unbothered. He was used to being handled, measured, and examined by strangers—scientists, soldiers, handlers. At least this time, he thought wryly, he was fully clothed.

“Perfect. I think I have just the thing. Wait here!”

Anya jumped up from where she’d been sitting cross-legged on the floor, scattering a few pins and scraps of thread in her wake. She disappeared through the archway with quick, purposeful steps and returned a minute later carrying a large gray garment bag almost as tall as she was.

“Dressing rooms are right back there. Go try it on.” She thrust the bag into his hands a little too eagerly, eyes sparkling with curiosity.

Shilovsky took it without a word and walked toward the dressing rooms. There were two doors—one already occupied, a row of dark green dresses draped casually over the top. The other stood open.

He stepped inside, hung the garment bag on one of the hooks, and unzipped it to reveal an expensive-looking black suit. The fabric caught the light in a way that told him it wasn’t cheaply made. Wasting no time, he shed his standard black uniform, folding the pieces neatly on a small bench, and began pulling on the suit.

There were no shoes inside the bag, and he doubted Kovac would allow him to wear his heavy combat boots. He remained in his socks, buttoning the crisp white shirt and adjusting the jacket’s shoulders. The fabric fit almost perfectly, which was either impressive guesswork or years of practiced skill.

When he stepped out, he found both women waiting. Kovac was wearing a dark green dress made of shimmery fabric that shifted like water under the light. The open back revealed pale skin with the occasional long scar, she quickly pulled a black sweater over her shoulders.

Anya let out a low whistle. “Wow. You look sharp.”

Kovac rolled her eyes. “He’ll need shoes—and gloves.”

“Oh! And a tie!” Anya clapped her hands, darting to a table covered in neatly arranged accessories. “I have just the one!” She rummaged briefly before holding up a tie that matched the deep green of Kovac’s dress. “Shoes are over there.” She pointed behind her without looking up.

Shilovsky turned toward the row of dress shoes lined up along the base of a mirror. The leather looked soft but fragile. “I will not be able to run in these.”

“You won’t need to run,” Kovac said, crossing her arms. “Have you never been undercover before?”

“Here! It’s perfect!” Anya hurried back, holding up the tie beside Kovac’s dress with a satisfied hum. She passed it to Shilovsky, who was crouched, finishing the laces on a pair of shoes that looked far too delicate for his liking.

He stood and looped the tie around his neck, his hands moving with a confidence that caught even him off guard.

Kovac tilted her head, brow raised. “You don’t know your suit size, but you can tie a tie? Interesting.”

He looked down at the neatly knotted tie. He wasn’t sure how he knew the motion, but the evidence spoke for itself. “I didn’t know I could tie one either,” he admitted quietly.

“So, you can talk,” Anya teased, handing him a pair of thin leather gloves. “These should work for you.”

He pulled them on, the leather snug against his hands. He didn’t need to glance at Kovac to feel her glare—it was sharp enough to cut through the air between them.

“Is that everything, Anya?” Kovac asked, tugging her sweater into place.

“I believe so. What would you like me to do with your clothes?” Anya nodded toward the dressing rooms.

“Keep them here. We’ll be back in a few hours. You know where to send the bill.”

“Sounds good.” Anya smiled warmly, already moving to tidy up. “You both look lovely, by the way. I’ll lock the door when you leave.”

“She seems nice,” Shilovsky said once the shop door clicked shut and the lock turned behind them.

Agent Kovac rolled her eyes but didn’t answer. She stepped closer to the curb, scanning the street. A faint breeze carried the smell of rain on concrete and car exhaust.

“We’ll need to call a cab,” she said finally. “Which means we’ll probably have to walk to the end of the block. There’s a main road there.”

He fell into step beside her, hands in his pockets. “So, we don’t need the serum—we need the man?”

“Correct.” Her tone was clipped, distracted. “The sample he’s selling is practically nothing. It would be useless to us. But if we can find him, we can find out where he got the serum.”

They walked in silence for a moment, the click of Kovac’s heels keeping steady rhythm on the cracked sidewalk. A stray dog darted across the street, and she paused briefly to let a car pass before continuing.

“That doesn’t explain why we’re dressed like this,” Shilovsky said, motioning to his suit. “Why not just grab the guy and demand he tell us where he got it?”

She shot him a sharp look from the corner of her eye. “Of course that would be your plan.”

Kovac stepped off the curb, arm raised, trying to flag down a cab. One sped past without slowing. She sighed through her nose. “For one, there are going to be a lot of eyes at the auction. We need to maintain a low profile. And two—if HYDRA hasn’t found this guy yet, they’re definitely looking for him. We need to stay as far off their radar as possible.”

Another cab turned the corner, headlights sweeping over them. Kovac lifted her hand again, and this time the driver slowed. The car pulled to the curb, and she opened the door.

“Kaiserlicher Oper, bitte,” she said once they were inside. The driver nodded, merging back into the traffic flow.

They sat in silence for most of the ride. The city blurred past outside, lit in gold and amber by passing streetlights. Kovac kept her eyes on the window, and Shilovsky mirrored her quiet stillness. Neither was particularly good at small talk—and both knew better than to discuss their mission where anyone could overhear.

When the cab finally slowed to a stop, the driver pointed toward a grand building across the street. Ornate columns framed the front entrance, and a line of well-dressed guests was already forming.

Kovac handed over a small stack of bills and stepped out, smoothing her dress as she straightened. She glanced over at Shilovsky and, without warning, looped her arm through his.

“Just follow my lead,” she murmured. “And try not to look like a robot.”

“I do not look like a robot.”

“You do,” she said, already walking. “And maybe try to look a little less scary while you’re at it.”

He adjusted his shoulders, unsure what about him was frightening—or how to change it. The crowd ahead moved in a slow current toward the entrance. As they drew closer, he noticed people stepping beneath an arched frame, pausing briefly, then moving on.

“What is that?” he asked, gesturing subtly.

“A metal detector,” she said under her breath.

He stopped for half a step. “What? I won’t be able to get through it.”

Kovac tugged sharply at his arm. “You’ll be fine. I know one of the guards. The machine will go off, he’ll pull you aside, and he’ll check you manually. Just stay calm and don’t do anything stupid.”

He muttered a curse in Russian but followed her forward.

“Any weapons?” one of the uniformed guards asked as they approached.

“None,” Kovac said smoothly, offering a sweet, harmless smile. She slipped her arm from Shilovsky’s and stepped through the detector. The machine stayed silent. After a brief nod from another guard, she moved aside.

Shilovsky stepped under the arch next—and immediately, the red light above him flared to life, followed by a sharp, piercing alarm.

“Step over there, sir,” another guard ordered, motioning him aside. “Do you have any weapons on your person?”

He glanced toward Kovac. Her expression was calm, but her eyes were a warning.

“No,” he said evenly. “I do not.”

The guard nodded and instructed him to put his arms out. The man ran his hands slowly along each sleeve, pausing for a heartbeat as his fingertips brushed the seam over Shilovsky’s left arm; then he continued as if nothing was out of the ordinary.

Once the check confirmed he was unarmed, the guard waved them through and returned to his post at a nearby case. Kovac was back at his side in an instant, looping her arm through his again as if they’d never been separated. “Come on,” she murmured. “The bidding starts in under an hour. We need to figure out which item contains the serum.”

“I thought you said we didn’t need the serum—just the man?” Shilovsky asked, letting her steer him toward the middle of the room where rows of folding chairs faced a small raised stage. His voice was low; the room felt dense with the kind of quiet that makes everything louder.

Along the walls, stone pedestals displayed paintings, vases, and cracked leather-bound books. Each piece had a security detail: broad-shouldered men in dark suits with earpieces, scanning the crowd, hands resting near concealed holsters.

Kovac scanned the room once, then flagged down a waiter carrying a tray of bubbling glasses. She lifted one and took a deliberate sip, lips closing around the rim with a practiced casualness.

Before the waiter could pull the tray away, Shilovsky plucked a glass for himself. Kovac’s eyebrow rose. “Are you allowed to drink?” she asked, arching one brow at him.

“I don’t see why not,” he said. “You are.”

“Fair enough.” She pivoted and tugged him toward a display stand at the far end of the room. The stand held a neat stack of auction programs; she grabbed one and thumbed through it. “Our agent doesn’t know precisely which item the serum is in,” she said, voice low, “but he knows the auction’s key.”

They slipped away from the pavilion of security and returned to the seats, choosing two chairs as deliberately placed as possible—back row, out of the way but with a clear sightline to the stage. The room hummed with polite conversation: a French actor, a middle-aged dealer murmuring about provenance, a young collector laughing too loudly about a rival. Time moved in measured ticks on a mantel clock near the stage; Kovac checked her watch and then again, tucking her program flat against her knee.

“Items underlined in blue relate to weapons, green is science or medicine, and red is intel,” she said, tapping the printed list. She smoothed the page with a fingertip, then lifted her glass to take another sip.

“What about yellow?” Shilovsky asked, pointing to a line underlined with a soft lemon hue.

“That means the item itself is the high-value lot—no hidden surprises,” she replied, flipping the program to the back, where more listings waited.

He scanned the pages, eyes moving faster than any casual bidder’s. “Everything blue is weapons?” he asked, noting how many blue entries there were—more than any other color.

“A weapon, a schematic, an accessory, anything that helps a weapon exist,” Kovac said. She folded her hands around the glass. “If we can identify which lot the serum is attached to before the auction begins, we can intercept the buyer in the back room when they take items for verification. That’s where the exchange of money happens.”

Shilovsky reached instinctively for the program. She hesitated, then let it slide into his hand. His eyes tracked methodically down the listings, ticking off names and items. He paused, finally pointing. “It’s this one—Handbemalte römische Vase.”

Kovac snatched the program back quickly. “How do you know?” she demanded, though the edge of her voice held something like curiosity now.

“You said this man is selling two weapons schematics and the serum, right?” he asked, not waiting for her to answer. “This vase, a book, and a painting are all listed under the seller Dieter Schulz. Most sellers have either a single lot or a half-dozen. The only two people selling exactly three items are Schulz and Vern Müller. Müller’s three items are all paintings, and one of them is underlined in yellow.” He tapped the lines with a fingertip.

“The vase is green, the book and the painting are blue,” Kovac murmured, the corners of her mouth lifting with the smallest sign of approval. “You’re right.”

“So we know who we’re looking for. Now what? Where will he be?” He lifted his head to scan the room—the pedestals, the guard rotations, the shadows between guests.

Kovac folded the program closed and tucked it under her arm. She checked her watch again, then the stage clock. “Now we wait.” She set her empty glass down and picked up the second one from a passing tray, taking a small, controlled sip. Then she looked at him with a sharp stare. “You may only have one drink,” she said, “I don’t trust you with alcohol.”

“Really?” he asked.

“I don’t trust you at all,” she replied dryly. “Adding alcohol to the mix is unnecessary.”

He opened his mouth to reply and thought better of it. Outside the polite murmur, the clock ticked nearer to the auction’s start. Guests rearranged their programs, whispered to one another, and glanced toward the front as an attendant dimmed the lights and someone adjusted the microphone. The air took on a new charge of expectancy, like the hush before a storm.

Kovac nudged his knee under the cover of the program. “When these three items are claimed and paid for,” she said softly, “the seller will get his money and leave. That’s our window..” She folded her hands and fixed him with a steady look.

“This place is crawling with security, how are we going to intercept him without raising suspicion?” He asked.

“We buy one of the items.” Kovac said, opening a small clutch that was wrapped around her wrist. It matched her dress color and while Shilovsky had noticed it before, it seemed too small to hold much of anything.

Now he noted that it was packed full with stacks of currency.

Chapter 10

Notes:

I'll admit, I have struggled a bit with the Shilovsky chapters. I have the idea written out in bullet points and I know the story I want to tell. I'm just having a hard time getting it out there in a way that makes sense and sounds good. This chapter isn't too bad but as I'm writing the later chapters, I'm getting a little frustrated.

1956
Shilovsky

Shilovsky watched in awe as Kovac appeared to bid on items at random, but the way her eyes scanned the room told him every move was calculated. She mostly bid on art—paintings or tightly bound scrolls—and she always made sure to get outbid on each one.

When the announcer brought out the vase, Shilovsky sat up a little straighter. To his surprise, Kovac didn’t move. The bidding started, the numbers climbing higher and higher.

Eventually, he nudged her knee with his. When she glanced his way, he raised an eyebrow, but she merely shook her head.

“I thought we were going to buy the vase?” he whispered.

“No. I said we were going to buy one of the items,” she murmured back. “The vase is too obvious.”

The numbers continued to rise until most of the bidders dropped off and the vase went to a sharply dressed man at the front of the room. He stood with a grin and followed a security guard through a doorway near the back as the next item was carried out.

This one was the painting being sold by Schulz. Agent Kovac’s eyes swept the crowd, studying who was bidding. Then, as if flipping a switch, she raised her paddle to increase the bid.

Shilovsky could practically feel the tension thickening around them as she kept bidding—each number higher than the last. After what felt like an eternity, it came down to just her and another woman. Finally, Kovac was the last to raise her program. The woman in front shot her a glare sharp enough to cut glass.

“Sold! To the woman in the green dress!” the auctioneer announced.

A second later, an armed guard appeared beside them, gesturing for them to stand and follow him toward the back of the room.

The guard fell a few steps behind, and Shilovsky leaned closer, lowering his voice. “That was a lot of money. Do you actually have that much on you?”

“Of course I do. The KGB was more than prepared for this,” she snapped, keeping her eyes forward.

As they approached the door, someone on the other side opened it for them. Kovac gave him a quick, meaningful glance—be ready.

The room beyond was dimly lit and larger than he expected. It took a few seconds for their eyes to adjust. They were alone with only two guards standing by the walls. One wall was bare, another held a set of double doors, and directly across from them was a single door marked by a faintly glowing exit sign.

A few people filtered back through from the auction hall, but most seemed to have already left after paying for their items. The air was heavy with quiet murmurs and the faint hum of overhead lights.

The double doors opened, and a man wheeled the painting in on a cart. He gave them both a polite smile. “I’ll give you a moment to examine the item. When you’re ready, I can take your payment and arrange the shipping details.” He flicked on a bright light above the painting and stepped back.

Kovac moved closer, tilting her head as though studying the details of the frame. After a moment, she reached for Shilovsky’s arm, her eyes meeting his. “Well, dear, I think it looks perfect. Are you ready?”

Her tone carried a double meaning, and he gave a single sharp nod.

The man approached again as she pulled a thick stack of bills from her clutch. Shilovsky casually shifted his position, stepping back toward the guards. Kovac handed over the money, and the man began to count it carefully—each crisp note flicking past his thumb with precise, deliberate movements.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, I might be a few bills short. Here’s the rest,” she said in a sickly sweet voice. As the man glanced up, she grabbed his arm, twisted, and threw him clean over her shoulder.

The guards both moved forward at once, reaching for their holstered weapons. The first man’s hand didn’t even reach his side before Shilovsky caught his wrist, twisting until there was a sickening pop. The man’s cry of pain was cut off as Shilovsky clamped a hand over his mouth and the back of his neck, twisting sharply until the man went limp.

The second guard managed to draw his weapon, but a quick kick from Kovac sent it skittering across the floor. He barely had time to react before she was on him, striking low and fast. He hit the ground beside his partner, both bodies crumpled in a heap.

“Quick—Schulz should be in the next room over. We probably have a little more than five minutes before the next buyers are brought in.” Kovac motioned to the room the painting had been wheeled through. “He’s likely to be skittish, but we can’t let him get away before we find out what he knows.”

She paused, one hand on the brass knob, waiting for Shilovsky to move beside her. Then she threw the door open, and they rushed inside.

A man in black slacks and a disheveled black shirt sat slouched in a chair against one wall. Another guard stood near a door on the opposite side. Kovac’s focus went to the seated man, but Shilovsky lunged at the guard first, grabbing him by the collar and hurling him onto the concrete floor with a heavy crack.

The man—Schulz—was on his feet in an instant. He grabbed the metal chair he’d been sitting on and hurled it at Kovac. She dodged, but one leg of the chair clipped her wrist, sending her stumbling.

Schulz bolted for the door they’d come through and slammed it behind him. Kovac straightened quickly, voice sharp. “Go! Don’t let him get away—we need that information!”

Shilovsky sprinted to the door, but it resisted when he pulled. There was no lock—Schulz must’ve shoved the cart against it. He yanked harder, metal screeching as the door gave way.

The room beyond was empty.

“Shit. He went out the exit,” Kovac hissed from behind him.

Without waiting for orders, Shilovsky threw open the exit door and burst into the street. A dark silhouette sprinted down the block ahead—just a blur under the streetlights. He took off after it, the sound of his own footsteps pounding against the cobblestones.

He knew he was faster, but the uneven ground and the slick leather soles of his dress shoes made every step a gamble. His footing slipped once, almost pitching him forward, but he caught himself and kept going. The cold air burned in his lungs.

Ahead, Schulz darted across a busy street, a horn blaring as a car screeched to a halt. Without hesitation, Shilovsky followed, weaving between headlights and shouts before hitting the sidewalk on the other side. The man turned sharply into a narrow alley, half-hidden in shadow.

By the time Shilovsky reached it, the alley was empty—but the faint rhythm of boots slapping wet pavement echoed from somewhere to the right. He turned and ran, following the sound through a twisting side street lined with overflowing trash bins and the sharp scent of rain and gasoline.

He caught sight of Schulz again—a flicker of motion under a dim street light—and picked up speed, pushing harder. His toes ached with every stride, and the thin leather of his shoes was nearly shredding, but he ignored it.

Schulz veered back toward the main road, sprinting two more blocks before diving into another alley. This time, Shilovsky saw exactly where he went. His pace quickened, closing the distance fast.

Then came a startled, “Oh, shit!”

Schulz stood at the base of a tall chain-link fence, the top wrapped in barbed wire. His head snapped toward Shilovsky, who was now blocking the only exit. In a desperate move, Schulz started to climb.

He didn’t make it far. Shilovsky caught his ankle and yanked him down. Schulz hit the wet pavement with a heavy thud and a sharp cry of surprise. He rolled onto his back, hands raised instinctively to shield his face.

“Where did you get the serum from?” Shilovsky asked, cutting through the silent alleyway.

The man on the ground trembled, eyes screwed shut as if willing himself not to see. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I sell fine art and antiquities. You’ve got the wrong man.” His voice cracked on the last word.

Shilovsky didn’t bother with patience. He wrapped his left hand around the man’s throat—firm enough to pin him in place, careful not to crush. The contact was cold through the fabric; the fingers of the other hand dug into the man’s collar to steady him.

“Where is HYDRA creating the serum?”

Schulz’s eyes snapped open, pupils blown with sudden alarm. “Wait— you’re not with HYDRA? You are—wait, I know you.”

“No, you don’t.” Shilovsky’s reply was steel. “Answer the question.” He tightened his grip a fraction; the man’s words fell into a thinner, rasping breath.

“The Americans reported you dead. Doctor Zola would lose his mind if he knew his little experiment was still walking around.” Schulz’s voice slid between fear and excitement.

Shilovsky’s fingers flexed. The man could still breathe, but each inhalation was a labor. “Why would the Americans think I was dead? And who is Zola? Is he the one responsible for the serum you’re selling?”

Schulz coughed, desperation at the edge of his sentences. “You’re really not with HYDRA? And you’re not with the Americans anymore—not with your buddy Captain America gone. So who are you with now?” His hand clawed at Shilovsky’s sleeve; when it found purchase on the metal arm, it only tore his nails and left a dark crescent of blood.

“Why would I ever work for the Americans?” Shilovsky snapped, surprised at the volume of his voice and unable to force it down. “I do not know Captain America.”

The man’s face contorted as he forced air in again, trying to speak. “Ple— I— don—” His words dissolved into a gurgle; his limbs went slack, and his head lolled to the side.

Shilovsky gripped him harder, the world narrowing to panic and the cold press of canvas. “Answer me!” he hissed.

“Agent! What the hell happened?” Kovac’s voice cut through like ice. She grabbed his arm, hauling him back. Shilovsky’s hands released, and Schulz slid, face-first, onto the concrete.

He stumbled backward until the brick wall at his back stopped him. His chest worked; his breaths were harsh and shallow. Kovac rolled Schulz over and pressed two fingers to the side of his neck, then looked up at Shilovsky with a quick, clinical assessment.

After a beat she spun on him. “He’s dead! Did you get the information we needed?” Despite being significantly shorter, she shoved him hard enough that his shoulders slammed into the wall, her forearm bracing against his chest.

“No. I—he’s dead?” The word came out flat, a question and a small, stunned denial.

“Yes, dumbass. He’s dead.” Kovac’s voice was tight with anger and something like disappointment. She walked a slow circle around the body, as if cataloging possibilities. “I knew something like this would happen when they assigned me to a trigger-happy psychopath.”

“I didn’t shoot him,” Shilovsky said, confusion and a rising defensiveness threading his tone.

“My point still stands.” She crouched and began rifling through Schulz’s pockets—keys, a greasy wad of cash, a battered wallet. She flipped through cards and licenses with quick, practiced movements. “Looks like ‘Schulz’ was a fake name. No surprise.”

Shilovsky stepped back from the wall and watched her work in silence. The adrenaline that had kept his hands steady was ebbing, leaving a thin tremor. He didn’t speak until she held up a small laminated card between two fingers.

“Josef Lehmann,” she read, turning it so he could see. From where he stood he couldn’t make out all the fine print, but the HYDRA emblem stamped at the top was unmistakable. “It’s an ID for a lab,” Kovac said, her voice low. “There’s an address on the back.”

“Where does it say?” he asked, stepping forward despite the cold iron taste in his mouth.

Kovac’s eyes snapped to his like a blade. “A remote area on the Estonia border, near Lake Peipus.”

“So that’s where the lab is?” He clung to the hope in the question, trying to steady himself. “That’s where we go?”

“That’s where we’re going,” Kovac said. “But no—there’s no guarantee it’s where the lab is.” She tucked the ID card into her clutch, then shoved everything else back into the man’s pockets with brisk, efficient movements. “Pick him up and put him in that dumpster.”

Agent Kovac was already striding out of the alley before she’d even finished speaking. Shilovsky sighed, grabbed the limp body under the arms, and dragged it to the far end of the alley. The dumpster lid creaked when he lifted it. He heaved the man inside and rearranged a few trash bags over the body until it disappeared beneath the black plastic. The faint smell of rot and damp cardboard clung to his gloves as he dropped the lid closed.

When he jogged to catch up, Kovac was halfway down the street. The night air was cool against his neck, thick with the lingering exhaust of passing cars. “What happened? Are you hurt?” he asked, catching sight of the faint limp in her step.

Her stare was sharp enough to cut through the dim streetlight. “I’m fine. You try running in heels like these.” Her tone softened only enough to sound exhausted. “Come on. We’re only a couple miles from Anya’s.”

He hesitated, glancing at her uneven gait. “Should you be walking if you hurt your leg?”

“Should you be talking,” she snapped, “considering how badly you fucked up?” Her pace didn’t falter, heels clicking sharply against the cobblestones. “Did he say anything to you? Or did you just strangle him the second you got your hands on him?”

“He mentioned a name. Doctor Zola.” Shilovsky looked straight ahead as they walked, the streetlamps stretching their shadows long across the pavement. “Maybe he’s the man who created the serum.” He didn’t mention the recognition in Schulz’s voice—it felt safer to bury that part for now.

Kovac made a low noise in her throat. “No. Not the serum we’re after anyway.” She turned down a narrower street lined with shuttered cafés and darkened windows. “Doctor Zola was trying to recreate the serum used on Captain America.”

“Doctor Zola worked with Captain America?” he asked, voice quiet but curious.

She actually laughed at that—short, humorless. “No, not with him. He worked for HYDRA, tried copying the serum they used on the Captain. Killed a bunch of people in the process before he finally got it right.” She glanced at him sidelong, her tone turning cool again. “What did Schulz—or Lehmann, whatever—say about Zola?”

“He said Zola would be surprised he was selling the serum,” Shilovsky lied, the words heavy on his tongue.

They turned another corner, their footsteps echoing off the narrow stone walls. A cat darted out from behind a garbage bin, startling him enough to earn a quiet scoff from Kovac.

“I didn’t mean to kill him,” Shilovsky said finally, breaking the silence. His gaze dropped to his gloved hands. The leather felt tight, suffocating against metal. “I was just holding him still… asking questions. I didn’t realize how much force I was using. I didn’t mean to mess this up.”

Kovac slowed slightly, her expression unreadable. “Whether you meant to or not, he’s dead now. All we can do is find another way to the lab.” Her voice had softened—just barely. She nodded toward the street ahead. “Here. Anya’s is around that corner.”

The street they emerged onto was familiar—cobblestones uneven, the same flickering neon sign humming over the shopfront. The “Closed” sign still hung in the window. Kovac approached the glass door and knocked—three times, a pause, once, another pause, and three more.

A moment later, the pink curtain in the window shifted. Anya peeked through the narrow gap, spotted them, and the lock clicked open.

“You’re back!” she said brightly, pulling the door wide. “Did you get what you needed?”

“You know we can’t tell you that.” Kovac’s tone was tired, not sharp. “Shil—go change. Quickly.” She caught herself before finishing his name.

He slipped past them, following the same path through the back of the shop to the dressing rooms. His old clothes were folded neatly where he’d left them. As he shut the door behind him, he could still hear the women’s voices

“I’m sorry about the state of the clothes,” Kovac said. “This should cover dry cleaning—or replacements.”

Anya sighed softly. “It’s okay. This will more than cover it. Thank you, Myra.”

Shilovsky looked down at his clothes. His pants had a tear running to the knee, his once-white shirt splattered with blood and damp with sweat. He hadn’t even noticed the blood before—hadn’t felt it soaking into the fabric.

He started with the ruined shoes, peeling them off and setting them aside. The soles were scuffed to nothing, the leather nearly split from the chase. Once he was back in his own clothes, the familiar weight of the fabric grounded him.

When he stepped out, Anya was at the counter, counting a small stack of bills. Kovac was gone, presumably still changing.

“You have a little blood on your face,” Anya said matter-of-factly, handing him a folded cloth from the corner of the counter.

“It’s not mine,” he said, as though that somehow made it less troubling.

“I kind of assumed.” She tucked the money into a small metal box and snapped it shut. “Are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I’m fine. Just been a long night.” He folded his arms behind his back, glancing toward the dressing rooms.

“Okay. I like your arm, by the way. What is it made out of?” Hey eyes lit up when they landed on his left arm.

“I don’t know.” He said, turning slightly so she could see his arm a little better.

“Oh, really? Well, do you want some water?” she asked gently.

“No, he doesn’t,” Kovac interjected, emerging from the back. She was back in her usual attire, her hair slightly mussed but her composure restored. “Let’s go.” She didn’t check to see if he followed—she simply walked out, quick and purposeful.

“It was nice to meet you,” Anya said, smiling warmly as Shilovsky hurried to catch up. He gave her a brief nod before stepping into the cool night again, the echo of her kindness lingering as the door shut behind them.

“I told you not to talk to her,” Kovac said sharply as they stepped out into the cold night air. The door swung shut behind them, cutting off the soft glow of Anya’s shop. Streetlights buzzed faintly overhead, their halos flickering on the wet pavement as Kovac started down the same narrow street they’d come from.

“I wasn’t talking to her,” Shilovsky said, falling into step beside her. His breath came out in pale wisps that disappeared into the night. “She just offered me a rag for my face.”

“Did you speak at all?” Her tone carried no real curiosity—only the weight of someone who already knew the answer.

“Yes,” he admitted. “But just answering her.”

Kovac sighed through her nose, the sound tight with irritation. “Anya is sweet, and she seems innocent and whimsical, but don’t underestimate her. She’s sharp. A lot of people from a lot of organizations come through that shop, and she has a talent for getting them to talk. She listens, smiles, makes them feel comfortable, and before they realize it, they’ve told her things they shouldn’t.”

Her words sank into him as they walked. The rhythmic click of her heels on the uneven stone echoed softly, accompanied by the muted hum of a distant train and the occasional rush of a car from a nearby avenue. The air smelled faintly of rain and smoke, and Shilovsky found himself glancing back once, just in time to see the faint pink glow of Anya’s window fade behind them.

He’d thought she was just kind. Thought the gentle curiosity in her voice was genuine. Now, he wasn’t so sure. What had she really been after? He flexed his fingers unconsciously.

Kovac’s pace quickened as they reached the main road, her limp barely visible now. “So,” he said after a moment, voice low, “we’re flying to Estonia now?”

“Yes.” She didn’t slow or look at him. Her eyes were fixed straight ahead, where the glow of a streetlamp outlined the curve of her jaw. “We’ll stop closer to Gdov first. I need a few hours of sleep and something to eat.”

Her voice softened slightly on the last word—fatigue bleeding through the frost. The streets were almost empty now, only the echo of their footsteps following them.

Chapter 11

2027
Bucky

“Do you think he’s asleep?”

“No, his eyes are open.”

“He could still be asleep.”

“Maybe he’s dead?”

“He’s breathing, dumbass.”

“Well, then why isn’t he moving?”

“I don’t know. Slap him and see if he reacts.”

“I’m not going to slap him. You slap him.”

“Can I slap Walker instead?”

“What did I do?”

Yelena nudged Bucky’s shoulder gently, but he didn’t react. She pushed a little harder, and his gaze suddenly looked less vacant. He blinked a few times before turning to face her.

“What?” he asked.

“You good? You’ve been staring at your breakfast for like twenty minutes—unblinking. I’m sure your food’s cold by now,” Yelena said, sitting back in front of her own empty plate.

Bucky glanced down at the plate of eggs, bacon, and toast in front of him. None of it had even been touched. He couldn’t remember sitting down to eat, let alone cooking it.

“Uh, yeah. Just zoning out, I guess.” He took a forkful of eggs, grimacing as soon as he tasted them. Yelena was right—they were cold.

“Yesterday was a lot. I’m exhausted too. Maybe we should skip training today?” she suggested, carrying her plate to the kitchen and setting it in the sink.

“No. No skipping. We need it,” Bucky said, pushing his own plate forward.

“So, neither one of you really explained where you were yesterday,” Ava said. “And I didn’t get much information from Yelena’s frantic phone call.”

Yelena sat back down, glancing at Bucky as if gauging how much he wanted to share. “I wasn’t frantic. I was concerned,” she said, rolling her eyes.

Ava smirked. “ ‘Ava, I need help! I don’t know what to do! Bucky and I were chasing someone and he ran ahead, and it’s been like an hour and I can’t find him, and he’s not answering his phone! I’m sooooo worried! Can you track his phone?’ ” Ava recited dramatically, throwing her hands up.

“I did not sound like that,” Yelena snapped.

“We were following a lead on something, and the guy got away,” Bucky said flatly, hoping to end the argument.

“Did he take your phone or something?” John asked, smirking. “Why couldn’t Yelena find you?”

“He caught me off guard and must’ve knocked me out or something. I don’t really know.” Bucky stood, dumped his plate in the garbage, and took a moment to wash it before setting it on a towel to dry.

“Some random dude just knocked you out?” John stifled a laugh. “How’d that happen?”

“I don’t know, Walker.” Bucky folded his arms and stood at the head of the table, his tone firm. “I remember cornering him, and then I was on the ground, and Yelena was waking me up. If you guys are done eating, meet me in the training room.” He left without another word.

The team exchanged looks in silent debate before, one by one, they piled their dishes in the sink and followed him.

Bucky was already in the gym when they arrived, standing near the far end where a wall separated a small shooting range from the rest of the space. The range ran on old Stark tech—rather than a single static target at the end, multiple targets appeared and disappeared in random sequences. The user could set the difficulty as low or high as they wanted.

Right now, it was set to the hardest setting. Targets appeared and vanished within seconds; at any given time, three were active before disappearing and being replaced in different positions.

And Bucky was hitting every single one with deadly precision. Each shot was clean and controlled. When the glowing red light above the range switched to green, signaling completion, Yelena let out a low whistle.

Bucky set his weapon down and turned toward them.

“Sometimes I forget how scary good you are,” Yelena said.

“It helps me refocus my mind when I’m having trouble,” he replied, crossing the gym to join them and rolling his shoulders as he walked. “Just a warm-up to start the day.”

“That was a warm-up?” Bob asked, both eyebrows raised.

Bucky walked past the group to a control panel near the door. “Watch where you’re standing,” he said, typing a few commands into the screen.

Parts of the floor began to shift—metal panels rising to form obstacles, others lowering into the ground.

As everyone stepped clear of the shifting floorplates, Bucky bent and grabbed a beat-up cardboard box from the ground. “Since you guys don’t want to train today, I thought I’d give you a chance to opt out.”

He held up two small flags—one faded blue, the other green. “We’re going to play capture the flag.”

“Fun.” Ava rolled her eyes. “Instead of training, we get to pretend we’re at middle-school summer camp. That’s so much better than actual training.”

“It is,” Bucky said, “because the winning team gets the rest of the day off, while the losing team trains all day.”

That got everyone’s attention. John’s eyes snapped to Ava. “Do we get to pick our teams?”

“Nope.” Bucky grinned. “But I won’t assign you, either.” From the box he pulled six small, polished stones—three painted blue, three green.

“You have a whole box of arts-and-crafts?” John asked, eyeing the mismatch of junk.

Bucky glanced down at the box at his feet. “Random stuff from the storage closet downstairs.” He nudged it with his toe. When the building was being refurbished, a lot of tossed-aside odds and ends had been shoved into that room.

“When did you have time to dig through that?” Yelena asked, picking up a stone to examine it.

“I couldn’t sleep last night. I wandered the tower a bit.” He set the rock back with the others.

“Really? You weren’t tired at all after yesterday?” she pressed.

“Got a good rest when you were knocked out?” John interjected.

Bucky shot him a sharp glare, then closed his hand over the stones and gave them a shake. “Close your eyes and pick one, Walker.”

John rolled his eyes but complied, shutting his lids dramatically and sweeping his hand in. He held up a blue stone.

Bucky shook again and angled his hand toward Bob. “This does feel very summer-camp.” He presented a green rock.

“Speak for yourself. I wouldn’t know anything about summer camp,” Ava snorted, reaching for a stone with her eyes still closed. “Fuck!” She opened her eyes to find the blue rock clenched in her fingers.

“Ha! My turn!” Alexei crowed, grabbing one and proudly showing another blue.

Bucky held up the remaining two green stones. “Looks like Yelena and I are on green team.”

“Can I trade?” Ava asked, glaring at her blue rock.

“No trades.” Bucky nodded toward the rack of paintball guns they’d used earlier. “Take your flag and your weapons.”

Ava marched to the far wall, tied the blue flag to a small hook, and planted herself nearby. John and Alexei grabbed their paintball guns and joined her. Bucky hefted a gun by the barrel, took the green flag, and set it on the opposite side of the gym.

“What are the rules?” John called out.

Bucky tied their flag and turned toward the assembled team. “Capture the other team’s flag by any means necessary. Bring it back to your side to win. Questions?”

“Are we down if we get shot?” Alexei grinned.

Bucky thought for a beat. “Not if it’s a shot you’d reasonably survive. Use your best judgment.”

Competitiveness rippled through the room as both sides began to whisper strategies.

Bucky, Yelena, and Bob huddled near their flag. “So we leave Bob here to protect the flag, right?” Yelena asked, already plotting.

“Wait—why me?” Bob’s eyes widened.

“Because,” Yelena said with a grin, “Bucky said you don’t go down if you get shot, so you’re the shield. They can shoot you all they want.”

“Wait, I don’t want to get shot. Paintballs still sting depending where they hit.”

“Well, obviously you’ll try not to get hit,” Yelena rolled her eyes. “It’s a decent plan.”

Bucky chimed in, more pragmatic. “This is supposed to simulate a realistic fight. We wouldn’t actually use Bon as cannon fodder. But for the game… fine.” He glanced at Ava, John, and Alexei who were forming their own huddle.

“Fine,” Bob said, stepping toward the flag and hoping the round would end quickly. “Just get their flag before I get shot too many times.”

”Will do.” Yelena said, slapping him on the shoulder. “Okay, Bucky, so how are we getting their flag?”

Yelena adjusted her grip on her paintball gun and followed where Bucky was staring. His focus wasn’t on the field anymore—his eyes were fixed somewhere past it, unfocused. “Hello? What is the plan?” she asked, watching the other team’s huddle break apart. Alexei had already taken a defensive stance in front of the blue flag.

“Bucky, what is our plan?” Yelena shoved his shoulder, jolting him back to the present.

He blinked, as if surfacing from underwater. “Sorry, what?”

“Did you really not hear me?” Yelena asked, straightening and locking her eyes on Ava. “Whatever, it’s fine. You take John, I’ll get Ava.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. He glanced from Bob standing under their flag to John approaching from the left. “Sounds good.” He raised his weapon, forcing himself to focus on the target in front of him.

He fired twice. The first shot went wide, bursting against the wall behind John. The second hit its mark, splattering orange paint across John’s shoulder.

John looked down at the smear, unimpressed. “I’ve been shot in the arm before. Not a fatal shot.” He didn’t give Bucky a chance to fire again—he sprinted toward Bob, weapon ready.

Three paintballs flew. Bob dodged the first two, but the third burst against his chest. John stopped, grinning. “That, however, would be a fatal wound.”

“Not for Bob!” Yelena shouted without looking back.

“What! That’s not fair!” John yelled.

“It’s fair,” Ava snapped, suddenly appearing behind Yelena. She yanked one of the batons from Yelena’s back. “Just get the damn flag.”

Yelena spun on her heel, narrowly missing the swing. She dropped her paintball gun—it wasn’t going to help her here—and drew her second baton. “Stealing my weapons seems unfair.”

“If an actual opponent can steal them in a fight, then it’s fair,” Ava shot back, circling to get around Yelena and toward the flag.

This time, Yelena was ready. She swung low, her baton cracking against Ava’s knee.

Ava stumbled and hit the ground hard but was back on her feet almost instantly. She retreated a few steps, reassessing, eyes locked on Yelena. Yelena stayed perfectly still, coiled and ready.

Across the room, Bucky had ditched his paintball gun too. He met John in hand-to-hand combat, their movements sharp and mirrored—strike, block, counter. John tried to maneuver around him, but Bucky shoved him back with controlled force.

He could feel something buzzing faintly in the back of his head—a static hum he couldn’t shake. His grip tightened without meaning to. His breath came short.

A paintball whizzed past his ear, snapping him out of it. He turned to see Bob still guarding the flag, weapon trembling slightly in his hands. “Sorry! I thought I had him,” Bob called.

“Bucky!” Yelena’s voice cut through the noise.

He turned toward her—just in time for John’s fist to crash against his jaw. The hit knocked him down. His ears rang.

“Bucky, focus! What are you doing?” Yelena shouted.

He forced himself upright, shaking off the dizziness. His mind felt sluggish, like he was moving through mud. He raised his fists again, blocking the next hit on instinct rather than thought.

Ava turned her attention back to Yelena, who had retrieved her paintball gun. Yelena fired; the paint splattered harmlessly across Ava’s glove before she phased out of sight again.

Yelena glanced over her shoulder and yelled in Russian, “Bucky, switch with me. You take the one I’m fighting, I’ll take him!” She avoided names, knowing her opponents wouldn’t understand the language but would know if they heard their own names.

Bucky hesitated, blinking rapidly. The words took a second to register. “Sorry—what did you say?” he asked in Russian, his voice lower than before, a little strained.

“Hey! That isn’t fair! Our team doesn’t speak Russian!” John complained, swinging a punch that Bucky barely dodged.

“Alexei does,” Yelena shot back in English before switching again to Russian. “Neither of us is making progress. You take the one I’m fighting—you move faster than she can phase. I’ll handle the big guy.”

“Fine!” Bucky barked. He threw one last punch at John before pivoting toward Ava.

It took her a heartbeat to realize the switch, but when she did, she shifted tactics fast—no more close combat. She backed off several paces, phasing in and out while firing at him from a distance.

Paintballs cracked through the air. None hit. Bucky kept moving, smooth and deliberate, tracking every flicker of her movement. His mind was hazy but locked on her rhythm.

At first, it looked random—her jumps, her aim, her reappearances—but something in him started picking out the pattern beneath it all. His instincts filled in gaps faster than he could think them through. He knew where she’d show up next before she moved.

He steadied his breath, raised his weapon, and waited.

The moment she phased back into view, he fired a single shot.

The paint burst across her chest in a perfect strike.

“Dammit!” Ava shouted, staring down at the pink paint spreading across her chest. Bucky followed her eyes, watching as she scrubbed at the stain. He was still staring forward, almost vacant, when Alexei risked abandoning their flag and fired a volley of three shots at him.

All three splattered across Bucky’s own chest, echoing the sting Ava felt. He noticed the impacts like a delayed echo—felt the sting, but his body didn’t respond. It was as if achieving that shot had frozen his brain; the next steps didn’t load into his mind.

Alexei whooped and ran across the gym, joining John, who was raining paintballs at Yelena now. She danced through the shots, returning fire with quick, precise bursts. But two against one slowed her down: the paintballs thudded into her knee, then her shoulder, then her chest. Bright blotches blooming across her jacket.

With Yelena down, John and Alexei turned on Bob. They abandoned firing at him—why waste paint on a guy who “wouldn’t go down”—and instead went for the flag. Bob tried to fight back, firing at Alexei, then John, then Alexei again, but he wasn’t used to targeting a moving, aggressive opponent.

One shot finally found Alexei in the stomach. At the same moment John ripped the blue flag from the wall and sprinted toward his side of the gym. Bob lifted his gun to aim, hands trembling with indecision. John crossed the gym unopposed and slammed the flag into place.

“Bucky! What happened, man?” Yelena yelled, stepping right in front of him. He was still staring at the space where Ava had been before leaving to celebrate with her team.

It took a long blink for him to blink the fog away. He closed his eyes, drew a slow breath, and reopened them. “Sorry, what happened?” His voice came out thin. He glanced down at the mess of pink and orange on his shirt, as if seeing it for the first time.

“I don’t know, you tell me,” Yelena shot back, arms crossed. “You shot Ava and then you just stood there frozen. You okay?” Her eyes searched his face.

“I did?” Bucky looked between Ava and Yelena, trying to rethread the sequence. “Right. I think I just got distracted. Sorry.” The word sounded small.

“‘Sorry’? You getting distracted cost us the game.” She flung her hands up. “We had them.” Frustration edged her tone.

“Well, I’m going to change and then I’m going out,” Ava announced, slinging her weapon back onto the rack. “Enjoy your training day,” she added with a mock grin, returning the baton she’d stolen.

“We totally had you guys until the end,” Yelena said, rolling her eyes.

The winners filed out, laughing and thumping each other on the back. Bob crossed over to where Bucky and Yelena stood. “That sucked. Sorry. I tried to stop them.” He sounded genuinely defeated.

“It’s not your fault, Bob. You did your best.” Yelena glanced at Bucky again. “Okay, seriously, are you okay? You’re still staring off into space.”

“Yes. I’m fine.” He rubbed his hands over his face, slow and mechanical, trying to re-center himself.

“You did say you didn’t really sleep. Maybe we should cut training early and you should take a nap?” she offered, tentative.

“No. I said I’m fine.” Bucky scanned the room, searching for something to anchor himself. “Bob—target range. Set it to level three. Come get me when you can shoot four targets in a row, yeah?”

Bob nodded and jogged toward the range.

“What am I doing?” Yelena asked, frustration softening into curiosity.

“You and I are fighting hand-to-hand. Try to disarm me without losing any of your own weapons.” Bucky reached behind his back and pulled a long blade from its sheath.

“Ugh. Do I have to?” She shifted into a ready stance, annoyance flaring. “It was your fault we lost, not mine.”

“I’m aware.” He lunged, trying to reach a baton, but she twisted away cleanly.

He tried again, this time aiming for the small knife strapped to her leg. His fingers grazed the hilt but couldn’t find purchase.

Yelena seized the moment, sweeping her hand for his blade. “Maybe we should train how to follow secret HYDRA agents without getting separated—or knocked out.” Her tone was half-teasing, half-serious.

“What? Why?” Bucky asked, sharpening in his posture.

She used his confusion as an opening, snatching for the matching knife in his hand. “Because that’s what you failed at yesterday.” She spun the knife in her palm and flicked it aside.

“Right. Right. That was…” He trailed off, the memory skating past him like a film with a frame missing. “Not exactly relevant to training.”

Yelena planted her boot against his back and kicked him forward, forcing him on the defensive. “I disagree. I’ve never lost my weapons in a real fight,” she said, pulling at his pistol. He batted her hand away.

“Or,” she added more quietly, as she positioned herself to block his next move, “we could use this time to keep tracking Volkova and figure out what he’s up to.”

Bucky threw the knife he was holding into the mat a few feet in front of Yelena. Her eyes instinctively darted down, and he used the distraction to snatch one of her batons, retrieving the knife again as she spun around.

“That was a cheap move.” Down to only two weapons now, she stepped back to keep some distance. “Can you remember anything he said to you last night?”

“Who?” Bucky asked, matching her movements, his tone distracted as if he were trying to place the name.

“Hello? Volkova. You said he spoke to you, but you couldn’t remember what he said.” She dove forward again, trying his own knife-throwing trick against him.

Instead of watching the blade hit the mat, Bucky let her close in for his pistol, spun out of reach, and grabbed her second baton in the same motion. She managed to scoop her knife up again before he could reach it—but just barely.

“Hey! I did it! I shot four in a row!” Bob shouted, jogging toward the mats with a proud grin.

Bucky turned his attention toward him. “Shot four what?” he asked blankly, instinctively sheathing the knife in his hand without seeming to realize he’d done it.

“Four targets? Like you told me to?” Bob pointed back at the range, confusion flickering over his face.

Yelena took advantage of Bucky’s distraction, lunging forward and yanking both his pistol and the knife he’d just holstered. “I win! You’re unarmed!”

Bucky blinked, turning his head toward her as if pulling himself out of a fog. He sighed.

“You never said time out.” She grinned, offering his weapons back.

“What would you like me to do now? Higher level? More targets?” Bob asked, eagerly.

Yelena set her weapons back in their places, then joined Bucky at the edge of the mat. “Bucky, are you sure you’re okay? You seem really spacey. Maybe you hit your head harder than you thought yesterday.”

He didn’t want to admit it, but she was right. His thoughts felt like they were splitting apart—half rooted in the present, half pulled somewhere distant and undefined. His brain felt slow, like it was wading through static.

“Right. Target range.” He rubbed a hand over his jaw, trying to focus. “Bob, turn it up to level four and try hitting the same amount in a row. Yelena, you and Ava can keep working on hand-to-hand.” He took the weapons from her hands and began setting them back into place.

“Um, Bucky? Ava left, like, thirty minutes ago.” She crossed her arms, leaning in a little to study his face. “Seriously, you might have a concussion or something. You should go lie down. I can work with Bob on the shooting range.”

“I’m fine,” Bucky said, though his voice lacked conviction.

“No, you’re not. I’m worried about you.” She softened her tone. “I promise I won’t wander off—I’ll stay here with Bob and help him until he can hit four targets on level six.” She raised one hand as if swearing an oath.

“Wait, level six?” Bob groaned.

Bucky shut his eyes for a second before opening them again, slow and deliberate. “Fine. My head’s pounding anyway. Just promise you’ll come get me if you need anything. And get him proficient at level five, not six.”

Yelena gave a thumbs-up.

Bucky nodded, turning toward the door. He debated heading straight to the control room, but the throbbing behind his eyes made that impossible. Instead, he grabbed one of the portable tablets from the console, tucked it under his arm, and made his way back to his room.

The lights in the hallway felt too bright, the sound of his boots too loud. By the time his door slid shut behind him, all he could think about was the pounding in his head and the way his thoughts kept splitting like glass under pressure.

Chapter 12

Notes:

Okay. Little background on my writing. I had been writing this the way it’s been posted, switching povs every few chapters, up until chapter 19. But I had really been struggling, especially on the Shilovsky parts. After chapter 19 I decided to finish all of the Shilovsky parts, since I’m not enjoying writing them as much. Once I finish that, I plan to go back and write all of the Bucky parts. I’m hoping that will make everything sound better this story just isn’t quite hitting the way it had it planned out. 😓

2027
Bucky

The next two days were much the same—off-and-on training, sometimes as a full team, sometimes in smaller groups. In the evenings, Bucky and Yelena holed up in the control room, digging through files and encrypted reports, trying to learn more about Volkova or the serum.

When Bucky walked into the kitchen that morning, he found Yelena and Bob huddled together at the far end of the bar. They had their backs to the elevator, voices low.

“I know he’s always kind of weird, but I’m telling you—this is weird weird,” Yelena whispered.

“Does he actually need to sleep at all? He’s a super soldier. Maybe that means he just never has to,” Bob said, spoon clinking against his cereal bowl.

“He’s a super soldier, not a vampire. He needs sleep at some point. And it’s not just that he looks exhausted—it’s other stuff too. He’s distracted. Forgetful.”

“Maybe he’s just stressed. Or, like you said, maybe it’s a really bad concussion,” Bob offered between bites.

“What are you two talking about?” Bucky asked, pouring himself a cup of coffee.

“Dammit, Bob. I told you to watch the elevator,” Yelena hissed.

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

“We’re talking about you, Bucky,” Yelena said, turning in her chair to face him. “I’m getting a little worried. You haven’t really been yourself since we got back from Canada.”

Bucky didn’t want to admit she was right—but she was. The headache hadn’t gone away. He’d been lying awake most nights, restless and uneasy. And Yelena was right about him being spacey. It was like he was constantly fighting through fog, pushing against some invisible wall in his own head.

“I know,” he said, pressing a hand to his temple. “It’s just this damn headache. It hasn’t gone away.”

“See? Concussion,” Bob said helpfully. “Maybe you should get it checked out. A concussion can be serious. I think?”

Yelena rolled her eyes. “Yes, Bob. A concussion can be very serious.”

The elevator dinged open, and John stepped out, heading straight for the fridge. He rifled through it, pulling out a carton of eggs. “Are we out of bacon again? Whose turn was it to get groceries?”

“Probably yours,” Yelena shot back before turning to Bucky again. “Please, promise me you’ll get it checked out.”

“What’s wrong with Bucky?” John asked, setting a pan on the stove.

“Nothing,” Bucky said flatly.

“He has a concussion,” Bob said at the same time.

“None of your business, Walker,” Yelena snapped.

“Jeez. Why are you so hostile this morning?” John asked, cracking an egg into the pan.

“I’m not hostile, I’m—” She broke off as the soft alarm sounded and a red light near the elevator began to flash. “What now?”

John glanced at his pan of eggs, the edges just starting to solidify. “I’m finishing breakfast. I’ll meet you guys up there.”

Bucky didn’t argue. He refilled his coffee and walked over to where Bob was holding the elevator open.

“I’ll catch up,” Yelena said, glancing between them and the empty pot. “After I make more coffee.”

Bucky made sure she saw him roll his eyes before the elevator doors closed.

As it hummed upward, Bob glanced sideways at him. “Are you sure you’re okay? Yelena’s right, you’ve been really off lately.”

“I’m fine. Promise,” Bucky said, his tone clipped but tired. “Probably hit my head harder than I thought.”

The elevator stopped just before the control room. The doors slid open to reveal Ava, bleary-eyed and half-asleep.

“Who is committing crimes this early in the morning?” she groaned, stepping in with them.

“Good morning, Ava,” Bob said cheerfully.

“Sorry, Bob. I’m not a morning person until I’ve had coffee,” she muttered, leaning against the wall.

When the elevator opened to the control room, Bucky stepped out first and crossed to the main console, typing in a few commands. The glow of the monitors lit the tired lines under his eyes. Bob pulled two chairs over and offered one to Ava, who sat immediately and closed her eyes.

“So,” Yelena said, stepping out of the elevator with a steaming mug in hand, “what does the government want us to do this time?”

She crossed to the console and stopped beside Ava. Ava cracked an eye open, spotted the coffee, and reached for it wordlessly. Yelena let her take a sip before tugging it back. “Sure. You can have some of my coffee. That’s fine.”

A moment later, the elevator opened again. John stepped out, balancing a plate of steaming eggs, with Alexei close behind him.

Bucky waited until everyone had settled in. Ava and Yelena passed the coffee cup back and forth between them in small sips while the rest of the team settled into seats.

“Looks like we’re headed to a shipyard,” he said, pulling up a photo on the screen—an older man in an expensive suit. “This is J.N. Thomas. He fled the country six years ago after sabotaging a CIA database. He’s been spotted on CCTV coming and going from the shipyard.”

“He looks like he’s eighty,” Yelena complained, taking the mug from Ava and tipping the last of the coffee down. “Can’t the CIA send someone else to pick him up?”

“No,” Bucky said, closing the image. “He may not be dangerous on his own, but he’s almost certainly heavily guarded. That’s why they want us.”

“Still sounds boring,” Yelena said. “Let’s just get this over with.”

“That’s the spirit.” Bucky rolled his eyes. “Here’s the deal: if everyone actually works together on this mission, we skip training for the rest of the day. Sound good?” He hit the elevator call and the team rode down in a tired, expectant silence.

“Sounds good to me,” Ava said.

The six of them climbed into the jet and waited as the engines came to life. Yelena leaned toward Bucky in a quiet voice: “Do you want me to fly? With your head hurting and all.”

“No. I’ll be fine. It’s a short flight.” Bucky took his usual seat. Yelena flopped down beside him.

“Fine,” she said, turning to address the team as Bucky lifted the jet into the air. “Plan’s simple. Bob and Ava find Thomas, cuff him, and get him away from his guards. Walker and Bucky take the left side of the shipyard; Alexei and I take the right. Clear?”

“No,” John objected immediately. “How do we know the guards will be divided left and right? It’s a shipyard—lots of places to hide and set up. That sounds like a terrible plan.”

Yelena rolled her eyes. “I didn’t mean literally left and right like a line. I mean one group of you takes roughly one side, the other group takes roughly the other.”

“Walker has a point,” Ava conceded, mortified to agree with him. “There could be snipers, hidden positions... splitting up that way might be risky.”

“All right, tweak the plan,” Yelena said, shifting tactics. “Ava recon first and make sure there aren’t hidden guards or snipers. Bob and I will get Thomas out. Bucky and Alexei take one side; Walker will take another side. Sound better?”

“Why am I alone?” John snapped.

“Because Bucky has a concussion,” Bob said, clearly understanding Yelena’s logic.

“Exactly,” Yelena added.

“I’m fine,” Bucky said without looking away from the window. “It’s a solid plan, Lena. John and Alexei will work together; I’m fine operating solo.”

Yelena glared but nodded. “Fine. As soon as Bob and I get Thomas on the jet, I’m coming back to help you. Bob can manage an eighty-year-old man by himself."

The team fell into a tense quiet for the rest of the flight. Everyone tried to wake up, stretch, and settle into mission focus. The descent woke them all further.

“What are we even looking for?” Ava muttered as the ramp lowered. “Is he just going to be standing around for us to grab him?”

“Not sure,” Bucky said, opening the back of the jet and peering into the grey air. “He’s been spotted around the shipyard, but the CIA wasn’t sure what he was doing or where he was headed.”

“That changes things,” Ava said, rolling her eyes. “So we’re looking for… what, exactly?”

“It’s the same plan, just with a recon step,” Yelena said. “Split up and search for him. When you find him, revert to the original plan. Bob and I will extract him. John and Alexei will work together, so will Bucky and Ava.”

“Make sure your comms are on,” Bucky added. “Call anything suspicious immediately.”

“Obviously,” John said, already striding forward and not waiting for Alexei, who jogged to catch up and clipped a comms earpiece into place.

“Bob and I will take the crates by that row,” Yelena said, pointing to a line of stacked metal boxes. “You two take the other side.”

Bucky snapped his own comm into place and started toward the direction she’d indicated. “I’ll walk the perimeter.”

Ava pulled up her mask, nodding. “I'll check inside the crates, see if anyone is hiding.”

“Just be careful,” Bucky said. “You never know what–or who– might be hiding inside some of these.”

Ava gave him a quick thumbs-up and then vanished, slipping off toward the nearest row of containers.

He moved slowly down the row of massive shipping containers, his rifle tracking in sync with the motion of his head. Every corner he peeked around, he half-expected to find armed guards waiting—but each turn revealed only more empty space. The air smelled of salt and rust. A rat darted across his path, vanishing into the shadows with a faint scuffle that made his finger twitch near the trigger.

“Are we sure this guy’s even here?” Yelena asked over comms, her voice crackling in his ear.

“Not necessarily,” Bucky murmured. “But the CIA was fairly confident.”

He edged around the next corner and froze. Just ahead—barely visible in the dim light—he caught a glimpse of a man’s shoulder before the figure slipped into deeper shadow.

“Stand by,” he said quietly. “I think I saw someone.”

“What’s your position?” John asked.

Bucky didn’t answer. He advanced toward where the figure had disappeared, boots near-silent on the cracked concrete. The next row of containers looked older than the rest—weathered, paint stripped by years of sun and salt air. Grass poked through long cracks in the pavement. The place felt forgotten.

He slowed his steps, breathing carefully, every muscle alert. Somewhere, metal creaked. The faint echo of his own movement bounced off the containers, making it hard to tell if he was alone.

“Bucky? Did you find him?” Yelena’s voice came again, tighter this time.

He lifted a hand toward his earpiece but didn’t stop moving. “Not sure. I definitely saw someone, but I didn’t see if it was our target.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, movement caught his eye again—a dark silhouette slipping through a narrow crew door on one of the docked cargo ships. The door swung slightly in the wind but didn’t close.

Every instinct sharpened. The ship looked empty, too still, and the open door set his nerves on edge.

“Bucky? Where are you?” Ava asked.

He ignored her, tightening his grip on the rifle as he stepped up to the threshold. The smell of oil and stagnant seawater hit him as he crossed inside. “J.N. Thomas?” he called out, his voice low but firm. “Step out where I can see you.”

He kept close to the door, letting his eyes adjust to the dark.

Somewhere ahead, something shifted—a faint scrape of movement—and Bucky lifted his weapon toward the sound.

“Stand down, soldier.” A familiar voice barked in Russian.

His body reacted before his mind could catch up. The weapon began to lower slightly, and he had to will it back up. Every instinct screamed to resist, but a small, insidious tug at the base of his thoughts made his muscles hesitate.

“Interesting,” the voice said, again in Russian. “I expected the first dose to be a bit more effective… unless you’ve been fighting it.”

“Fighting what?” Bucky demanded, also in Russian, stepping cautiously forward.

“That’s okay. Sometimes it takes multiple doses before it really kicks in,” the man replied, ignoring the question entirely.

“Bucky? Where are you? Ava said she hasn’t seen you in almost five minutes,” Yelena’s voice echoed through his comm, but he pulled the device free, letting it hang uselessly by his neck.

“Tell me, soldier, how have you been feeling since we last met?”

Bucky tightened his grip on the rifle, realizing too late that the voice belonged to Volkova—not the man he was tracking.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded, stepping further into the shadows. His eyes slowly adjusted, and he could just make out Volkova’s silhouette. “What happened in Canada?”

“Do you remember anything?” Volkova’s tone was cryptic, almost playful.

“I hit my head. I don’t remember much from that night.”

“No, you didn’t,” Volkova laughed softly. “But that’s good. It means the serum is working… even if just a little.”

“What serum?” Bucky’s voice echoed off the metal walls.

“Do not raise your voice, soldier. Come closer. I don’t want your friends to see you through the door,” Volkova snapped.

Bucky obeyed, almost automatically, the tug in his mind stronger with every step. His weapon stayed raised, but the tension in his muscles was fading, replaced by a strange, compliant calm.

“Good. Now, lower your weapon.”

“Tell me what happened in Canada! What are you planning?” Bucky demanded.

“No, I didn’t say you could speak, soldier,” Volkova said.

“Shut up!” Bucky barked, raising the gun again, feeling the familiar surge of instinctive defiance—but even that felt slower, harder to summon.

Volkova stepped closer, tapping his left arm. “This is new. What is it made out of?”

“Vibranium,” Bucky said automatically, before he could stop himself.

“Interesting.” Volkova reached into his satchel, producing a small syringe with a long needle. “Give me your right arm.”

“What? No!” Bucky snapped, stepping back.

“Must we do this now? I could tranq you, but the serum is more effective if you are conscious and moving. Give me your arm, soldier.”

Bucky’s instincts screamed to resist. His arm stayed at his side, his rifle raised. He could feel the pull of his will against the invisible chains, a struggle he couldn’t fully articulate.

To Bucky’s surprise, Volkova only rolled his eyes. “Soldier. Lower your weapon, step forward, and put out your right arm. That is an order!” he snapped.

Bucky’s jaw tightened. His mind screamed at him to resist, but his body moved before he could stop it. The rifle shifted into his left hand and his right arm extended toward Volkova as if it belonged to someone else. He felt like a passenger inside his own body, watching it obey commands he didn’t want to follow. A distant part of him wanted to scream No! but the words were swallowed somewhere deep, out of reach.

Volkova pulled a syringe from his bag, the needle glinting under the dim light. “Don’t move,” he said. The tip sank into Bucky’s arm, and the pinkish-red liquid slowly drained in.

The effect was immediate. Bucky’s head wavered as if it were floating in water, every sensation amplified—heat, cold, dizziness—all colliding at once. His muscles felt oddly light, yet every movement carried a strange, unnatural precision. Resistance felt distant, like a fading echo in a canyon he couldn’t reach.

“Breathe through it, soldier. It will pass,” Volkova said, eyes locking on his. Bucky swayed slightly. The calm alertness he usually felt in a fight was there, but muted, muffled, like a memory that wasn’t fully his.

As the vertigo faded, Bucky’s focus snapped to Volkova. The rifle in his left hand lowered steadily, almost by its own volition, until the barrel pointed to the floor.

“Soldier?” Volkova waved a hand in front of him. Bucky didn’t blink or react. “Excellent.”

Volkova retrieved a small notebook from his pocket, scribbling while watching him closely. “The serum takes time to reach full effect. Based on the years since your last dose, I expect three, maybe four injections to achieve maximum compliance—which is perfectly fine. I’m not ready for you yet anyway.”

Finally, the notebook returned to his pocket. “I only needed to see how the first dose held up and to administer the second. My friend Jacob Thomas was more than happy to assist.”

A light hand on Bucky’s shoulder turned him toward the doorway. “Soldier, return to your team for now. I will find you when I am ready.” A gentle shove nudged him forward. And he moved without thought or hesitation. A hollow sort of obedience filled his limbs. It was as if he were acting in a dream, performing all the correct motions while some invisible current carried his mind elsewhere.

Before stepping off the cargo ship, he stole a glance over his shoulder. Volkova had vanished into the shadows. Bucky raised his rifle again and stepped onto the narrow wooden plank leading to the dock. Somewhere deep, a faint whisper of resistance lingered, but it was fading, like smoke slipping through a grate.

Bucky stepped back onto the solid concrete of the shipyard. From where he stood, every shipping container looked the same—towering walls of metal and rust. He picked a random row and began walking.

At the end of the row, there was no sign of anyone. He turned down the next. Then the next.

“Holy shit! I found him!”

Bucky turned toward the sound. The rhythmic pound of boots on concrete filled his ears. Bob was sprinting toward him, panic etched across his face.

When he reached Bucky’s side, he looked him over quickly. “Are you okay? What happened?”

Bucky stared at him, wordless. What happened? He didn’t have an answer for that.

“Bucky? Can you hear me?” Bob waved a hand in front of his face. When there was no reaction, he tilted his head, listening to something over comms. “Yeah, the container you were just at—go two rows down and turn right.”

He turned back toward the direction he came from, watching until two shapes rounded the corner. Ava and Yelena sprinted toward them.

“Fuck! Are you okay? What happened?” Yelena shouted as she got closer. It was the same question Bob had asked—the same one Bucky couldn’t answer. She skidded to a stop beside them and shot Bob a look. “Well? Is he okay?”

“I don’t know. He hasn’t said anything. He’s just… staring,” Bob said, glancing back at Bucky.

“I’m okay,” Bucky finally said.

“Great,” Ava muttered. “We found J.N. Thomas and his goons. Called you like ten times—no answer. Took them down ourselves. Then went to find you.” Her tone softened slightly. “John and Alexei are waiting for the government to pick up their criminals.”

“Bucky, what’s wrong?” Yelena asked, waving a hand in front of his face again.

“Nothing’s wrong. We can go,” Bucky said, already moving toward the jet.

The three exchanged uneasy glances, watching him walk away before following.

“What the fuck happened, Bob?” Yelena whispered. “Where did you find him?”

“He was just walking. I noticed his comm was out of his ear—maybe it got damaged?” Bob shrugged.

“Or he pulled it out on purpose,” Ava said. “You said yourself he’s been acting weird lately. Maybe he had ulterior motives for us coming here.”

“I said he’s been acting weird because I think he hit his head harder than he’s letting on. Not that he’s got ulterior motives,” Yelena snapped. “Maybe he got into a fight with one of Thomas’s men and hit his head again?”

“Doubt it. They were all grouped up around their boss. And Bucky didn’t look like he had any new injuries,” Ava said, falling into step ahead of them.

Bob and Yelena quickened their pace to keep up. “You said you two were following information on that Volcano guy? The one Bucky ran into at the weapons sale?” Bob asked.

“His name is Volkova, and yeah,” Yelena said. “But all our research’s been a dead end. And we haven’t seen the guy since Canada. Maybe the stress is getting to him. Stress and a concussion—could that make someone act weird?”

“Not that weird,” Ava called over her shoulder.

They rounded the next corner. John stood beside a man in a black suit, surrounded by black cars and vans. The suited man nodded to John, then gestured for his team to load up. Within seconds, the vehicles pulled away.

“That was Agent Cornell,” John said as the four of them approached. “Lead investigator, apparently. Thanked us for bringing the guys in.” He turned on Bucky. “Where the hell were you?”

“I don’t know,” Bucky said, walking past him toward the jet where Alexei waited.

John frowned, glancing between Yelena and Ava, who both just shrugged. “I’m sorry—what? You don’t know?” He jogged after Bucky. “You radioed and said you saw someone. We asked your position, and you went silent. Alexei and I found the guy and called for the whole team—nothing. Yelena and Ava tried reaching you the entire time. And now you just show up and say you don’t know where you went?”

He was practically shouting.

“I must’ve gotten turned around or something,” Bucky said flatly. “It’s a big shipyard.”

John stopped, throwing his arms up. Ava caught his shoulder, whispering something to calm him while Yelena closed the distance between her and Bucky.

“Hey,” she said gently. “How about I fly again? I’m really starting to worry about you.”

“That’s fine,” Bucky said in that same flat, hollow tone.

“Okay. Good.” She hesitated, searching his face. “And maybe when we get back, you should rest. I can keep working on Volkova if you want?”

“Who?” Bucky asked without slowing down.

Yelena stopped cold.

Bob came up beside her, glancing from her face to Bucky’s retreating figure. “I overheard Walker and Ava—Ava thinks Bucky might be working for someone else, and Walker thinks he’s on something. Wait, are you okay?”

“Yeah. Fine,” Yelena said quietly, though her voice was tight. She started walking again. “Hey, Bob, I need your help researching something.

Chapter 13

Notes:

Someone had mentioned this in a comment and I want to address it. Kovac tends to bounce around a lot, from all business and serious to a little more vulnerable and honest. This is intentional. I am trying to write her as being young and really new to this. She has the training and she knows what she needs to do and how she should conduct herself on a mission but when she is actually faced with hard decisions or faced with something she doesn't quiet understand (like Shilovsky) that training sort of fails her until she reminds herself of what she is supposed to be doing.

1956
Shilovsky

Agent Kovac had insisted that Shilovsky sleep while she flew. He moved to the back of the jet, where the seats reclined farther, and lay down. With his eyes closed, he tried to imagine he was in his own bed, in his own room—but the low hum of the engines and the faint jostling beneath him betrayed the lie.

By the time he felt the jet begin to descend, sleep had long since abandoned him. He’d resorted to lying still on his back, eyes fixed on the metal ceiling above. His fingers curled instinctively around the sides of the seat as the wheels below brushed the ground, the muted thud of landing reverberating through the frame.

A moment later, Kovac’s boots thudded lightly on the floor. “Wake up. We have landed,” she said.

Shilovsky sat up immediately. He knew he’d been awake for more than sixteen hours—far from his longest stretch, but it meant the coming day would be long.

“It is one in the morning,” Kovac said as she dropped into the seat he’d vacated. “I will sleep for three hours. You will wake me at four on the dot. We are near the lake but too far from the city for concern. Stay inside if you can, but if you must go out—do not wander.”

She kicked her boots up onto the opposite seat and, within seconds, her breathing had softened into an even rhythm.

Shilovsky moved to the front of the jet, settling into his usual spot behind the controls. Kovac had been right—the lake stretched along their left side. From this angle, he could just make out the edge of it through the darkness. The wind swept light sheets of snow across the ground, and even from inside, he could feel the cold creeping through the hull.

He checked the time. Only fifteen minutes had passed since Kovac had fallen asleep.

He stood and paced the narrow length of the cabin, careful that his boots didn’t echo. After a few laps, he ended up in the back again, kneeling beside a box of tools.

His weapons were already immaculate—always were—but maintenance filled time. He dismantled and cleaned them anyway, his hands moving with precise, mechanical rhythm. Each movement came from memory.

By the time both pistols were reassembled, he checked the clock again. Two thirty. Even stretching the task, he’d barely killed an hour.

The cabin suddenly felt too small, the air too still. Pulling a heavy coat from the rack, he shrugged it over his shoulders and stepped out into the cold.

The wind hit him like a wall. He squinted into the darkness. The sun wouldn’t rise for hours, but slivers of moonlight slipped between the clouds, reflecting off the snow enough to paint the world in silver.

The lake stretched before him, wide and flat beneath its dusting of white. It was too early in the season for the ice to be safe, but it was solid enough to hold the snow that covered it.

He walked along the frozen ground until his boot struck something hard. Bending, he brushed the snow away and picked up a smooth stone. The cold bit into his fingers. Gripping it in his left hand, he drew his arm back and hurled it across the lake.

The rock vanished into the dark. A moment later, a hollow crack echoed back across the frozen surface, reverberating through the air.

He found another. Then another. The mix of howling wind and sharp pings of stone striking ice was almost enough to occupy his mind. Almost.

But repetition had its own dangers. The longer he moved, the easier it was for thoughts to slip through the cracks.

The man in the alley had said a lot before he was killed—that Shilovsky had once worked with Americans before being reported dead. It didn’t make sense. He had never been to America.

He’d also spoken of Captain America, as if it were someone Shilovsky should know. The name was familiar, distantly. An American super soldier, similar to Shilovsky himself. He’d fought in the war until his plane went down somewhere over the ocean. The Americans called him a hero.

Shilovsky had never fought in that war. He was built for quiet operations, for precision and control. There was no reason he would have ever met the American Captain.

The man must have been mistaken. Confused.

He found another stone and threw it, watching the faint arc vanish into the night. His right hand was stiff by now, fingers numb from the cold. Where the metal of his arm met flesh, his shoulder burned—a deep ache that made his breath catch.

He flexed the joint once, twice, feeling the dull grind beneath the skin. Then he looked out over the lake again, expression unreadable.

The wind howled, carrying the last echoes of shattering ice out across the water.

He brushed the snow from his hair and trudged back toward the jet. The wind clawed at his coat until he slipped inside, shutting the door behind him. The sudden quiet felt hollow, almost too still. He stamped the snow from his boots, unzipped his heavy jacket, and checked the time—03:51. Only a few minutes before he was supposed to wake Agent Kovac.

He paused. That meant he’d been outside for over an hour.

Shilovsky peeled the glove from his right hand. The skin was flushed pink and stiff from the cold. He tried flexing his fingers, but they moved sluggishly. Knowing rubbing his hands together wouldn’t do much, he sat down across from Kovac and tucked his hand beneath his thigh for warmth. The ticking clock filled the silence. Every second scraped by slower than the last.

When the clock finally reached 04:00, he leaned forward and gave her shoulder a light shake. Kovac came to instantly, her eyes sharp, head snapping up as if she’d never been asleep.

She squinted at him. “Were you just sitting there watching me sleep this whole time? Because that’s really creepy.”

“I wasn’t. I just sat down to warm my hand.” He held it up, still tinged red from the cold.

“You went outside?” she asked, blinking toward the windshield where frost had crept up the glass.

“For a little while.” His mouth twitched faintly. “I got bored watching you sleep.”

That startled a soft laugh out of her. “Was that a joke? You made a joke?” She pressed a hand to her chest in mock astonishment. “I must be more tired than I thought.”

She yawned, stretched her arms overhead, then dropped her voice back to business. “We should move. Our ride will be here soon. Have you eaten?”

She pried open a small metal case and pulled out a few protein bars, tossing one to him. The wrapper crinkled loud in the confined space.

“Our ride?” he asked, biting off a corner. “Someone’s picking us up?”

“Yes and no.” She tore open her own bar with her teeth. “After we left Berlin, I started digging. There’s a freight line that runs about a mile north of here. It makes a scheduled stop just outside a research facility.”

“The facility we’re looking for?”

“Should be.” Kovac wiped her hands on her coat and began buttoning it. “The coordinates match. Put your jacket back on—it’s freezing out there.”

Shilovsky stood, dragging his damp coat back over his shoulders. The melted snow from earlier chilled the fabric against his uniform. “And what’s the plan once we’re there?”

“First, we make it to the train by five.” She checked the clock, then cracked open the hatch. A blast of icy air poured in, cutting through the jet’s warmth. “Then we board quietly. It’s a three-hour ride to our stop.”

He followed her out, boots crunching into the snow. “And the facility? How do we get in?”

Kovac patted the pocket of her jacket where the stolen keycard rested. “I’m hoping this will get us through the front door.”

“You’re hoping,” he repeated flatly. “And if it doesn’t?”

“Then we improvise.”

The world outside the jet was a vast white emptiness. No roads, no towns, no sound but the wind screaming across the frozen lake. Shilovsky stayed close behind her as they walked, unsure how she was navigating through the monotony of snow and shadow. It wasn’t until they’d gone a good distance that he realized—she was following the lake’s edge.

His boot hit something solid beneath the powder. A stone. He crouched to pick it up, turned it in his gloved hand, and flicked it across the lake. It vanished into the distance, the faint ping of impact echoing back over the ice.

He found another. Then another. Each throw landed farther out, the sound carrying like a pulse through the wind.

“Will you stop?” Kovac snapped, half-turning toward him. “You’re making me nervous. And the railroad should be right up here.”

He dropped the next stone. “Sorry.”

They pressed on in silence. The snow deepened, muffling their steps. Ahead, something low and distant hummed through the air. At first it blended with the whistle of the wind, but as they crested a small rise, the tone sharpened.

Kovac stopped suddenly and lifted a hand. Shilovsky mirrored her, scanning the white horizon. He cocked his head, listening. The sound came again—this time unmistakable.

The wind had begun to shift as they moved along the curve of the lake. A low fog crept over the ground, rolling in uneven patches that blurred the horizon. Each step sent a faint crunch echoing through the stillness, and the cold gnawed at any skin left exposed. Kovac moved ahead with purposeful strides, her outline a gray silhouette against the endless white.

“This way,” she said over her shoulder.

Shilovsky glanced sideways at the lake. The faint shimmer of moonlight reflected off the snow-covered ice, bending in soft waves when the wind blew. He kept his gaze forward. Thinking too long about what was hidden under all that frozen weight made his chest tighten.

They crested a low ridge, and the iron tracks finally came into view, slicing through the snow like twin scars. Kovac stopped beside them, her breath coming in pale clouds.

“This is the closest place the train will pass the lake,” she said. “They slow here in case of ice, but only for a minute. You’ll have to run—it won’t stop completely.”

Shilovsky frowned. “Wait, we’re jumping on a moving train?”

“Yes.” She crossed her arms, eyes locked on the dark stretch of track where the train would emerge. “From what I read about you, you’re exceptionally fast. This should be a breeze.”

He studied her expression but couldn’t tell if she was joking. “What about you?”

“I’ll manage just fine.” She adjusted her hood, tightening the scarf around her neck. “Now get ready. I can see the light.”

He followed her gaze. Far down the track, a thin beam of gold pierced the dark—a train’s headlight cutting through snow and fog. The faint hum of the engine began to rumble beneath their feet.

Kovac started running. Her boots kicked up sprays of snow, and Shilovsky turned and sprinted after her. The wind tore at his face, slicing cold against his cheeks, but the motion warmed his muscles. He could easily have outrun her but he stayed just behind, watching her rhythm to match it.

“When do we get on?” he shouted over the rising thunder.

“Last car! Don’t miss it!”

The roar of the approaching train swallowed everything—the wind, their footfalls, even their breath. The air shook as the steel giant lumbered past them, each car clattering like a crash of thunder. Heat and exhaust rolled off in heavy waves. Kovac’s hair whipped across her face, but she didn’t slow.

Shilovsky’s pulse quickened. The ground trembled beneath every passing wheel. He glanced back, counting—seven cars, six, five—and then the last one came into view, rattling and swaying.

“Now!” Kovac yelled.

They lunged at the same time. Shilovsky’s hand shot out, gripping the narrow metal rail. The shock of impact jolted up his arm, the cold biting deep into his fingers. His right shoulder flared where flesh met metal, but he ignored it and hauled himself up in one clean motion.

Kovac wasn’t as lucky. Her gloved hand slipped once, boots skidding against the slick metal. She slammed her knee hard into the side of the car but caught the rail again. Shilovsky reached out, offering his left hand.

She batted it away with a grunt and climbed the rest of the way herself. Only when she was safely on the ledge did he pull the heavy door open. When she managed to crawl inside, he threw his weight against it until it latched shut, sealing them into near-total darkness.

Inside, the air was stale and cold. A faint strip of moonlight slipped through a crack in the roof, scattering silver across wooden crates stacked in uneven rows. The space smelled of dust, oil, and damp straw. The hum of the train under their feet never stopped.

Kovac stood still for a few seconds, letting her eyes adjust. Then she stepped forward, brushing her gloved hand along one of the crates.

“What’s inside them?” Shilovsky asked, watching her walk to the back of the car.

“Weapons, maybe. Or food. Could be anything. It doesn’t really matter?” She nudged a small patch of straw together with her boot, testing for dryness before crouching down. “Get comfortable. It’s a few hours to our stop.”

He sat across from her, the wooden floor creaking faintly beneath his weight. “Why couldn’t we sleep here instead of the jet?”

Kovac leaned her head back against the crate, eyes half-lidded. “Because the jet’s hidden. Sleeping here could mean getting caught. And I don’t like getting caught.”

The train roared on through the night, wheels screaming against frozen rails. Outside, the wind howled like something alive.

He didn’t want to complain, but it didn’t seem like much of a risk if they took turns sleeping in the train car. Despite the cold, he probably would’ve slept better here than in the air. The steady rhythm of the tracks was almost hypnotic.

“You said you did research on me?” he asked at last, his voice low enough to blend with the rattle of the car.

Kovac cracked one eye open, still half-sitting against the wall. “Yes. I already told you this.”

“You said I was dangerous. But also unstable.” He tilted his head slightly, studying her profile in the dim light. “What makes you say that?”

Her eyes opened fully. She adjusted her position, straw crunching beneath her boots. “Which part? The dangerous part or the unstable part?”

“Both.”

She sighed, breath fogging faintly in the cold air. “Why do you want to know?”

“Because.” He looked down at his metal hand, flexing it once before resting it on his knee. “We’re going to be here for hours. You don’t want us to sleep. Might as well talk.”

He didn’t add the real reason — that he knew almost nothing about himself, and every scrap of information felt like oxygen.

Kovac considered him for a long moment, then pulled a bit of straw together and leaned back. “Fine. It’s going to be a boring ride anyway. We’ll start with why I know you’re dangerous.”

He didn’t move. Only the faintest flicker crossed his expression.

“I had access to a few films of you training,” she began. “They were recorded for the KGB’s scientists to analyze. They let me watch them in preparation for this assignment.”

She hesitated, eyes narrowing as if trying to remember something she’d rather not. “You don’t fight like a man. You move like something built for killing — no hesitation, no wasted effort. Every strike was so precise. I watched you disarm six men in under fifteen seconds. You didn’t breathe hard. You didn’t even blink.”

Her gaze flicked to his arm. “I’ve seen a lot of highly trained operatives before, but you—” She shook her head. “You’re efficient to the point of cruelty. It’s like instinct takes over and doesn’t stop until everything around you is quiet.”

Shilovsky didn’t respond. He only stared at the floorboards, the rhythmic clatter of the train filling the silence.

Kovac sat up a little straighter. “I also had access to some of your mission reports — the ones that weren’t classified, at least. Your kill count is… truly impressive.”

He looked up. “Impressive?”

“It depends who you ask,” she said flatly. “Some of the people you killed were targets. Others…” She trailed off. “Collateral, they called it.”

Shilovsky frowned slightly. “And the other part? Unstable?”

Her fingers tapped against her thigh — a nervous habit she probably didn’t realize she had. “That came from those same reports. You’ve had four handlers die in the field. One of them was killed by your own hands.”

He blinked, confused. “I’ve never killed a handler. I don’t even remember having someone die while I was working with them.”

“Maybe you just forgot.”

Her voice was quiet now, almost sympathetic. The train jolted over uneven track, and she caught herself against the wall.

He processed that in silence, something sharp twisting faintly behind his ribs. Forgetting seemed plausible. But killing someone he worked with and not even knowing it? That didn’t feel like him.

At least, not the version of him he could remember.

“Are you afraid of me?” The question slipped out before he could stop it.

Kovac froze. Her eyes met his, cold and calculating, then softened slightly. “Yes. A bit.”

She turned her gaze toward the door, where a thin line of frost had crept along the seam. “I know you’re under my command,” she said quietly, “but there’s always room for error.”

Her words hung in the air between them.

She went on. “You’ve been known to follow orders to a tee, no matter how brutal. It’s like a switch flips and whatever humanity you may or may not have had just… shuts off.” She shook her head as if trying to chase the image away.

He blinked, slow and blank. “I don’t remember any of that.”

“I know,” she said softly. “That’s what makes it worse.”

For a long time, neither of them spoke. The train howled as it cut through the night, the sound hollow and endless.
He frowned, brow creasing faintly as if the words he wanted to say didn’t quite fit together in his head. “You think I’m a monster.”

Kovac didn’t answer right away. Then, quietly: “I think maybe you’ve been turned into one.”

The metal hand resting on his knee tightened, the faint groan of shifting plates cutting through the air. He wanted to feel something in her words — anger, denial, anything — but his mind stayed flat, like a calm sheet of ice.

He looked down again, watching his reflection ripple faintly in the dull metal surface of his arm. “If that’s true,” he said, voice barely above a whisper, “then what am I supposed to do about it?”

Kovac’s expression softened just a fraction. “Nothing. You do what they tell you to do. That’s the job. It’s the way things are.”

Her words sank into the dark like stones falling into deep water. The rhythm of the train filled the silence once more — steady, relentless, mechanical.

Kovac shifted, pulling her coat tighter around her shoulders. She locked her eyes on his as if she was searching for something. “I think what scares me the most about you is how human you seem to be at times. After all the research and training I did before this mission, I was prepared for someone cold and harsh at all times. But something about you makes me want to trust you, to like you. Even though I know how dangerous you are.”

Shilovsky didn’t know how to respond to that admission. Instead he flicked his eyes back down to his arm. “I’m sorry.”

Kovac laughed through her nose, soft and almost inaudible against the rumbling of the train. “Go ahead and get some rest, Shilovsky. We have a long ride ahead, I can keep watch.”

He didn’t answer. He sat motionless, listening to the hum of the wheels and the quiet creak of the metal around them. He tried playing her words over in his mind, desperate to feel any of the emotions he knew he should have.

Chapter 14

Notes:

I've been posting chapters every other day on even day (Just so I don't forget) but I am thinking about posting a few chapters on odd days once in a while. I don't know how I got so much written so quickly (I did have a long weekend last week) but I have this written through chapter 24 already.

1956
Shilovsky

He woke to the sharp tap of Kovac’s boot against his own. “Wake up. We’re coming up on the stop.”

Her voice was steady, but her eyes stayed fixed on the far wall as she pushed herself up, using the cold metal for balance. She stretched, lifting her arms over her head and bending slightly at the waist.

Shilovsky rubbed at his face, the chill biting against his skin as he tried to orient himself. His body ached from the unyielding wooden floor, his neck stiff where it had pressed against the wall. Still, he forced himself upright, joints protesting as he stood.

Kovac was already at the door. She had it open just a crack, the hiss of frigid air slipping in through the gap. She didn’t look at him when he approached, but the faint tension in her shoulders gave away the fact that she knew he was there.

“Before we get off and storm the lab,” she said quietly, eyes still on the narrow slice of snow and steel outside, “I want to talk about what I said this morning.” Her fingers fidgeted against the doorframe, tapping an uneven rhythm. “Forget it. All of it. I was tired, cold, and stressed. I shouldn’t have said what I did.”

He frowned slightly. “I wasn’t going to tell anyone what you told me.” His voice was low, careful. “I appreciate you telling me. There’s a lot I don’t know about myself.”

That made her glance up sharply, as if she’d just been caught breaking a rule.

“You’re not supposed to,” she said, sharper now. “It makes you a better soldier.” She stepped back from the door, brushing the frost from her gloves. “This is my first real mission in the field, and I know better than to have personal conversations. I messed up. It won’t happen again.”

The words came out clipped, rehearsed — like she had practiced them a dozen times while he slept.

The train screeched as it began to slow, the metallic shriek echoing through the car. Kovac pressed her shoulder to the door, peering through the narrow opening. Beyond the sliver of light, Shilovsky could see snow swirling past, wind tugging at the flakes like smoke. The train rolled to a sluggish stop beside a line of dark pine trees and a cluster of dim lights in the distance — the supply depot they’d been aiming for.

“Now,” Kovac said under her breath.

She pushed the door wider and jumped down into the snow, landing in a crouch. Shilovsky followed silently behind her, boots sinking deep into the drift. They moved quickly, keeping low beside the train’s shadow as a pair of figures approached along the tracks — crew members unloading cargo. The men’s voices were faint, muffled by the wind. Kovac froze until they passed, then motioned for him to follow.

They slipped into the cover of the trees, the crunch of snow beneath their boots barely audible over the hum of the train’s engine. Once they were far enough away, Kovac pulled a small map from her coat and unfolded it under the dim light of the rising sun.

“The lab should be east of here, about half a kilometer,” she murmured. “Old mining tunnel converted into a research site.”

Shilovsky nodded, eyes scanning the horizon. The woods thinned ahead, opening toward a stretch of frozen ground that glowed faintly in the early morning light. A faint plume of smoke rose in the distance . They followed it.

After several minutes of silence, he asked quietly, “What do we do if the keycard doesn’t work?”

“Then we find another way in,” she said curtly. “There’s always another way.”

“And when we get inside?”

She didn’t slow. “We locate the lab where they’re making the serum. That’s the priority. Everything else—” She shot him a sharp look that cut off his next question. “You’ll speak when spoken to, understood?”

He nodded once, falling silent.

The path curved into a steep embankment where the rock face jutted out from the snow. The faint outline of a reinforced steel door came into view, half-buried beneath a layer of ice. Motion sensors blinked faintly in the dark — still active.

Kovac crouched beside the entry console and swiped the stolen keycard through the slot. A low beep sounded, followed by the heavy click of unlocking mechanisms. The door began to slide open with a deep, grinding groan.

Then the alarm went off.

Red lights flashed through the falling snow, bathing the entryway in harsh color. Kovac’s head snapped toward the control panel.

“Damn it.”

Shilovsky’s voice was steady, though the noise made it hard to hear him. “Lehmann left HYDRA. They must have flagged his credentials.”

She cursed under her breath again. “Then we don’t have much time.” Her hand tightened on the grip of her pistol. “If the door’s open, we’re going in.”

Shilovsky followed as she slipped inside, the alarm still wailing behind them like a warning they were already too late to heed.

The alarm’s shriek followed them into the corridor, echoing down the narrow concrete halls. Harsh fluorescent lights flickered to life above, painting everything in sterile white and crimson flashes. The base had already gone into lockdown.

Kovac took point, her weapon raised, the keycard still clutched between her fingers. Shilovsky moved behind her, his breathing calm and measured despite the chaos around them. They barely made it past the first junction before the sound of boots thundered ahead. Soldiers rounded the corner in formation, rifles raised.

“Down!” Kovac hissed.

Gunfire erupted. Kovac dove behind a steel crate, firing two short bursts that dropped the first man. Shilovsky didn’t bother taking cover. He surged forward, a blur of motion that made the rest hesitate just long enough for him to close the gap.

He hit the first soldier so hard the man’s body folded against the wall, bones crunching under the impact. Shilovsky wrenched the rifle from his hands and spun it into the gut of another, pulling the trigger mid-turn. He didn’t waste movement—every strike flowed into the next.

One soldier tried to backpedal, panic flashing in his eyes. Shilovsky grabbed him by the vest, slammed him against the wall, and crushed the weapon out of his hands. The man crumpled before he could even scream.

Kovac moved in behind him, firing clean shots at the stragglers. The last of the soldiers hit the ground, their blood slicking the floor beneath the flashing lights.

Shilovsky straightened slowly, chest rising and falling with controlled rhythm. The air around him felt heavier somehow, colder. Kovac stared for a moment longer than she should have—just long enough to remember the reports she’d read.

A shout drew her attention. One of the soldiers had tried to crawl away, dragging himself toward the door at the end of the hall. Kovac crossed the distance in two strides, seized him by the collar, and yanked him to his knees. A knife glinted in her hand.

“Where is the serum?” she demanded.

The man spat blood, then a curse. But his gaze flicked down the corridor, quick and instinctive. That was all she needed.

“Thank you,” she said simply—then drew the blade across his throat.

The sound was soft but final. She let the body drop, wiped the knife clean on his uniform, and looked down the way his eyes had darted.

“That way,” she said, her voice low.

Shilovsky nodded, reloading his stolen rifle.

“They’ll send another wave,” she warned as they advanced. “Be ready.”

“I’m always ready,” he said.

They moved through the next corridor in silence, the distant wail of the alarm growing faint behind thick layers of reinforced steel. Ahead, the hallway ended in a massive security door. Kovac stopped in front of it.

“This should be it,” she said. “Hopefully the serum’s inside.”

The reinforced door slammed shut behind them. Kovac didn’t waste a second—she shoved a metal table across the entrance, jamming it tight between the hinges and the floor. Shilovsky joined her, flipping another piece of lab equipment to brace the handle. The echo of boots was already growing louder in the hallway outside.

When they finally turned, the room had gone still. A handful of scientists stood frozen in the pale white light of the lab. None of them reached for an alarm or a weapon. They just stared—wide-eyed and trembling.

Kovac’s voice cut through the silence. “Against the wall, everyone!”

They hesitated only a second before obeying, shuffling backward until their shoulders touched the cold metal panels. Kovac’s pistol swept across them, her expression unreadable as she chose one at random. She caught him by the collar and yanked him forward, pressing the blade of her knife against his throat.

“Where’s the serum?” she demanded. “And the research. All of it.”

“I—I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he stammered, voice cracking.

Kovac didn’t even blink. The blade flashed quickly across his throat. The man dropped, choking on his own blood. She turned to the others, her tone steady. “Maybe one of you has a better memory.”

She seized another man by the sleeve before any of them could move. This one was younger, shaking so hard he could barely stand. As she dragged him forward, Shilovsky noticed that most of the scientists kept their eyes on her—but one, a thin man near the corner, couldn’t look away from him. The man’s stare was fixed, unblinking.

Kovac shoved her new hostage against the wall and pressed the knife to his throat. “Where is it? The serum. Don’t waste my time because we don’t have a lot of it.”

“HYDRA has made many serums,” he blurted, his hands raised. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

Her expression hardened. “It’s the perfect soldier serum. I don’t know what you call it, but Lehmann stole a sample. I want to know where it came from.”

Recognition flickered across the scientist’s face. “You’re talking about the Lambda serum,” he said quickly. “But it’s not made here. We only study its effects. The synthesis happens off-site.”

Kovac’s grip tightened on his collar. “Where?”

Before he could answer, a thunderous crash echoed through the room. The door shuddered violently as soldiers began pounding from the other side. The metal braces groaned under the impact.

Kovac swore under her breath, shoving the scientist aside. “They’re breaking it down.”

The scientists flinched as another blow rattled the door, sending cracks through the window. Shilovsky lifted his rifle, the motion smooth, almost reflexive.

“Get ready,” Kovac said. “We’re not done yet.”

The next strike warped the hinges. The alarm’s wail filled the lab once more, mingling with the sound of boots and shouted orders just beyond the barricade.

Kovac threw the scientist to the ground with the others, her voice sharp and cutting through the pounding on the door. “Somebody had better start talking. Right now. Because if those soldiers get through that door before I get what I came for, they’re going to walk in and find a lot of bodies.”

Her knife glinted as she stepped closer. None of them spoke.

Finally, one man—a nervous, thin figure with trembling hands—spoke up. “This facility is only for testing. Lambda was brought here but that was months ago. That was when Lehmann stole the sample. But it’s not produced here. We only—”

The rest of his sentence was cut off by a gunshot that split the room open. The door was kicked inward, slamming the metal table across the floor. The man’s head snapped back, and blood sprayed across Kovac’s face and jacket.

She cursed and ducked, returning fire as soldiers flooded the doorway. “So much for talking!”

Shilovsky reacted on instinct. He lunged forward, shoving Kovac aside as a burst of bullets tore through the space she had been standing. He moved like a machine. Two soldiers fell before they even realized he was on them. The metallic sound of his arm drowned beneath the sharp rhythm of gunfire and screams.

Most of the scientists scattered, diving behind tables and overturned crates. But one stayed where he was, the same one who had been staring at Shilovsky before. He didn’t move, didn’t blink, just watched him with an intensity that pierced through the chaos.

When the last soldier close to him fell, Shilovsky turned to him. The man was still staring. He grabbed him by the collar and dragged him to his feet, voice low and rough. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

The scientist didn’t answer. His eyes were wide, unblinking, studying Shilovsky’s face like it was a ghost from another life.

Shilovsky shoved the barrel of his pistol against the man’s temple. “Talk.”

A strange smile crept over the scientist’s face. “So… it did work after all.”

Shilovsky’s grip tightened. “What worked?”

“The serum,” the man said, voice trembling with something close to wonder. “I worked with Doctor Zola back when he was under Johann Schmidt. I thought you were dead when the American raided the facility. But… clearly, you survived.”

Before Shilovsky could react, another soldier burst through the door. He dropped the scientist, twisting to block the attack. The metallic arm caught the soldier’s rifle and wrenched it away. One sharp motion and the man's arm snapped. He fired point-blank, killing the man, then turned the gun on two others. When the room went still again, he spun back toward the scientist.

The man was still there, eyes bright, almost exhilarated. “Clearly Zola’s formula worked,” he said breathlessly.

“What are you talking about?” Shilovsky demanded, grabbing the man again. “What serum? What formula?”

The scientist blinked, confusion flickering across his face. “You… you don’t remember, do you?” His gaze searched Shilovsky’s expression, softening. “You’re not the same American soldier HYDRA took captive. Not anymore at least.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Shilovsky’s voice rose, rough and strained. “I don’t know anything about Americans. I am from Russia. I have only ever served my country.”

The scientist almost smiled, but it was sad this time. “I was there when the serum was first administered. You fought so hard. Long after most of the American test subjects had given up. They had such high hopes for you…”

He took a small, trembling breath. “But I can see now—that man is long gone.”

Something twisted in Shilovsky’s chest. He didn’t understand it. His pulse hammered in his ears. “You’re lying.”

Another shot cracked through the air—Kovac, at the far end of the lab, dropped a soldier before he reached the door. “Did you get anything from him?” she shouted over her shoulder.

The scientist flinched but didn’t look away from Shilovsky. “I know where they’re producing the Lambda serum,” he said quickly, words tumbling out in a rush. “I can tell you.” He gave a dry, bitter laugh. “I would warn you about the effects of the serum, how strong it is. But clearly, you have nothing left to lose.”

Kovac’s head snapped toward the sound of boots thundering down the corridor.
“Time to go.”

She crossed the lab in three long strides, ripped a metal cover from a ventilation grate, and motioned for Shilovsky to move. “In. Now.”

He didn’t hesitate. The shouts outside were getting closer. Kovac followed, pulling the grate back into place behind them just as more boots pounded across the lab floor.

The vents were narrow, the walls cold enough to sting through his gloves. Every movement echoed—the rasp of their breathing, the metal groaning beneath their weight, the muffled barking of orders below.

“Keep moving,” Kovac whispered, voice ragged. “Don’t stop.”

They crawled through the dark maze, light flickering through seams in the panels. Shilovsky could smell the acrid tang of smoke from somewhere deeper in the base.

Until there was a sharp ping of metal on metal followed by a hiss. Faint at first, then sharper.

Kovac coughed. “What is—”

The hiss grew louder. A metallic whine cut through the air as gas began pouring through the vent grates. The air turned white and thick around them. Kovac choked, one hand clawing at her collar.

Shilovsky held his breath. His lungs burned, but he ignored it. He wrapped one arm around her waist, dragging her forward through the cramped space. His shoulder scraped the metal, his metal arm sparking faintly where it struck bolts. He didn’t stop.

He could barely see now. The gas filled every crevice, and Kovac had gone limp against him. His mind narrowed to a single thought: get out.

He slammed his hand into the vent ahead until it bent outward, he hit it again and it burst open. Frigid air hit him like a wave. Snow whipped across his face as he dragged them both through the hole and onto the frozen ground outside.

Alarms blared behind them, muffled but insistent. Red lights flashed against the snow. Men shouted somewhere in the distance. Shilovsky didn’t look back. He hauled Kovac over his shoulder and started running.

The snow was deep, slowing his steps, but he kept his pace steady. Every exhale fogged the air in front of him. The base lights faded into the storm, replaced by darkness and wind.

He didn’t stop until the faint outline of the train station came into view through the flurries. He ducked behind the remains of an older loading dock, setting Kovac down in a patch of snow sheltered from the worst of the wind.

She was coughing violently, her skin pale beneath the frost that clung to her hair. He watched her for a long moment before pressing his gloved hand against her shoulder. “Agent Kovac?”

Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused at first, then sharpening. “You—” she coughed again, voice hoarse and thin. “You got us out.”

He nodded once.

Kovac pushed herself upright, still wheezing, then froze. “It’s been two days since Berlin,” she rasped. “We only have three left—and now we’re back to nothing. No intel. No leads. No idea where the serum is.”

“That’s not true.”

She blinked, looking up at him. “What?”

“The scientist,” he said. “The one I spoke to before we escaped. He told me where it’s being produced.”

Her expression shifted instantly, fatigue melting into sharp, eager focus. “Where?” She pushed herself to her knees, grabbing his arm. “And what did you do to make him talk?”

“Outside of Salzburg,” he said flatly. “Austria.”

Kovac smiled faintly, almost disbelieving. “Then that’s where we go next.” She straightened slowly, testing her balance. “You didn’t answer my question. How did you get him to tell you?”

Shilovsky stared past her, eyes fixed on the empty snowfield. “I’m not sure.”

Kovac swayed, catching herself on the wall. “All right,” she said, her voice steadier now. “We’ll start walking toward the jet. If we get lucky, maybe we can bribe a local for a ride.” She took one cautious step, then another, wincing at the effort.

He didn’t move.

“Come on,” she said, glancing back. “We can’t stay here. They’ll be looking for us.”

Still, he didn’t follow. His gaze stayed on the horizon—the dark silhouette of the mountains against the faint dawn. Snow clung to his hair and his jacket.

“Shilovsky?” Kovac’s tone softened. “Are you hurt? You took a few hits back there. We have medical supplies on the jet if you can make it that far.”

“I’m not hurt.”

“Then what is it?” She squinted at him, searching his face. “If I thought you were capable of it, I’d say you almost look… scared. Or maybe sad?”

His brow furrowed slightly. “I don’t know what I feel,” he said at last. “Or if I feel anything.” His voice was low, almost mechanical.

For a minute, neither of them spoke. The wind filled the silence between them, carrying the faint wail of alarms still echoing from the direction of the base.

Kovac watched him, the faintest trace of unease in her eyes. For the first time since she started working with him, she truly felt like she was looking at something more than just a weapon. And the realization was unnerving.

Chapter 15

Notes:

Please don't hate me for this chapter. 😅

2027
Yelena

 

Bucky didn’t wait for anyone else. The second the jet’s landing gear hit the tarmac, he was out of his seat. The hatch hadn’t even finished lowering before he was stepping out.

Yelena exhaled sharply and reached up to kill the engines. Metal clicked as she unlatched her harness, then twisted in her seat in time to see Bucky’s silhouette vanish down the ramp.

For a long moment, no one said a word.

Then Walker broke the silence. “Seriously, what the hell is wrong with him?”

“I really don’t know.” Yelena rubbed the back of her neck, crossing her arms as she stood. “At first, I thought it was just the concussion. But now…” She shook her head, jaw tightening. “I’ll talk to him tonight.”

She started down the ramp, Bob trailing behind her.

“Yelena, wait!” Ava’s boots clanged against the ramp as she jogged after them. “I don’t want to be the one to say it, but we need to be smart about this.”

Yelena didn’t stop walking. “About what?”

“About him.” Ava’s voice dropped, wary but insistent. “We should consider the possibility that he’s… up to something. Maybe even working for someone else.”

Yelena froze mid-step and turned sharply. “He’s not. How could you even say that?”

“I’m not saying he is,” Ava said quickly, hands raised in defense. “It’s not an accusation. But we don’t really know each other yet—not fully. And you know as well as I do, he worked for people like HYDRA for a long time. We don’t actually know where his loyalty lies.”

“I do,” Yelena said flatly. “And you should too.” Her voice had an edge now, sharp enough to cut through the chill air. “You know he didn’t have a choice in that.”

“I know,” Ava said gently. “But trauma rewires people. What if it’s like some kind of—” she hesitated, searching for the word—“twisted Stockholm syndrome or something?”

Bob frowned. “Stockholm… that’s like when someone—”

“Gets attached to the people who hurt them,” Ava finished, nodding. “Yeah. It’s not the best example, but you get what I mean. He didn’t have a choice to work for HYDRA, but after all that time, maybe some part of him still feels obligated. It may not be safe to just… blindly trust him.”

“HYDRA is gone,” Yelena said tightly.

“As far as we’re aware,” Ava countered. “We thought that before too, and then they showed up inside S.H.I.E.L.D.” Her voice softened. “Look, I’m not trying to start anything. Just… keep it in mind. Please.”

Yelena said nothing. She gave a curt nod and started walking again, boots crunching on the asphalt. Bob followed silently.

Ava stopped where the tarmac met polished marble, watching them disappear toward the building. She folded her arms against the cold and whispered to no one, “Just be careful.”

Inside the building, the hallway lights hummed faintly overhead as Yelena pressed the elevator button. Her jaw was still tight.

“So,” Bob said, breaking the silence, “what exactly am I helping with?”

She sighed. “Remember when I told you Bucky and I were researching something? That’s when he started to act strange. I want another set of eyes on it.” She glanced down the hallway, lowering her voice. “And honestly… I’m not sure it’s good for him to keep digging into it.”

Bob raised an eyebrow. “Because you don’t trust him?”

“I never said that,” she snapped, a little too quickly. Then she exhaled, voice softening. “It’s not about trust. It’s about whatever this is doing to him.”

The elevator doors opened with a low chime, and they stepped inside. Yelena pressed the button for the control room.

“I just don’t want it to get worse,” she murmured.

Bob nodded. “Okay. Whatever you need. I’m worried about him too.”

When the doors slid open again, Yelena expected an empty room. Instead, she stopped dead.

Bucky sat in one of the cheap plastic chairs, motionless in front of a blank monitor. His posture was rigid, shoulders squared, eyes fixed on nothing.

“Hey,” Yelena said carefully. “I thought you were in your room.”

He turned his head toward her, slow and deliberate, but didn’t speak.

“Were you… still doing research?” She stepped closer, voice light and casual. “I was just going to grab a tablet, work with Bob for a bit.” She forced a small smile. “I’ll see you later, okay?”

No answer. His eyes tracked her as she crossed the room, the faint hum of machinery filling the silence.

She reached the table, unplugged one of the tablets, and turned back toward him. His gaze hadn’t moved.

She hesitated a few feet in front of him. “Do you need anything? I could get you something to eat. Or some water. Or maybe—maybe you should rest for a while?”

Bucky’s reply was barely above a whisper, but the word cut through the quiet. “No.”

Yelena glanced toward Bob, uneasy.

Bucky didn’t look at either of them. His eyes were locked on the far wall, but something flickered in them. The muscles in his jaw tensed. A tiny crease appeared between his brows, and for a moment, he looked… almost scared.

Bob shifted his weight, lowering his voice as Yelena approached. “You sure you want to talk to him tonight?”

Yelena swallowed hard, her throat tight. “Yeah,” she said softly. When the elevator finally opened, they stepped inside, and the silence stretched all the way up.

The moment Yelena’s bedroom door shut behind them, she turned the lock with a soft click and exhaled the breath she’d been holding since the control room. Her shoulders dropped, tension draining only a fraction as she crossed to the bed and sat down cross-legged. Bob dragged over an old beanbag and collapsed into it with a muffled grunt.

For a few seconds, they just sat there, the hum of the air system filling the quiet.

“I understand Ava’s concerns,” Yelena said finally, running a hand through her hair. “I really do. But she’s wrong. If Bucky was sneaking out, sabotaging missions, being secretive about stuff—then yeah, maybe we’d have a problem. But that’s not what this is.”

She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, voice softening. “Whatever’s happening to him… it’s something else.”

Bob hesitated. “He’s scaring me a little,” he admitted, his tone low. “Not in a ‘he’s going to hurt someone’ way. Just—” He gestured vaguely. “It’s like he’s not in there sometimes. Like a light’s flickering.”

Yelena’s lips pressed into a thin line. She picked up the tablet from the bedside table and flicked it on, the screen lighting her face with a cold glow. “Then let’s start with what we know.”

She swiped to a photo. “This guy—Mikhail Volkova. The one Bucky ran into at the docks.” She angled the tablet toward Bob. “He said something weird to Bucky. ‘It’s you. This changes everything.’ Bukcy said he was just acting strangely.”

Bob leaned forward, squinting at the grainy image of an older man in a gray coat. “And Bucky knew him?”

“No,” Yelena said. “That’s what freaked him out. Volkova wasn’t familiar to Bucky at all, but the guy clearly recognized him.” She swiped to another file, this one tagged with faded Cyrillic text. “So I started digging through old KGB archives, trying to find out who Mikhail was. I didn’t find much but I did find a file on a Vincent Volkova.”

Bob frowned. “Relative?”

“Maybe. The records were missing a lot. But here’s the thing—Vincent didn’t officially work for the KGB. He was brought in as a consultant for something classified.” She flipped through several scanned pages, the text blurred and redacted. “When Bucky and I first went through this, we couldn’t figure out which project he was assigned to. We had our guesses, but nothing confirmed.”

She hesitated, thumb hovering over the next page. “I did a little more digging the night we got back from Canada. And I found it. The project was Winter Soldier.”

Bob’s brow creased. “Wait—really? Is that what you guys had been thinking?”

“Yeah.” Yelena’s voice was quiet now. “Vincent Volkova was brought in under the neurology division.”

Bob shifted, clearly uncomfortable. “Sorry, I don’t actually know much about all that. Bucky was the Winter Soldier, right?”

“Was.” Yelena nodded firmly. “It wasn’t his choice. They brainwashed him. Turned him into something else. The KGB had him for a while before HYDRA took control.”

Bob rubbed the back of his neck, looking down. “Right.”

Yelena swiped to another file. “So, Volkova helped with something called Lambda Serum. When we cross-checked that with old HYDRA and S.H.I.E.L.D. data, we found that Mikhail—our guy at the docks—worked with HYDRA on the same serum. But a lot of the files were torched when both organizations collapsed. That’s why we went to Canada. To find him, see if he could fill in the blanks.”

She set the tablet down between them. “And that’s when everything started falling apart.”

Bob glanced at her. “You found him?”

“Briefly,” she said with a bitter laugh. “He ran, Bucky chased him. I followed the trail as best I could, but by the time I caught up—” She stopped, pulling her knees close to her chest. “He was gone. No signal. No answer. I looked for him for hours before Ava finally tracked his phone.”

Her voice grew quieter. “When I found him, he was lying on a dirt path.. Unconscious and freezing.”

Bob frowned. “And he didn’t remember what happened?”

Yelena shook her head. “Nothing clear. Just flashes. Said he thought Volkova said something to him right before everything went black.”

Bob twisted his fingers together, knuckles whitening. “And you really believe him? That he doesn’t remember what happened?”

Yelena’s head snapped up. “Yes. Do you not?” Her tone came out sharper than she meant, though it softened halfway through. Not quite defensive — but close.

“I didn’t say that.” Bob looked down at his hands. “I just… wasn’t there. I want to make sure you actually believe him before I do.”

“I do.” Yelena’s voice was steady, though a muscle ticked in her jaw. “When I found him, he looked confused. Scared, even. You can’t fake that kind of fear.” She hesitated, eyes flicking to the floor. “Either he’s telling the truth, or he’s the best actor alive.”

Bob nodded slowly, as if her conviction helped steady him. “Okay. If you think he’s telling the truth, then I do too.” He offered a small, reassuring smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “So then there’s all that… plus what happened today.”

“Yeah.” Yelena rose from the bed, the movement sudden and restless. “Which, again, we don’t fully know what happened.”

She crossed the room and grabbed a worn notebook off the dresser. The pages were creased, corners frayed from years of use. She dropped onto the bed again, legs folded beneath her, and started jotting notes in quick, looping handwriting. The pen scratched against the paper.

Bob watched, chewing on the inside of his cheek.

When she finally stopped writing, Yelena drew a line and added one last bullet point. “So. We split up. Bucky said he saw someone, but we still don’t know who. No one heard from him for—how long?”

Bob tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling as he tried to recall. “John found that guy pretty soon after Bucky said he saw someone. We took them out fast too. I’d say… maybe an hour? A little over that from when he went dark until I found him.”

Yelena scribbled the detail down, her handwriting sharper now. “Okay. Missing for about an hour. Then we find him and he’s like, barely responsive. Like he’s there, but not.”

Bob leaned closer to read the list, his brow furrowed. “You think it was Volkova again?”

“Maybe.” She tapped the pen against her notebook. “He’s in Canada. Or he was. Last time, he was trying to buy or build a lab. But it’s been a few days. He could have come back.”

The thought hung heavy between them.

Bob exhaled slowly. “So what do we do now?”

Yelena checked the time on her phone. It was two pm. “I’m going to grab another tablet for you,” she said, slipping the notebook closed. “That gives me an excuse to check on him again. You go get snacks, and we’ll meet back here. Keep digging.”

He blinked. “Didn’t you already do a ton of research? What else could there be?”

“I don’t know.” She shrugged into her jacket, zipping it halfway. “But I can’t sit here doing nothing. And I’ve got a few more ideas to try.”

“Like what?”

She paused at the door, hand on the knob. “I’m going to text my mom.”

Bob’s eyebrows rose as he followed her into the hallway. “Your mom?”

“Yeah.” Yelena’s boots clicked against the tile as they walked. “She didn’t work on the Winter Soldier Project, but she did research for the KGB. Neurology stuff. And based on what little we’ve found in HYDRA’s files, she might know something.”

The doors slid open with a metallic sigh. They rode down in silence. The elevator’s faint hum filled the space where neither seemed willing to speak.

When they reached the lower floor, Bob stepped out first. “I’ll find something to eat, if we have anything. Meet you back upstairs?”

“Yeah.”

The doors closed, sealing Yelena in the quiet again. She rolled her shoulders, as if shaking off a weight, and stepped out when the elevator opened to the control room.

The lights inside were dimmed to standby mode. The monitors along the far wall cast a cold blue glow, flickering faintly. Yelena lingered at the doorway, listening. Nothing but the hum of machines. Bucky was gone.

She slipped inside, moving quietly between desks and grabbed a second. The screen came alive beneath her fingertips, its brightness briefly reflecting in her eyes. She tucked it under her arm and headed back out, the echo of her footsteps swallowed by the empty hall.

When the elevator doors opened again, she hesitated in front of Bucky’s room. She stared at the closed door, her pulse steady but heavy in her chest.

She should check on him. Just to make sure he was there.

Her hand lifted halfway to knock — then froze. She was about to turn away when the elevator at the far end of the hall chimed.

She looked up just as Bob stepped out, holding a bowl of chips.

“I just saw Bucky,” he said quickly, before she could ask. “I think he was heading to the training room. He was alone.”

Her heart gave a small, quick jolt. “Was he—okay?”

Bob shrugged. “Didn’t say a word to me. I asked if he wanted to train with the team later, but… nothing.” He glanced toward Bucky’s room, his voice lowering. “He didn’t even look at me.”

Yelena lowered her hand from the door, relief and unease tangling in her chest. At least he hadn’t left the tower. That was something.

“Okay,” she said quietly. “Good. Then let’s get to work.”

She turned, walking back toward her room with brisk, purposeful steps. Bob followed close behind, the sound of chips rustling faintly between them.
_____
The heavy glass bowl sliding off the bed and crashing onto the floor woke Yelena with a start. She sat bolt upright, rubbing the side of her face where her tablet had been resting. The bedroom was dark now, illuminated only by faint moonlight slipping through the half-open curtains.

Bob was still curled up in the beanbag chair, his own tablet resting on his chest as he snored softly. Yelena checked the time on her phone—eleven-thirty p.m. They must have both fallen asleep mid-research.

Her gaze drifted to the chip crumbs scattered across the carpet. That would be a mess to clean later. She was already thinking of what she could bribe Bob with to get him to vacuum.

He shifted slightly, his tablet sliding off his chest and onto the beanbag beside him.

“Bob, wake up.” Yelena nudged him gently with her foot.

Bob batted her away without opening his eyes. She kicked again, a little harder. “Wake up. We both fell asleep.”

He cracked one eye open, grumbling something unintelligible. He looked around the room, then down at the tablet. “Wait—when did I fall asleep?”

“Beats me. I passed out too.” Yelena crossed the room and flicked on the lights.

“I’m really hungry now. What time is it?” Bob stood, stretched, and grabbed the tablet.

“Almost midnight.” Yelena opened her door and peered into the dark hallway. “Wanna see if there’s anything edible in the kitchen?”

“I’m guessing there isn’t. But we can check.”

Yelena held the door for him as Bob stumbled over, rubbing his eyes.

“So, did you find anything useful after I passed out?” he asked, pressing the elevator button before leaning against the wall to wait.

“Not really. Nothing that’ll actually help us.”

She’d finally gotten hold of her mother after three calls. The woman had admitted to hearing about Project Lambda—very briefly—but claimed she knew nothing more.

After that, Yelena and Bob spent hours scrolling through old KGB and HYDRA files that didn’t directly mention the serum or Volkova, hoping something might connect. But it was mostly repetitive, tedious data.

By the time the elevator doors opened onto the kitchen level, Bob was a little more awake. He flipped on the light and started rummaging through cupboards.

Eventually he slammed a box of cereal down on the counter with triumph. “How long ago did we buy this?”

“No idea. Probably a while ago.” Yelena opened the fridge, rifling through takeout containers. “Ooh—where did Walker move his secret snacks to?”

She climbed onto the counter, feeling along the tops of the cabinets until her fingers brushed a cardboard corner. “Bingo!”

Yelena pulled down a box and rummaged through it, producing a handful of expensive-looking granola bars. Bob poured himself a bowl of cereal, grabbed the milk, and sniffed cautiously before shrugging and pouring it in.

“Well,” he said after a bite, “it’s only a little stale.”

Yelena laughed between bites of granola.

Bob finished his cereal in record time, setting the bowl atop the ever-growing stack in the sink. “I’ll… do the dishes tomorrow,” he muttered.

“I’d say I’ll help,” Yelena replied, “but we both know that’s a lie.”

Bob rolled his eyes on his way back to the elevator. “I know we just woke up, but I’m going to bed.” He jabbed the button harder than necessary.

“I should probably get some real sleep too,” Yelena agreed, following him in.

The elevator opened on the floor with everyone’s rooms. Bob stepped out, but Yelena stayed inside.

“You coming?” he asked, glancing back. Their rooms were the last two down the hall.

“Actually, I’ll head to bed in a bit.” She stopped the doors from closing with her foot. “I’m not that tired. Feeling a little restless. I’m gonna hit the gym.”

“Okay. See you in the morning.”

The doors slid shut, and Yelena pressed the button for the gym level.

When the doors opened, the training room was dim. Beyond it, the secondary room with weights and equipment glowed under bright fluorescent lights.

As Yelena crossed the mat, the rhythmic thud of punches reached her. She stepped through the archway and found Bucky with his back to her, hitting the punching bag with precise, punishing strikes.

His shirt was soaked through with sweat, and she hoped he hadn’t been there since Bob saw him earlier. That had been almost nine hours ago.

“Hey, Bucky,” Yelena called cautiously from the doorway.

His next hit landed softer, but he didn’t turn or answer.

“Okay then,” she muttered.

She crossed to a rack of weights, picked up a set, and held them out in front of her until her arms trembled, then curled them back.

Bucky kept hitting the bag.

Yelena continued curling the weights slowly as she watched Bucky. Eventually, she dropped them back onto the rack, letting the noise echo through the room.

“Hey, we didn’t end up doing any training today. Want to spar on the mat for a bit?” she asked, hoping it might give her an opening to talk to him.
He didn’t look up.

Yelena crossed over to where he stood and asked again. Still no response. Knowing it could be a risky move, she stepped between him and the punching bag.

She braced herself, eyes squeezing shut—but no impact came. When she opened them, his fist hung mid-swing, inches from her face. He said nothing, just stood frozen like someone had hit pause.

“Bucky, did you hear me?” she asked, leaning slightly around his arm to see his face. His expression was blank, eyes distant, but the faint crease between his brows betrayed something deeper. “Sparring on the mat? Yes?”

Slowly, he lowered his fist. “Okay.”

Yelena stepped away from the punching bag, exhaling in relief that she hadn’t ended up on the floor. She led the way back toward the training room, glancing over her shoulder once to make sure he was following.

She picked a mat in the corner of the room and ran through a few warm-up moves while Bucky stood at the edge, silent and waiting.

“Ready when you are,” she said, giving him a light, taunting wave.

He stepped onto the mat, cracked his neck to each side, and raised his fists. Yelena dodged the first swing and countered immediately, missing him by inches.

“So, this morning was something, huh? That shipyard was kind of creepy, right?” she said, starting light—anything to get him talking.

“Yeah, you weren’t there, but Bob actually took down two guys on his own. You’d have been proud of him.” She ducked, narrowly missing a punch. The second one caught her shoulder.

It hurt, but not as much as it could have. He was holding back.

“You said you got lost—were you just wandering around the shipping crates or something?”

She kicked high, her foot striking his metal arm. He barely flinched. “Nothing? You said you thought you saw someone. Any clue who it was, or did you not catch up?”

He still didn’t respond. His next swing went over her head, and she dropped into a crouch, lunging forward to strike back.

He caught her wrist with his left hand and twisted sharply.

“Ow—Bucky, let go!” she yelped, feeling the cold metal dig into her skin. “Stop! Bucky!”

He released her instantly, staring down at the bruise already forming. His breath hitched, and he stumbled backward until his spine hit the wall. Then he slid down to the floor, eyes fixed on her arm.

Yelena turned her wrist carefully—nothing broken. She rushed over. The blank expression he’d worn all day was gone, replaced by raw horror.

She tried to angle her arm away from him, but the sleeve of her T-shirt did little to hide the damage. “Hey, Bucky? It’s okay. I’m fine. It’s just a bruise.”

“I… I’m so sorry,” he said, voice cracking. It sounded like he could barely breathe.

“Bucky, I’m okay. I promise. Are you okay?”

His eyes stayed locked on her arm. “No.”

Yelena hesitated, unsure what kind of answer she’d expected. She reached out gently, but he tried to back away—though the wall left him nowhere to go.

“Okay,” she said quietly. “Can you tell me what’s going on? What happened at the shipyard?”

“Shipyard?” His hands tightened around the hem of his shirt until his knuckles turned white. His face was a warzone of emotions. “I don’t even remember a shipyard.”

“You don’t remember being there?” Yelena asked softly. She started to reach toward him again, but stopped when he flinched. “You disappeared for a while. No one knew where you went. And after that—you’ve been… different. It’s like you’re slowly being erased.”

He pressed his palms to his temples. “It’s hard to explain. It’s like there’s an invisible wall in my head.” His fingers tangled in his hair, gripping tightly.

“What do you need? How can we help?” Yelena asked. The look on his face made her heart twist. It looked like he was fighting whatever was happening and she could see him losing.

“I don’t know.”

“Okay. It’s okay,” she said softly, holding her hand out to him.

He looked at it for a long moment but didn’t take it. “I hurt you.”

“You didn’t mean to.” Her voice was gentle. “Come on—it’s late. You should get some rest.”

Finally, he reached out and let her pull him to his feet. When he was standing, she released his hand but stayed close, making sure he was steady.

“Get some sleep,” she said quietly. “Tomorrow we’ll keep working on it, okay?”

Bucky nodded but didn’t speak.

Yelena hesitated, watching him. “I promise,” she said again, softer this time. “We’ll figure this out.”

Chapter 16

Notes:

I almost forgot to post a chapter for today. 😬

2027
Bucky

 

The next morning, Bucky woke up at the crack of dawn. He felt exhausted and just wanted to sleep a little longer, but his mind wouldn’t let him. Lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling, he remembered the events of the night before.

Most of the day before was a blur. As hard as he tried, he couldn’t recall anything from the morning. Yelena had mentioned something about a shipyard, but he had absolutely no memory of it.

He could vaguely remember being back at the tower, being in the gym—but it felt less like a memory and more like a distant dream. He couldn’t even recall grabbing Yelena’s arm. It was like his memory started when he heard her screaming at him.

Bucky pulled his pillow out from under his head and pressed it to his face, as if he could bury that memory along with everything else he couldn’t remember. It didn’t work. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her look of panic and the dark bruise forming on her arm.

Eventually, he gave up on trying to piece the day together and dragged himself out of bed. As his feet hit the cold floor and he stood, it felt as if he were diving underwater. He reached out and grabbed the wall to steady himself and fight the fog already threatening to swallow him.

“No. Come on,” he muttered, shaking his head gently. He knew from experience that whatever was happening wasn’t something he could fight—at least, not alone. But despite his general paranoia and mistrust of people, he trusted Yelena to help him.

He dressed quickly and left his room quietly. His stomach was growling, and he couldn’t remember if he’d eaten anything the day before. When the elevator opened, he stepped out into the dark living area.
He stumbled toward the kitchen, moving purely on muscle memory as he dug around for something to eat. Physically, he felt awake, but his mind was locked in a fog—as if he were still half asleep.

He found a box of toaster waffles buried in the back of the freezer, only a little freezer-burnt. Normally, he wouldn’t have touched them, but his body seemed to move automatically. He pulled two out of the box and set them in the toaster before shoving the rest back into the freezer.

When he turned around, he noticed for the first time a figure sitting quietly on one of the barstools, their head resting on folded arms. With all the lights off and the sun not yet high enough to brighten the room, the person was nothing more than a silhouette.

Bucky blinked slowly, trying to adjust his eyes to the dark. Eventually, he could make out who it was—and his chest suddenly felt heavy. Yelena had a tablet sitting beside her, her arms folded on the bar top, and her eyes locked on him.

She didn’t say a word, only watched him. His gaze flicked to her left arm. She was wearing a long-sleeve shirt now, covering the forearm where he knew the bruise was. A sharp sting of shame cut through the fog in his mind.

Yelena didn’t move, didn’t even blink—and for a moment, Bucky wondered if she was actually asleep. Then the toaster popped behind him, and they both flinched, just slightly. Yelena lifted her head.

“Good morning,” she said quietly, as if afraid of waking the rest of the tower.

Bucky wanted to respond, to say the same words back, but it felt like his mouth had forgotten how. Instead, he only nodded and turned to grab the waffles from the toaster.

There was a soft click behind him—the sound of Yelena closing the tablet. “How are you doing today?” she asked in the same gentle tone.

Bucky didn’t turn around. He took his time grabbing a plate and placing the waffles on it one by one.

When he finally turned to face her, she had lifted her head fully. Her eyes stayed fixed on him, waiting for any kind of answer. It took every ounce of focus just to respond.

“Fighting it.”

That small bit of resistance seemed to open something inside him, a narrow path he could cling to. He held onto it as hard as he could.

“I’m so sorry.” He didn’t elaborate further. The way his eyes stayed fixed on her arm, he didn’t need to.

Yelena tucked her hands into her lap, even though her sleeves already covered the bruise. “Don’t even worry about it. It’s not that bad,” she said softly. She reached for a large mug beside her that he hadn’t noticed before and tilted it back, finishing the last of the coffee inside.

Bucky noticed the dark circles under her eyes, the way her shoulders sagged just a little. He wanted to ask if she’d been up all night, but the words caught in his throat. Instead, he took his plate of waffles and sat down on the barstool next to her.

She flinched—a barely-there movement, but he saw it. Her posture stiffened, and she tried to hide it by adjusting her sleeve. Guilt pressed against his chest, heavy and suffocating, but his face stayed blank. He couldn’t seem to make it show the way he felt, couldn’t make anything show.

He turned his focus to his food, forcing himself to take slow, deliberate bites, trying to fill the silence with the faint scrape of his fork on the plate.

Yelena kept watching him. “I can see it in your eyes, you know,” she said quietly. “When they go distant like that—I can tell you’re fighting it.”

Her voice was calm, but there was a tremor of worry underneath it that made him freeze mid-bite. He didn’t look up.

Yelena turned the tablet toward him and opened it again. “Bob and I scoured everything we could find in both HYDRA and KGB files. There wasn’t much that helped. So I switched gears—tried to find security footage from the shipyard. I wanted to see where you went.”

She tapped the screen, pulling up a grainy image from a shipyard he didn’t recognize. As she zoomed in, Bucky saw a lone figure walking between rows of shipping crates. The footage was too fuzzy to make out details, but the man’s silhouette—dark clothes, metal arm catching the light—was unmistakable.

Bucky’s stomach twisted.

On the screen, he moved quickly down the aisle, weapon raised, darting his head from side to side like he was searching for someone. Yelena switched to another camera angle showing a second figure, also dressed in black, disappearing into a large cargo ship. A moment later, Bucky saw himself follow.

She sped the video up. The ship bobbed rapidly in the water as the fast-forwarded footage played. Eventually, a single figure exited the ship—Bucky. His movements were off. Rigid. Mechanical.

He watched the version of himself move stiffly through the rows until he vanished off camera.

Yelena paused the video. “You followed someone into that ship, but you came out alone.” Her tone softened to almost a whisper. “Can you remember who you followed at all?”

Her voice carried hope and fear in equal measure.

Bucky wanted to give her an answer—to explain, to make the worry in her eyes disappear—but the footage stirred nothing. Just empty static where the memory should be. He forced himself to shake his head.

Yelena’s shoulders sank, but she didn’t push further.

“Hey, Lena, Bucky—whatcha guys working on?” Bob’s voice broke the silence as the elevator doors slid open.

Yelena leaned around Bucky and waved him over. “Hey. It’s early. I’m surprised you’re up already,” she said.

Bob wandered over, eyeing Bucky as he passed. “Yeah, but I took a long nap yesterday, remember? Woke up early and couldn’t get back to sleep.”

He climbed clumsily into the last barstool and leaned over to peer at the tablet. “Is that security footage from the shipyard? Did you figure out where he went—or why he disappeared in the first place?”

“Yes and no,” Yelena said. “It is the security footage. I saw that he went into a cargo ship, but I don’t know why, just that he was following someone. He said he doesn’t remember who, though.”

“He said he doesn’t remember who?” Bob asked, leaning around Yelena to look directly at Bucky. He waved a hand in front of his face. “Hello? You in there?”

Bucky didn’t react.

Bob shrugged and turned back to the tablet. “So, he followed someone. What’s our next—”

A blaring alarm cut him off.

Yelena glared at the flashing red light as if she could silence it by willpower alone. “Fuck that. It’s way too early to get sent out on another mission. When we get Bucky back, I’m gonna insist he talk to the government and tell them we don’t operate before ten a.m.”

Bob gave her a thumbs-up and slid lazily off the barstool. “You head to the control room—I’ll make coffee and bring it up.”

“Good call. I don’t want to deal with Ava this early without caffeine,” Yelena muttered, sliding off her stool and grabbing the tablet. She turned to Bucky. “You want to come up with me?”

Bob raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything as he began filling the coffee maker.

Bucky didn’t answer, but he rose silently and followed her toward the elevator, the guilt and fog pressing down on him with every step.

“You might need to knock on everyone’s doors. Not sure the alarm’s loud enough to wake Alexei or Ava,” Bob called out as they climbed into the elevator.

As the doors closed, Yelena hesitated at the buttons before pressing the one for the control room. “Walker will be up. If the other two are still asleep, I’ll send him to wake them.”

The elevator hummed softly as it rose. The air between them felt tight—too still. When the doors opened, Yelena stepped out first but paused just inside the control room to make sure they were alone. “How about I do the mission brief?” she offered quietly. “You don’t really seem like you’re in the state for it.”

Bucky appreciated it more than he could say. He could try forcing himself through the briefing, but every word, every action, felt like it had to push through static. And right now, he couldn’t spare the focus it would take to hide how badly he was slipping.

They hadn’t even reached the main console when the elevator doors opened again. John stepped out, already in uniform, looking like he’d been up for hours.

“Wow,” he said dryly. “I’m surprised to see you two awake. Well—Yelena, at least.” His glance toward Bucky was sharp, assessing, and edged with suspicion.

“I’ve probably been up longer than you, Walker,” Yelena replied, keeping her tone light. “Bob’s awake too. He’s making coffee so Ava doesn’t rip our heads off.” She was already flipping through the mission files.

“Where’s Ava?” John asked, sitting down as far from them as he could while still seeing the screen.

“Probably still asleep. So is Alexei. Would you mind getting them?”

John’s glare shifted from Bucky to Yelena. “Why don’t you go get them?”

“Because I’m briefing the mission, and I need to read through this.” She didn’t look up. “Bucky said so.”

She cast a careful glance his way, hoping he’d catch on.

“I did,” Bucky said flatly. His voice didn’t carry the right tone, it was too even, too hollow. John rolled his eyes and stomped off toward the elevator.

“Thank you,” Yelena whispered once he was gone.

Right as John pressed the call button, the doors opened to reveal a very angry-looking Ava. “Who the hell is committing crimes at five in the morning? This is not okay.” She stalked into the room and dropped into her usual seat.

Yelena and John exchanged a quick glance before he stepped into the elevator again. Bucky watched over Yelena’s shoulder as she read through the report.

It looked like something so small it shouldn’t have reached their level at all. Still, it wasn’t up to him what missions the government sent their way.

Yelena finally closed the file and turned toward the room, waiting for the rest of the team.

“So, you’re up early,” Ava muttered, pulling out her phone and curling up tighter in her chair.

“I’ve been up a while doing some research,” Yelena said, dragging a chair closer.

Ava turned toward Bucky. “How about you? Do you ever sleep?”

“I slept,” he said automatically. His fingers dug into his palm, nails pressing into skin. The sting helped keep the noise in his head from swallowing him whole.

To his relief, the elevator doors opened again, spilling light into the room. John, Alexei, and Bob stepped out—Bob balancing a tray loaded with mugs and two pots of coffee.

“Alright,” John said, voice dripping with irritation. “What bullshit are they sending us to deal with?”

Bob handed out mugs as Yelena turned back to the screen.

“Normally I’d tell you you’re an asshole and every job’s important, but this one really is bullshit,” she said. “There was an armed robbery on the subway this morning. The police cornered the guy in an office, but he’s got a hostage. They want us to go get him.”

“Seriously? That’s it?” Ava grumbled, sipping her coffee. “They woke us up for that?”

Bucky agreed but said nothing.

“Whatever. Let’s just get it over with.” John filled his mug, already moving toward the elevator again.

“It’s close,” Yelena said, taking a sip of her own coffee. “We can just drive. I’m not driving, though. I want to drink my coffee.”

“I’m not driving either,” Ava said, standing and stretching.

“I’ll drive,” John muttered, rolling his eyes.

The team fell into line, shuffling toward the elevator. Yelena lingered back with Bucky, lowering her voice.

“Hey,” she said softly. “The whole team doesn’t need to go for this one. Honestly, more than one of us is overkill. Why don’t you stay behind this time? Get some rest. We’ll keep working on everything when we get back, okay?”

Bucky wanted to argue with her. Every part of him screamed that he was letting the team down by staying behind. But another part—the quieter, more rational one—knew she was right. He wasn’t in any state to help anyone. And if what Yelena said was true, that he’d just… disappeared before without realizing it, then maybe it was safer this way.

He nodded sharply and slowed his steps, letting her pass him.

“Are you not coming with us?” John asked, voice edged with impatience.

Bucky answered with a single shake of his head. Ava and John exchanged a look, an unspoken question hanging between them.

“His head still hurts from the concussion. He’s going to sit this one out,” Yelena said quickly, stepping in before either of them could push.

The elevator doors slid shut, cutting off John’s muttered response.

Bucky waited several minutes alone, watching the numbers on the panel tick steadily downward before calling the elevator back up. The silence pressed in around him, too heavy. Yelena had told him to rest, and he knew he probably should, but the thought of lying still—alone with the noise in his head—felt unbearable.

Instead, he drifted toward the gym again. The air smelled faintly of rubber mats and sweat. The repetition of movement, the dull sting of impact—it was something he could control. Something he could hold onto when everything else was slipping.

As he stepped into the training room, his gaze caught on the mat where he and Yelena had sparred the night before. He looked away quickly and kept walking.

He stopped at the same punching bag he’d used last night and started throwing punches, one after another, trying to match the rhythm of his breathing to the impacts. His mind raced, scraping against the edges of memory. The security footage Yelena had shown him replayed in his head, the missing hours a gaping void that refused to fill in.

Nothing. No sound, no smell, no image. Just a wall of black static.

He hit harder.

The fog pressed in felt thick, heavy, and suffocating. Every strike felt less like an outlet and more like a fight for control. His thoughts fragmented, shifting out of order, words losing shape. His body remembered the motions even as his mind slipped further away.

By the time he noticed, blood was smeared across the bag. His right hand throbbed. Split knuckles, crimson seeping through cracked skin. The pain anchored him, faintly, like a tether barely holding.

He crossed the room to the first aid kit in the corner, wrapping his hand with shaking fingers. He tied off the bandage too tight just to feel the pressure.

Then a faint alarm cut through the quiet.

He froze.

It wasn’t the mission alert. It was sharper, higher-pitched. A distress signal.

The fog snapped apart like glass, adrenaline forcing his mind to clear even if it was brief.

He sprinted out of the gym, boots pounding against the floor. The elevator was too slow. He veered toward the emergency stairwell, taking the steps two and three at a time. The alarm grew louder as he climbed, pulsing in time with his heartbeat.

When he burst into the control room, the sound was deafening. He skidded to a stop in front of the monitor. The distress beacon was Yelena’s. Her signal blinked steadily on the map, but it wasn’t moving.

“Come on, come on,” he muttered, zooming in. The coordinates placed her in the subway tunnels—but separate from the rest of the team.

They’d taken the only vehicle, but it was close—less than two miles. He could run that. Easily.

He memorized the location and bolted.

The freezing air bit at his face as he sprinted through the empty streets. The rhythm of his steps and the cold wind kept his focus sharp.

He patted his pocket for his comm and cursed under his breath when he realized he’d left it behind. His phone, too. He was running in blind.

“Shit,” he hissed, ducking into a maintenance tunnel. “Yelena! Can you hear me? Ava? Bob?”

His voice echoed, distorted by the concrete walls.

The adrenaline that had kept him focused started to wane. His heart rate dropped, and with it came the crawling haze. His vision tunneled. He forced himself to breathe through it, to move faster.

There was a sound ahead—shuffling, faint but distinct. He followed it, rounding a corner. “Yelena? Are you okay?”

“Well, I am quite alright,” a voice answered, smooth and too familiar. “But I am not your little friend. Though, it wasn’t too difficult to get her comm device off her.”

Bucky reached instinctively for his sidearm, swearing when his hand hit an empty holster. He hadn’t geared up—hadn’t thought he’d need to.

Instead, he lifted his fists toward the sound of Volkov’s voice, forcing his focus to narrow to the situation at hand. He had to keep it together, at least long enough to find Yelena.

“I didn’t expect to see you again so soon,” Volkov continued, his voice echoing from the shadows. “But things fell into place faster than I expected. I’m ready for us to work together.”

Chapter 17

Notes:

The action is finally starting to get tense. I did a rough outline of all of this before I wrote anything so I knew roughly where this part would be but actually writing it, it feels so far into the story.

2027
Yelena

The mission turned out to be easier than any of them expected. The armed robber wasn’t even carrying a gun—just a butcher knife. Still, he had cornered a terrified office worker, and the police were too nervous to approach.

When the team entered the office, weapons drawn, the man froze for a heartbeat. Then panic took over. He shoved the hostage straight into Yelena, knocking them both to the ground as he lunged toward the door.

Yelena rolled onto her back just in time to see him charge past. She kicked out, catching his ankle. He stumbled, slammed into the desk, and swung wildly with the knife. The blade missed John’s face by inches.

John didn’t even bother raising his weapon. With a single, almost lazy punch, he caught the man square in the jaw. The crack echoed through the room. The robber dropped instantly, the knife skidding across the floor.

Ava stepped forward and nudged the weapon out of reach with her boot. “Clear,” she called, her tone flat.

The entire thing lasted less than five minutes, and the police spent longer thanking them than the fight itself had taken. The full ordeal, from start to finish, barely hit half an hour. Yelena bit back the urge to be sarcastic, though every line in her body screamed frustration. They’d been called in for this? Something the police could’ve easily handled on their own?

“What a waste of time,” Ava muttered, dragging her feet toward the van.

“There’s a grocery store less than a block from here. We should stop—there’s like nothing in the tower to eat,” Bob added, climbing into his seat.

Yelena glanced at the time. She wanted to get back to the tower, to dive into her research. Now that they knew where Bucky had gone, maybe she could finally make a breakthrough—maybe even track Volkova down again.

But Bob wasn’t wrong about the food situation. “Fine,” she sighed. “If we make it quick.”

She climbed into the passenger seat and started typing a rough grocery list on her phone as John took the wheel.

“I need healthier snacks,” he said, pulling into traffic. “And a new hiding spot. I know one of you’s been eating my food again.”

“Oh really? I’m so sorry that happened to you,” Yelena replied, her voice dripping with mock concern. “Can’t imagine who would steal them.”

“Yeah,” John muttered, rolling his eyes as he turned into the grocery store parking lot. “I’m sure you have no idea who it was.”

Yelena hopped out of the van before John even put it in park. “Oh, go buy your overpriced nuts, Walker. Bob, you’re with me,” she called over her shoulder, already striding toward the front doors.

Bob silently followed, jogging to catch up. “I didn’t really get a chance to ask you this morning—you found security footage and saw where he went, so what’s our next move?”

He grabbed a basket as they entered and weaved through the early-morning shoppers to stay beside her.
“If Bucky really doesn’t remember what happened at all, we need to find the other person who was there. And I think it was Volkova,” Yelena said, veering into the frozen food aisle and piling the basket high with whatever she could grab.

“So… another trip to Canada, then?” Bob asked, trying to keep up.

“Maybe. Maybe not. If it was Volkova, he might not still be in Canada. We’ll have to find him again.”

“And how exactly do you plan to do that?” Bob tried steering her toward the produce aisle, but she ignored him, moving straight for another freezer case.

“Bucky isn’t going to like it, and he doesn’t need to know, but I’m thinking of reaching out to Sam,” she said, voice low.

“Do you think he’ll actually help? Bucky made it sound like Sam wanted nothing to do with him anymore.”

“I think Sam’s angry,” Yelena admitted, pausing to shove a bag of frozen dumplings into the basket. “But I also think he still cares. If the situation is as serious as it seems, I think he’ll help.”

Bob nodded slowly. “You really think it’s that serious? We’re not thinking it’s a concussion anymore, right?”

Yelena hesitated, resting a hand on the handle of the basket. Her voice softened. “No, something’s happening to him. Last night… he really freaked me out.”

Bob frowned. “What happened?”
She hesitated again, eyes dropping to the floor. “We were sparring. He was… just… acting not like himself. Like he wasn’t even there. I’ve seen him withdrawn before, but this was different. It was like he was being erased piece by piece. Like he was disappearing right in front of me.”

Bob’s expression darkened, but he didn’t push. “Okay. Then we talk to Sam. Maybe he still has contacts who can trace Volkova or someone else in the loop.”

“Exactly.” Yelena nodded firmly, snapping herself out of the moment and dumping a few more things into the basket until it was practically spilling over.

“I think this is good for now,” Bob muttered, catching a boxed pizza before it hit the floor.

Yelena blinked, glancing down at the pile of groceries as if seeing them for the first time. “Oh, yeah, you’re probably right. We can go. I want to get back to the tower as soon as possible anyway.”

Alexei was already at the checkout counter, finishing bagging the items he’d picked up. “Walker and Ava are already back at the car,” he called when he saw them. “Walker bought a new box for snacks—with a lock.”

“Good,” Yelena mused, piling their items on the belt. “I like a challenge.”

“Or you could just buy your own snacks,” Bob pointed out. “I know you’re using money from Val anyway.”

“I could,” she said with a mischievous grin, “but it’s way more fun to piss Walker off.”

When their groceries were paid for and bagged, the three headed back toward the van. Through the closed doors, they could already hear John and Ava yelling about something.

As soon as Yelena slid one of the doors open, the yelling stopped, but the pair still glared at each other like they were continuing the argument in silence.

“Okay, back to the tower,” Yelena said, already digging into a box of cookies as she climbed inside.

Bob reached up to the front seat to snag a cookie from the box. “Oh, Lena, is your arm okay?” he asked between bites. “I noticed you were kind of favoring your left arm in the store—rubbing it a lot. Did you hurt it when that guy landed on you?”

Yelena froze mid-bite, the cookie halfway to her mouth. She forced a swallow, then turned back to him with a quick smile. “Um, maybe I bumped it when I fell. I hadn’t even noticed.”

“Let me see,” Bob said, leaning forward, reaching for her sleeve. “You landed pretty hard. Hopefully it’s not sprained or anything.”

Yelena yanked her arm out of his grasp. The motion was too quick, too defensive, and her sleeve snagged on the edge of the seat, sliding up her forearm just enough to reveal the edge of a bruise.

“Oh—shit,” Ava breathed, leaning forward. “That looks bad.”

Yelena jerked her sleeve back down immediately. “It’s nothing. Barely even hurts. His arm must’ve landed on me or something. I’m fine.” She shoved the box of cookies back into the grocery bag with more force than necessary, the light mood of the van vanishing in an instant.

John pulled the van into the garage beneath the tower, the air suddenly thick and silent except for the hum of the engine. He turned in his seat to glance at Ava, who looked ready to explode.
Without warning, she unbuckled her seatbelt and vaulted forward between the seats, grabbing Yelena’s sleeve and yanking it up before anyone could stop her.

“What the hell!” Yelena shouted, jerking her arm back—but it was too late. The bruise was fully visible now: deep, ugly purple, perfectly shaped like a hand.

“Yelena…” Bob’s voice was soft, careful, almost pleading. “That didn’t happen today when you fell. Whose handprint is that?”

Yelena’s jaw clenched. She yanked her sleeve back down, glaring at him. “No one. It’s not a handprint, just a weird bruise.” Her voice cracked slightly as she fumbled for the door handle.

“Yelena.” Ava’s tone was sharp enough to stop her mid-motion. “We know whose hand it is. What the hell happened?”

Yelena sighed, knowing she couldn’t deflect anymore. “Fine.” She turned back to face them, her eyes moving over each of their faces—Bob’s worried, Ava’s furious, John’s grim, Alexei’s uncertain. “We were sparring last night, and he grabbed my arm a little too hard. It was an accident, really. He felt terrible afterward.”

John’s brow furrowed, his voice cutting through the air. “That was not an accident. You don’t just accidentally grab someone hard enough to leave a bruise like that.”

“John,” Bob started, but Ava was already shaking her head.

“I told you something like this was going to happen,” she snapped. “I’m going to go talk to him. This is ridiculous—and it’s not safe having him around.”

She unhooked her seatbelt and swung the door open before anyone could argue.
“Ava, wait!” Yelena scrambled after her, the grocery bag tumbling from her lap to the floor as she jumped out of the van. “Please, just—wait!”

“No,” Ava said over her shoulder. “I warned you that I was concerned, and now things have reached a point where it can’t be ignored.” She threw open the garage door and marched straight to the elevator.

“Ava, I know how it looks, I do. But I need you to listen.” Yelena followed quickly, voice low and urgent. “Something’s been going on since that first encounter at the dock. It got worse after we tracked that guy down in Canada—and even worse yesterday. I think when Bucky wandered off, it was with the same man.”

Ava shot her a warning glare, then turned to the elevator panel. She hesitated, trying to guess where Bucky might be before finally pressing the button for the main living area. “That doesn’t help his case at all. I told you I was worried he might be working for someone else—the fact that he keeps disappearing with the same person just proves it.”

“He’s not working with that guy,” Yelena insisted. “And he doesn’t remember what happened.”

“Or so he claims,” Ava said coldly, sidestepping around her the moment the doors opened.

Yelena trailed her into the living area. “He doesn’t. You should see his face any time I bring it up—it’s like he’s trying so hard to remember, but he can’t.”

Ava made a sharp circuit around the room, scanning every corner as if he might step out of the shadows. When she confirmed he wasn’t there, she spun back toward the elevator. As the doors opened again, the rest of the team stood there—arms full of grocery bags, tension already hanging in the air.

“Thanks for the help, you two,” John muttered, setting his bags down on the counter.
Bob followed, but his expression shifted when he saw Yelena and Ava’s faces. Without a word, he set the last of the groceries aside and slipped into the elevator before the doors closed again behind them.

He kept quiet, his eyes flicking between the two women.

“I’m not saying I’m going to find him and kick him to the street right then and there,” Ava said, her tone softening only slightly. “But Yelena—something needs to happen.”

“I know something needs to happen,” Yelena said quickly. “Bob and I are working on it, but we could really use some help.”

“And what happens in the meantime?” Ava shot back. “What if you’re wrong, and he is working for someone else? We can’t take chances here.”

“He’s not!” Yelena’s voice rose before she could stop it.

The elevator doors opened again—this time to the training room. Ava stepped forward immediately. “Bucky! Are you in here?”

Yelena stayed near the elevator, holding the door open with Bob beside her.

“Yelena,” Bob said quietly, making sure Ava couldn’t hear him. “You said something happened last night, but you didn’t say he hurt you. This kind of changes things.”

“I said he didn’t mean to—and that’s the truth,” Yelena whispered. “He grabbed my arm, but he didn’t even seem to realize it until I yelled at him. And when he did—Bob, you should’ve seen his face. He was horrified.”

“He’s not here either,” Ava snapped, storming back toward them. “Did he say what he was planning to do while we were gone?”

“No,” Yelena said, crossing her arms tightly. “I told him he should get some rest. Maybe he actually listened to me for once.”

Ava jabbed the elevator button again, her jaw tight.

“I think we need to sit down and talk about this—as a team,” Bob said.

“I’m fine with that,” Ava replied, tapping her foot impatiently as the elevator rose. When it stopped at the next floor, she strode down the hall and started pounding on Bucky’s door. “Bucky, open up. We need to talk.”

Silence.

She huffed, lifted her mask, and phased through the door.

“Really, Ava? Ever hear of privacy?” Yelena muttered, not sure if she could even hear her through the wall.

A moment later, Ava emerged, her expression a mix of anger and concern. She held something up in the air. “He’s not there either. And his phone was sitting on the bed.”

“If he left the tower, he probably took his comm with him,” Bob offered cautiously.

“And not his phone?” Yelena shot back, frowning. She snatched the phone from Ava’s hand, shoving it into her pocket as she pressed the elevator button for the control room. “We can check the system—see if we can track him by his comm.”

“Unless,” Ava said sharply, “he’s meeting someone—and doesn’t want us to find him.”

When the elevator doors opened to the control room, all three of them rushed out, crowding around the monitor. The comms screen was already up—each icon glowing softly on the map.

Everyone but Yelena’s showed as being at the tower.

Yelena’s hand went instinctively to her side where her comm device usually sat. Her stomach dropped when she felt nothing there. “Crap,” she muttered. “Did I drop my comms device when we were in the subway? It must’ve fallen when that guy knocked me over.”

“It looks like Bucky didn’t take his with him,” Ava said, ignoring her.

Bob stepped past them and began typing rapidly on the keyboard. “Your signal isn’t showing up where we were—it’s a lot further into the subway.” He tapped another key, and Yelena’s icon flared red on the map. “There was an emergency signal sent out from your comm.”

“Why didn’t we get notified?” Ava demanded. “I had mine on me.”

“Probably because we were underground? That’s the only thing I can think of,” Bob replied.

“So, Bucky probably saw the emergency signal and went to help,” Yelena said pointedly, meeting Ava’s gaze.

“We don’t know that for sure.” Ava’s voice was sharp—but before Yelena could respond, her signal suddenly vanished from the screen.

“Wait,” Ava said, leaning closer. “Did he just turn your comm off?”

Yelena exhaled through her nose, frustration mixing with worry. “He probably found it and shut it off since it wasn’t with me. We should go find him and let him know it was a false alarm.”

“You shouldn’t go alone,” Ava said. The anger had drained from her tone, leaving something that sounded like concern.

“I won’t be alone—Bob’s coming with me.”

“I am?” Bob blinked.

“Yes, Bob. Come on.”

As the elevator doors closed, Yelena locked eyes with Ava, daring her to follow.

“I still don’t understand why your comm isn’t anywhere near where we were,” Bob said as they descended. His eyes flicked to the floor numbers counting down. “The map makes it look like it was in a maintenance tunnel. We never went into one.”

“I don’t know, Bob. Maybe someone found it and picked it up?”

“And then carried it into a maintenance tunnel?” He frowned. “It just seems weird.”

“I don’t know,” she said again, sharper this time. “But something feels wrong.”

The moment the elevator doors opened, Yelena jogged toward the van. “Let’s just start with finding him.”

Bob nodded and climbed in beside her. The subway wasn’t far, but the short drive stretched out in tense silence. Yelena kept replaying possibilities in her head—what could’ve happened, what might be happening right now. Her chest felt tight.

As soon as she parked, she texted Alexei, letting him know where she and Bob were headed and to message her if Bucky returned to the tower. His reply came almost immediately: Be careful.

The air grew colder as they moved deeper into the subway, the tunnels echoing with the sound of dripping water and the faint hum of electricity. Yelena kept checking her phone, refreshing the screen even though she knew no message had come.

“Hey—over here!” Bob called out from along one of the walls.

Yelena hurried over. On the damp concrete, shattered into dozens of jagged pieces, was her comm device.

“Think someone accidentally stepped on it?” Bob asked, crouching to pick up a small fragment.

“No,” Yelena said immediately, kneeling down beside him. “These things are nearly indestructible. You’d have to really try to break it.”

She nudged one of the shards with her boot but didn’t bother picking any of it up. It was far beyond repair.

“Do you think Bucky was the one who smashed it?” Bob asked, letting the piece fall back into the pile.

“No. Absolutely not.” Her reply was quick—but there was a flicker of uncertainty behind it. Especially when her toe bumped the edge of a metal fragment, and she noticed a dent in the casing—one that looked uncomfortably like a fingerprint.

“So now what?” Bob asked, glancing back the way they’d come.

Yelena followed his gaze and caught sight of a faint red blink in the distance—a small security camera light. “Now we do the only thing that’s given us any leads so far,” she said. “Security cameras.”

“You can hack into that one?” Bob asked.

“I could,” Yelena said, already heading down the tunnel, “but I don’t think we’ll have to. Someone in the control office from this morning should have access to all of them.”

“And you think they’ll just let us watch the footage?” he said, jogging to keep up.

“I’m sure they will. They were so grateful for the ‘rescue’ earlier.”

They cut through a narrow side tunnel that opened onto one of the main platforms. At the far end stood a single metal door leading into an office.

Yelena strode up to it and knocked twice, stepping back to wait.

A minute later, the door opened to reveal a tall man whose expression softened as soon as he recognized her.

“Oh! That was fast. Come in, come in,” he said, waving them inside.

Bob raised an eyebrow at Yelena but followed her through the door.

The manager spoke the moment it closed behind them. “I just got off the phone with the police less than five minutes ago—I’m surprised they sent someone so quickly.”

“Right, well, we work fast. And just so I can get the information straight from you—what was the reason you called again?” Yelena asked, trying to sound as professional as possible.

“Oh, yes, of course. Well, I was filling out the incident report from this morning, and I realized that the man who was taken hostage inside the office doesn’t even work here. I have absolutely no idea who he is,” the manager said, glancing at the clipboard hanging on the wall. “I’m not even sure how he got into the office.”

“Really? That is interesting. Would we be able to look through security footage of the surrounding tunnels? Maybe we can figure out where he came from—or what he was doing here.” Yelena checked the time on her phone. If the manager had already called the police, actual officers would be arriving soon.

“Absolutely!” the manager said, turning sharply toward a door near the back of the office. “Right in here.”

He pushed the door open to reveal a dimly lit room glowing with the pale blue light of half a dozen aging computer screens. He showed them how to flip between camera feeds before asking if they needed him to stay.

“No, not at all. We’ll review the footage and see if we can find the man. Thank you for your help,” she said, waving him off. The man nodded and quickly slipped out, closing the door behind him.

“That was convenient,” Bob muttered, dropping into the chair beside her.

“Maybe. But the cops will probably be here any minute, and I’d rather not deal with them.” Yelena moved quickly between computers before settling in front of one labeled South Tunnels. “I’m going to look through this—see if I can find Bucky or at least figure out how my comm got down there, and who smashed it.”

“What do you want me to do?” Bob asked, taking the seat beside her.

“I want you to do what the office manager thinks we’re doing—figure out who that hostage was and how he got in here.” Yelena didn’t look up as she began rewinding footage.

“Why? Can’t the real police handle that when they get here?” Bob asked, but he was already flipping through cameras.

“Yes, they can. But I want to know who he is. The whole thing’s too suspicious. If that guy wasn’t supposed to be here, then why was he?”

“That’s fair, I guess,” Bob said, rewinding until he found the moment their team had entered the tunnels. He watched closely. The footage was grainy, the angles terrible, but he could make out the man being shoved toward Yelena in the chaos.

As soon as she pushed him off, the man scrambled up, brushed himself off, and backed toward the crowd of onlookers. It was hard to tell from the low resolution, but it looked like he slipped something into his pocket before disappearing into the mass of people.
Bob switched to another camera—different angle. He tracked the man as he slipped through the confusion and vanished into the same maintenance door he and Yelena had just come through.

“Fuck,” Yelena whispered from her side of the desk.

“What? What did you find?” Bob asked, kicking off the floor and rolling his chair toward her.

On the screen in front of her were two figures. One of them was unmistakably Bucky. He didn’t appear to have a weapon—but his fists were raised, tense and ready.

There was no audio, but the other man appeared to be saying something. Suddenly—without warning—Bucky lowered his fists and stood at attention, letting the man circle him slowly, his expression cold and appraising.

Bucky lifted his right arm toward the man, who pulled something out of his bag and reached for the arm. Whatever he did, it was quick. As soon as he shoved the object back into his bag, both men turned and walked deeper into the tunnel.

“Who is that guy? And what did he just do to Bucky?” Bob asked, eyes wide, voice unsteady.

“Volkova,” Yelena said through gritted teeth.

“Are you sure? The footage is pretty grainy.”

“I’m positive.” Yelena closed the feed abruptly, as if keeping it open would make what she’d seen too real to deny. “What did you find?”

Even after the screen went black, Bob’s eyes stayed locked on the empty space where the two figures had been. He slid his chair back over without looking away. When he finally tore his gaze from it, Yelena was already beside him.

“I found the guy,” Bob said. “After he fell on you, he got up and disappeared into the crowd before going through this door here.” He tapped the screen. “I didn’t see where he went after that. This camera doesn’t reach that far.”

“That’s the door we just came through, right?” Yelena asked, sliding dramatically back to her side of the desk. “Which means he’ll show up on this camera.”

She rewound the footage. The two watched in fast motion as Bucky and the other man moved backward through the tunnel—interacting, separating, and then Bucky retreating out of frame.

For a moment, the screen was still. Volkova stood alone in the tunnel, motionless, like he was waiting. Then another figure entered the frame. Based on his clothes, it was the same man they’d seen earlier—the so-called hostage.

The man handed something small to Volkova and received a thick stack of money in return before darting quickly back into the tunnel’s shadows.

Yelena froze the video, her pulse thrumming in her ears. Volkova remained on the screen, his face faintly visible in the flickering light of the tunnel.

“It was a setup,” she whispered. “The whole thing was a setup.”

“What do you mean?” Bob asked, glancing from one monitor to the next. “What was a setup?”

“The fake hostage. It was a ploy to get my comm off me—so Volkova could use it to lure Bucky here. We played right into his hands.”

“Oh. Oh.” Bob swallowed hard, the weight of it settling in. “This is really bad, then, isn’t it? What do we do now?”

Yelena’s voice was calm, but her jaw was tight. “Now, we call Sam.”

Chapter 18

1956
Shilovsky

 

Kovac wasted no time. The jet was back in the air as soon as they were seated, the engines roaring against the quiet weight between them.

“We’re going to need to stop to refuel on our way,” she said, her tone clipped but steady. “We’re also going to need something a little more sustainable to eat. With three days left—closer to two now—in the KGB’s timeline, we’re cutting it dangerously close.”

Shilovsky didn’t think she was talking to him, just muttering her concerns out loud, but he answered anyway. “It will be okay. As long as we return with the serum, I’m sure they won’t be too upset if we’re a little late.”

“Maybe not with you,” she said with a faint, humorless laugh. “You’re too valuable an asset to them. But me? I’m expendable.”

“I won’t let them hurt you. It’s not your fault the assignment took longer than we expected.” His voice was calm and deliberate but he felt as if he were reminding himself as much as her.

“Really? You’d stick your neck out to defend me?” She glanced sideways, studying his expression. “Why?”

“Because I’m the one who messed up. It’s not fair for you to be punished for my mistake.” His hands tightened on the edges of the seat, knuckles pale against the leather.

“I don’t think it’ll do much good,” she murmured, but the corner of her mouth twitched up. “Still… thank you.” A pause, then her eyes flicked toward his hands. “Why do you grip the seat like that? You were doing it earlier, too.”

“I’ve never flown before this mission,” he admitted. “I am not a huge fan of it.”

“Really? Never flown?” Her brow arched. “That doesn’t seem believable.”

The jet banked sharply to the right, and Shilovsky’s shoulders stiffened. Kovac smirked faintly. “Hang on, then. I’m bringing us down at an airfield just over there. We’ll refuel and maybe pick up something to eat.”

He closed his eyes as the ground rose up to meet them, forcing his breath steady. The moment the wheels hit the tarmac, the tension in his arms finally eased.

“There’s a small shop just over there,” Kovac said once they’d stopped, pulling on her jacket. “If I give you money, are you comfortable buying something for us both to eat?”

“I can do that.” He held out his hand.

“Be quick. I want to get out of here as soon as possible. Hopefully we can reach the new location before dark.”

Shilovsky shrugged into his own jacket, still damp from the snow and wind earlier, and stepped into the biting cold. The airfield was quiet with just the hum of the jet’s engine winding down and the distant caw of a crow perched on the wire fence. The shop wasn’t far. From where he walked, he could still see the small hangar where Kovac was checking the fuel lines, her silhouette framed by the orange spill of the sunset.

Inside, the air was dry and heavy with dust. An old woman sat behind the counter, motionless except for the faint rise and fall of her shoulders. She looked as though she’d been carved into the chair decades ago.

He kept his head down as he moved through the aisles. Most of the shelves were filled with engine parts, maps, and gear, but a few at the back held food—stale crackers, rusted tins, and faded packages that had seen better years.

Most of it looked long since expired, and none of it was particularly nutritious, but he gathered what he could afford with the money Kovac had given him.

“You know all of the food back there is expired, right?” he asked, setting the items down on the counter.

The woman lifted her head slightly, eyes clouded, and tilted it to the side. Maybe she didn’t understand him.

He tried again in German. Then in two other languages. She still didn’t react—until finally, with a soft sigh, she began ringing up the items. Her hands trembled faintly on the old register keys.

When she finished, she muttered something under her breath in a language he didn’t recognize. She pointed to the money clutched in his right hand and he handed the whole stack over. He expected her to pocket the whole thing, but she counted it slowly. Then she opened a drawer under the counter and pulled out change.

Shilovsky took the coins quickly, tucked his purchases under one arm, and left the shop with his shoulders hunched against the wind. When he returned the jet looked like it had only just finished refueling; Kovac was still bent over the fuel line, boots planted, hair tucked under the collar of her jacket.

“What did you get?” she asked without looking up.

“Lot of junk. They didn’t have many options.” He rifled through the wrinkled packets and pulled out something the color of dried earth.

“Fine, as long as there is something chocolate,” she said, turning for the jet door. He handed over the package. She sniffed it as if checking for poison, then shrugged and climbed aboard.

“This will do,” she muttered, settling into her seat. “It’ll be another hour of flight time before we arrive.”

Shilovsky climbed in after her. Once they were airborne a softer hush fell over the cabin until he spoke up. “What information were you given about the serum we’re looking for?” He twisted his sleeve with one hand, the cold metal of his prosthetic warming against the cloth.

Kovac glanced at him from the corner of her eye. “Why are you asking?” Her voice was small, but there was steel beneath it.

“I was thinking about what the scientist said.” He kept his voice neutral. “He mentioned Zola, Americans, and he said he assumed I was dead. Lehmann said something similar. It feels… connected.”

Kovac’s head snapped around. She pushed off the seat and put the jet into autopilot. She faced him fully now, the glow from the instruments painted her face in thin, cold lines. She seemed to be carefully weighing her words before she spoke.

“I thought you said Lehmann told you Zola would be surprised the serum was being sold,” she said slowly, as if trying each word for weight. “Agent Shilovsky, what are you not telling me?”

The question was blunt and the way her hand moved at her side, fingers flexing near the concealed holster, made the rest of the jet feel smaller. Shilovsky could see it: the faint outline of metal beneath her shirt, the preparedness in the set of her shoulders.

She wouldn’t kill him, the KGB would be far too angry if she did, but that doesn’t mean she wouldn’t shoot him to incapacitate him if she thought he was compromised.

“That wasn’t exactly what he said,” Shilovsky began carefully, his voice low enough that it almost disappeared beneath the hum of the jet. “He said the Americans reported me dead—which makes no sense, because I’ve never interacted with Americans before. And he said that Zola would be surprised to find out I was alive.”

Kovac didn’t answer. For several seconds, she was completely still—unnervingly so. Her hand hovered near her side, her jaw tight as she stared straight ahead through the windshield. She looked as though she were calculating something, running through a checklist in her mind and deciding which truth would be safest to speak aloud.

He continued when she didn’t respond. “Lehmann also referred to me as Zola’s little experiment. And you had mentioned that Zola worked with Captain America.”

“Shit,” Kovac muttered, almost under her breath. The word cracked the air like a warning shot. “Okay. Let’s start with that.”

She turned toward him slowly, the seat creaking faintly under her shift in weight. She didn’t look him in the eyes. Her posture was too deliberate, too measured.

“Many people were trying to make a super-soldier serum,” she began, each word clipped, like she was choosing them from a narrow list of approved phrases. “Very few succeeded. Those who lived through it were… prized. Zola worked for the Germans. Erskine for the Americans. Ivanov for the Soviets.” She paused, twisting her hands together in her lap, her knuckles whitening. “Once word got out that Ivanov succeeded with you, both the Americans and the Germans would’ve known you existed. Maybe the KGB released false reports about your death to protect you.”

Shilovsky studied her face. The explanation sounded rehearsed. His gut told him she wasn’t lying outright, but she was bending something, hiding significant details.

“That… makes sense,” he said finally, though it didn’t.

“What else?” Kovac asked, her voice quick and sharp, like she already suspected there was more. Her eyes flicked to him.

He hesitated, weighing how much to admit. “The scientist in the lab, he might’ve been mistaken. Maybe he thought I was someone else but—”

“First, what else did Lehmann say to you that you lied about?” Her tone cut through him like ice.

“Nothing. I swear,” he said quickly, leaning back in his seat. He felt the air between them tighten. “He thought I might have known Captain America, but that’s probably just because of the serum.”

“That’s likely it,” she said, arms crossing over her chest. The movement was defensive, but it also signaled she was forcing herself to relax. “Okay, then what was it the scientist said that confused you?”

Shilovsky drew in a slow breath. “He said I’m not the same man HYDRA took captive. And he mentioned something about an American test subject.”

Kovac froze. It was just for a second—but he saw it. A flicker, the smallest break in her composure. Her eyes darted briefly to his left arm before she smoothed her expression and forced a nod.

“That explains it,” she said evenly. “HYDRA took a number of American prisoners. One of them must have resembled you. If he said you’re not the same man he thought you were, that would make sense. He mistook you for someone else but realised his mistake.”

She nodded again, too quickly this time, as if the repetition could make her lie more believable.

But Shilovsky heard it differently. The scientist hadn’t said he wasn’t the same man. He said he wasn’t that man anymore. The difference was subtle, but it echoed in his head like a bell.

He turned that thought over and over, staring at the metal of his right hand.

“Hey,” Kovac said finally, her voice softening just enough to sound human again. “This line of work… it gets in your head. You can’t let things like that stick. And you can’t keep things from me. No matter what.”

“I won’t,” he said, but his eyes stayed on the window, watching their reflection blur against the clouds. He didn’t believe her story. Not entirely.

Shilovsky let Kovac's words wash over him and then tried to pin down exactly what felt wrong. She had given him an explanation that fit neatly into a box. It explained everything perfectly while also answering none of his questions.

It didn't explain the line that had lodged in his chest and wouldn't loosen: “I would warn you about the effects of the serum, how strong it is. But clearly, you have nothing left to lose.” He turned that sentence over again and again.

He tried to steady his thoughts. The KGB had reasons for what information they did or did not give. Mission parameters were not for the soldier to question. That certainty had been seared into him long ago. He had been trained to accept orders, to obey, to follow the chain. Doubt was dangerous.

They touched down at the tiny airstrip, a single asphalt ribbon with one hangar. The cold hit them immediately when the jet door opened.

Kovac handed Shilovsky a short, handwritten list. “Here’s the plan. We’ll keep it simple,” she said. “We need the look of an emergency transfer. A wheeled cart, some linens, a pole for an IV, stuff like that. If everything is convincing enough, most guards will move before they think and we can get in before they know something is up.”

They walked into town in a harsh wind. The market district was small: a hardware store, a dusty thrift shop, a pharmacy with a single counter, and a grocer whose cooler hummed like they were at the end of their lives. Shilovsky let her move from place to place, collecting a variety of items.

He didn’t question what the plan was, or when she had the time to put it together. She would tell him what he needed to know when he needed to know it.

At the hardware store she bought a battered dolly with straps and a telescoping clothes rack pole set. From the thrift shop she bought linens, a white work shirt that would pass for scrubs, and a wooden clipboard. The pharmacy had only basic bandages and antiseptic swabs.

Back at the jet, Kovac dug for a clear water bag, cutting the sharp corners and adding some plastic tubing to resemble an iv bag. It was crude and wouldn’t fool any medical professional, but if you didn’t look at it too hard, it worked.

“The illusion just has to get us past the gate,” Kovac said as she assembled her purchases. “We present it as an emergency medical transfer. We flash a badge, show some fake paperwork, and move with urgency. They will hopefully move the patient straight into an area for stabilization and bypass protocol.”

“Who’s the patient?” He asked, but he could already anticipate the answer.

“Keep your eyes closed and when they wheel you in, breathe shallow and maybe make it sound a little labored. And no matter what they do or say, do not react. You need to appear on death's doorstep.”

He nodded, remembering the times after missions when he was wheeled into a lab for medical intervention. The times he sat perfectly still while they soldered and poked around the wiring of his left arm.

Kovac hotwired a battered van parked behind the hardware store and packed the dolly now wrapped in linens, the pole holding the iv bag, and a slew of random medical supplies. She slid the fake credentials into her pocket and checked everything none more time. “We drive in and we move fast, we rely on confusion. If a guard stalls, we amplify the urgency. If they attempt to detain us, we present paperwork and the transfer code. Once I slip into the corridors, you must not move until I have time to find what we need.”

“One more thing,” she said, pulling out a small metal case and removing a syringe. “Give me your right arm.”

He held his arm out without question, but felt his chest flutter when she pressed the needle into his arm. “What are you giving me?”

“Lay down on the dolly before it kicks in.” She motioned to the back of the van where the dolly sat, not tied down in any way. “This won’t kill you but it will make your perceived condition seem believable.”

“What does that mean?” He asked, The fluttering feeling giving way to panic.

“It will make you appear very ill. Pale, feaverish, increased heart rate.” She wrapped a linen around him and used a leather belt to hold it in place.

He suddenly felt like he was about to pass out and he wasn’t sure if it was from whatever she injected him with or just nerves. Without another word, she closed the back of the van, plunging him into darkness.

He could feel the dolly slide as the van began moving. With his arms strapped at his sides he wouldn’t be able to catch himself if it flipped. Instead he just closed his eyes and began focusing on his breathing.

Despite wearing his jacket and being cut off from the windchill, it felt like the temperature around him was dropping rapidly. He fought the urge to wriggle his arms free when he felt a bead of sweat roll down the side of his face.

He wouldn’t need to fake labored breaths, it felt like someone had their hands around his neck and he started to worry how he would fight his way out when the time came. He wasn’t sure he would even be able to stand.

Suddenly the van jolted to a stop. He heard yelling outside before it was drowned out by Agent Kovacs panicked shouts. He couldn’t make out the whole conversation but the words he picked out, crashing, emergency, orders. He knew the plan was in motion.

Chapter 19

Notes:

I totally forgot to post this yesterday. 😬

1956
Shilovsky

The back of the van slammed open. Light hit him so hard he saw stars behind his lids as he closed his eyes. Pain, hot and hollow, hammered behind his forehead. For a second he could not tell if the pounding came from inside his head or from the world around him.

Sound was like knives in his ears — a jagged chorus of shouted words, the hiss of breath, leather creaking, feet slamming on metal. The air smelled of oil and rust and something metallic.

He tried to sit up and his stomach turned. The linen across his chest felt suddenly foreign, damp where it pressed to his skin. Heat crawled up his neck, then fled, leaving him shivering under the jacket. He blinked hard. Faces swam into focus, then blurred again like a bad reflection in water. A man with a square jaw leaned over him, asking something; Shilovsky heard only the cadence of the question and the urgency, but not the words. His throat moved but would not make a sound. His mouth was dry as paper.

Someone shouted, “Move him over here, keep pressure!” Hands were on him, rough and practiced. They hauled him up as if he were a sack of grain. Straps tightened across his shoulders and legs. He fought the instinct to test them; his limbs felt leaden, slow to obey. It was as if his muscles had turned to rubber. Each breath burned like stepping through sub freezing temperatures.

“He’s crashing — heart rate’s spiking.” A voice close to his ear. Fingers, small and sharp, jabbed at his wrist. A cold piece of metal sank into his skin; the prick bloomed pain and then nothing. He felt, distantly, the tiny shiver on his pulse, the practiced click of a monitoring device. Someone murmured something about adrenaline and counteracting it. He tasted iron at the back of his throat.

“Where is Kovac?” he tried to say. His jaw refused, probably for the better. Three tries and then nothing but a rasp. He had seen her briefly in the back of the van before everything was plunged into chaos. Had she made it? Had she meant for it to hit him this hard?

They dragged him across the threshold into a building that smelled of bleach. Fluorescent light seemed to stab his eyes. A man in a white coat barked orders; another clipped a bag to an actual iv pole and the clear plastic sagged. Someone taped something to his chest and sound came through a small speaker: the steady, insistent beeping of a monitor.

Hands pried his eyelids wider. He tried to wrench his head away but they stayed pinned, the floor was moving in lines beneath his gaze as he leaned over. He saw his own face reflected in a shiny metal doors they passed: pale, damp, the skin against his metal shoulder bright red where the strap had rubbed. He barely recognized the man who stared back. He really looked on the verge of death.

“Sedate him,” someone said as if listing supplies. “Don’t let him move.”

A needle again. The world went syrup-thick, each motion delayed by half a second until it no longer seemed real. Panic tried to rise; it came out as a small, choked noise that died in his chest. He wanted to lift his head and tear the straps free with his teeth.

“Put him on the table,” another voice ordered. The table tilted and cold metal bit into his spine. He felt the room turn, a carousel of faces passing above him. The white coat with the neat smile said something about transfer protocols, then the man’s eyes flicked to the doorway and his smile thinned. “You’re sure he was given the serum?” he asked. The man near him, the one who’d administered the first injections, snapped, “No, I’m not sure. Just get him stabilized for now.”

A shadow crossed the doorway and stared with a cold calculating gaze. It was a man in gray with a clipboard, his face set like weathered stone. For a second their eyes met and he offered him what was almost, absurdly, a pitying nod before turning away. He put all his effort into lifting his arm, feeling something that may have been one of the straps ripping. The man with the clipboard cursed and shoved something over his mouth and nose.

His breath came in ragged gulps now. He felt like something was sliding inside him, a cold knife running long and slow along the inside of his ribs. Color washed from his vision. He tried to focus on his training — breathe, count, control — but the counting fractured into meaningless numbers. The beeping sped and slowed. The room became a smear of sounds and moving things.

He was aware, in a soft, terrified place behind the fog, of Kovac’s instructions to get himself free when the time was right. That thought bled into the strange phrase of the scientist’s last words about the serum and nothing left to lose. “I would warn you about the effects,” the man had said, “how strong it is. But clearly, you have nothing left to lose.”

He didn’t think he would be able to get free even if he wanted to. They would eventually discover who he was and kill him. Or worse.

Was this Kovacs plan? Had she used him to open the doors and left him to the wolves when the alarms sounded? The idea cut through the drugs like glass. The room tilted once, slowly, like the world giving way, and voices folded into each other. His eyelids fell as if gravity itself had changed its mind. The steady beeping became a long, gentle thrum.

As darkness crept in at the edges, his last coherent thought: had she ever intended for him to get up again?
_____

The first thing he felt was the weight of his own pulse, a dull, heavy rhythm thudding somewhere deep in his skull. Each beat made the edges of his vision flare white behind closed eyes. His throat felt raw, as though he had been breathing dust for hours. The air was warmer than before, tinged with antiseptic and something sweet and chemical that made his stomach twist.

He stayed still. His training whispered through the fog — don’t move until you know where you are. So he didn’t.

He only let his eyes flutter open the smallest fraction, just enough to see the blur of movement above him. The ceiling was white, cracked faintly in one corner. The light was steady and humming. He could make out the vague outlines of white coats moving in and out of his view, voices layered over the sound of his heartbeat.

“Pulse is steadying.”

“Keep pushing fluids.”

“Temperature’s dropping a little. That’s something.”

He shut his eyes again. Each breath scraped through his chest, but it came easier than before. His limbs still felt like they were full of sand. He shifted a finger under the blanket, a tiny motion, and the skin on his wrist tugged against adhesive tape. There was an IV line there.

Someone nearby let out a low sigh. “Where’s the nurse who brought him in?”

A pause. Then another voice, uncertain. “No one’s seen her since he was admitted.”

The first voice muttered a curse under its breath. “You’re telling me she just disappeared?”

He felt the corner of his mouth twitch, the faintest shadow of relief. Kovac had gotten away. Whatever happened to him, at least she had made it through the doors.

Another voice, younger, spoke up from the far side of the room. “The intake report said he’d had an adverse reaction to the serum. But did she mean Lambda or something else?”

A man answered in a clipped tone. “It must be Lambda. That’s what she said, wasn’t it? From the phrasing on the report?”

“I don’t know. It wasn’t detailed. Just that he’d gone into shock.”

“And no one thought to verify this with Volkova before admitting him?”

“Doctor Volkova was in the lower wing. We didn’t want to disturb him without confirmation.”

There was a sharp, nervous laugh. “A Lambda subject should never have been transferred here in the first place.”

“Call Volkova,” someone said finally. “He’ll want to decide for himself.”

There was movement — the sound of a phone receiver being lifted, then two sets of footsteps fading down the hall. The room grew quieter. Just the low hum of machines and the occasional rustle of fabric. He cracked one eyelid again. Two nurses remained, one adjusting the iv bag, the other noting readings on a chart. They spoke softly to each other, not looking at him.

He took the opportunity to test what control he had. A slow wiggle of his fingers. Then his toes. The joints felt swollen, but they moved. He turned his wrist slightly; the IV tugged, but it didn’t alarm them. One eye blinked open halfway and then closed again.

He shifted his breathing pattern, forcing slow, deliberate breaths. He could feel strength coming back in uneven waves, like a tide creeping in through the fog. His thoughts started to string themselves into shape again.

Footsteps echoed from the corridor before he could plan further. Firm, deliberate steps, faster than a walk but not quite a run. The nurses looked up just as the door swung open.

A man entered. Tall, sharp features, gray at the temples. His coat wasn’t like the others — darker, tailored, the insignia on the breast stitched in a way that marked rank rather than role. He didn’t greet anyone. He yanked a clipboard from the nurse nearest the door and scanned the papers with a deepening scowl.

“Who is this?” His voice cut through the quiet like a blade. “Who authorized this transfer?”

The nurses froze. One started to answer with a slight tremor to her voice.

“We—we don’t know, Doctor Volkova,” she managed. “He was brought in by a nurse from another facility. She had clearance and the right identification. Said he’d had a reaction to the serum and needed immediate containment.”

Volkova lowered the clipboard and stared at him with an expression that mixed irritation and curiosity. “A reaction,” he repeated. “To what, exactly?”

“We assumed Lambda, sir. That’s what the intake note suggested.”

“You assumed.” The word came out like a curse. “And you did not think to verify it?”

“She said they were from the north facility — the one primarily handling the Lambda trials. It made sense.”

Volkova’s jaw tightened. “That facility shouldn’t be transferring anyone.” He set the clipboard down on a tray with a metallic clatter. “You brought an unidentified subject into my lab, and you didn’t confirm anything?"

The nurses shrank under his gaze. One of them murmured, “She had high-level clearance. We didn’t think—”

“That,” Volkova snapped, “is precisely the problem. You don’t think.”

He turned back toward the table, studying Shilovsky as though he were dissecting him with his eyes. Shilovsky forced his body to stay limp, his breathing shallow, his eyes half-lidded. The man leaned closer, examining his face.

“Interesting,” Volkova murmured, almost to himself now. “Vitals inconsistent with any reactions we’ve seen.” He tapped a pen against the clipboard thoughtfully.

He straightened again. “Get me his bloodwork. I want a full analysis before midnight. If it is in fact lambda, move him to containment wing three. I’ll handle him personally.”

The nurses nodded, scrambling to obey. Shilovsky’s heart thudded hard against his ribs. A containment wing would be much more guarded. His chance of escaping would be cut down significantly.

As Volkova turned and strode out, the door shutting behind him, Shilovsky opened his eyes fully for the first time. The room swam back into view. He wasn’t sure how long he had been there but he knew he had to get out.

The moment Volkova left, the nurses worked faster, their movements brisk and nervous. Shilovsky could hear them murmuring in clipped, clinical tones, their voices overlapping as they prepared something nearby. When Volkova returned, his irritation seemed to cling to the air like static. He didn’t speak at first—just set a stack of papers down on a tray with a sharp clatter that made both nurses jump.

“Set up a brain scan first,” he said at last, adjusting his cuffs. “After that, you can do a blood test.”

He kept his eyes closed as the nurses moved closer. Cold fingers pressed at his scalp. The familiar sensation of electrodes being attached one by one. A strap tightened under his chin to keep his head still. He could hear the soft buzz of the machine powering up. His pulse began to quicken again, not from fear, but from the uncomfortable familiarity of it.

He’d been here before—different lab, different men, but the same rhythm. They’d tested his brain’s reaction to stimuli, to drugs, to pain.

“Ready, Doctor,” one of the nurses said softly.

Volkova leaned in, his polished shoes squeaking faintly on the linoleum. He adjusted a few of the knobs on the machine. There was a low hum, and a paper reel began to turn, sketching black lines across the sheet.

Shilovsky cracked his eyes open just enough to glimpse it through his lashes—the bulky monitor box with its glass screen and oscillating green waves. He’d seen versions of it before, though this one looked newer, more refined.

“Hmm,” Volkova murmured, his voice low and analytical. “Look at this pattern here.”

The nurse hesitated. “What does it mean, Doctor?”

Volkova traced a finger along the screen, his tone sharp with curiosity. “This man’s neural signatures show tampering—obvious conditioning and suppression. But this… this doesn’t align with Lambda’s cortical suppression pattern.”

“Then… he’s not one of ours?”

“No, but he's had something happen,” Volkova replied, eyes narrowing. “Just not Lambda. The waveform shows irregularities consistent with brain tampering. Someone’s rewritten him.”

The words crawled under Shilovsky’s skin. Rewritten. He didn’t fully understand what it meant, but it stirred something dark at the back of his mind. He forced his breathing to stay shallow and even, though every instinct told him to sit up and demand answers.

Volkova turned from the monitor. “Take a blood sample, just to be sure,” he ordered flatly. “Run it against the Lambda serum markers. If there’s no trace of it in his system, call in Sergeant Baumer. He can eliminate the subject.”

The nurse froze. “Eliminate?

“Yes, dispose of him,” Volkova clarified, already turning toward the door. “And find that nurse. I want her name and her facility. Within the hour.”

That was it. That was the line that snapped whatever restraint Shilovsky had left. Kovac was out there somewhere, still inside this place, counting on him to do his part.

He tested the leather straps around his wrists again, slow at first. The material creaked. His body felt heavy and numb, but there was strength underneath it—familiar, burning through the fog in his veins. He flexed harder, the strap groaning against his wrist until it finally gave in with a snap.

Both nurses jumped back with startled gasps.

“What the—Doctor!” one cried out.

Volkova turned, his face twisting from annoyance to alarm. “Sedate him!” he barked.

But Shilovsky was already moving. The remaining restraint tore free, followed by the ones on his legs. He swung his feet down and pushed off the table in one fluid motion. His vision swam for a heartbeat, then cleared.

Volkova’s hand darted for something at his belt. Shilovsky saw the glint of a pistol, small and compact. But before the man could even raise it, Shilovsky’s foot lashed out, catching his wrist with enough force to send the gun clattering across the floor.

The nurses screamed. One stumbled into a tray, sending metal instruments crashing across the tile.

Volkova stumbled back, clutching his wrist. He looked at Shilovsky with a mixture of shock and fascination, not fear.

Shilovsky closed the distance between them in two strides. He grabbed Volkova by the throat, slamming him back against the nearest counter. Papers and vials toppled, glass shattering. The man’s eyes bulged, his hands clawing at Shilovsky’s wrist.

“Start talking,” Shilovsky rasped, his voice rough from disuse and strain. “What did you mean someone’s rewritten me?”

Volkova wheezed, trying to pull air through his crushed windpipe. “You… you wouldn’t understand…”

“Make me.” He knew he was wasting valuable time. He didn’t need answers about himself. He needed to get out. But something in the back of his mind wouldn’t let him move on without more answers.

Volkova’s eyes darted toward the nurses, who were frozen in place. “Get security!” he managed to choke out, voice strangled.

Shilovsky’s grip tightened. “Call them, and you die first,” he warned without looking away from the doctor.

Volkova stopped struggling, his pulse hammering against Shilovsky’s palm. His voice came out hoarse and broken. “You’ve been conditioned—erased—just like my own subjects. But not by Lambda, it’s something else.”

Shilovsky’s stomach dropped. “Erased? How could I be erased?”

Volkova tried to smirk, though it came out twisted. “You really don’t remember anything, do you?”

Shilovsky’s hand tightened around the doctor’s throat, his knuckles pale. “Remember what?” he hissed. “What the hell did they do to me? What is Lambda?”

Volkova coughed, his voice rasping and thin, but there was a spark behind his eyes—something disturbingly like excitement. “You want to know what Lambda is?” He gave a strained chuckle.

Shilovsky slammed him harder against the counter. “Talk.”

Volkova’s grin widened, blood streaking his teeth. “It’s a masterpiece. My life's work. It functions in two parts. The first—administered only once—changes everything. It alters the chemistry of the brain, rewires it completely. It makes the mind malleable. More open to suggestion. It lays the groundwork for what comes next.”

His tone grew steadier, more confident, as though he’d given this lecture before. “The second part, now that’s the real brilliance. It can be given as often or as rarely as necessary. It strengthens the effect every time it’s introduced. The more the subject receives it, the deeper the obedience runs. If not administered for a length of time the subject will seemingly return to normal until given another dose.”

He tilted his head, his eyes gleaming like a man discussing art, not horror. “The perfect sleeper agent—obedient without effort. No resistance. No hesitation. Just pure, conditioned loyalty whenever they are needed.”

Shilovsky felt his grip falter for the first time. The words slammed into him like a physical blow. Too familiar for comfort. Obedient without effort.

He stumbled back a step, breathing hard. “Why?” His voice came out thin, uncertain. “HYDRA stole it from the KGB. I was sent to get it back.”

Volkova laughed—a sharp, cutting sound that made the hairs on Shilovsky’s neck rise. “Stole it from the KGB?” He spat the words out between short bursts of laughter. “The KGB never had it.” He looked up, grinning wider. “They never could have created something like this.”

Shilovsky shook his head. “That’s not true. The KGB sent me to bring it back. You’re lying.”

“I’m not.” Volkova’s voice dropped to a low, smug murmur. “The KGB may have dreamed of it, clearly they have tried creating their own version, but they lacked the science. The resources. I made it—for HYDRA.”

The world seemed to tilt. Shilovsky’s pulse thundered in his ears, and he gripped the counter for balance. “No,” he whispered. “The KGB had to have had it. Because I think they used it on me.”

Volkova gave a small, pitying sigh. “No, they didn’t. You’ve been conditioned, yes—but not by my serum. Your mind has been tampered with, that much is obvious. But if it was with Lambda, you wouldn’t be asking questions. You wouldn’t be questioning anything. You’d simply obey.”

“I don’t need to lie to you.” Volkova pushed himself slightly upright, massaging his throat. “Lambda does more than erase memory. It erases the self. It breaks the man apart, discards the pieces that resist, and reforges the rest into something useful. Every injection strengthens the bond between the subject and their handler. Every dose wipes away a little more of who they used to be.”

Shilovsky’s mind reeled. He could hear his own heartbeat, pounding like gunfire. Suppresses memories. Erases who a person is. His chest tightened until it hurt to breathe. Obedience without effort.

He remembered flashes—missions he couldn’t quite recall, names he didn’t remember, a trail of orders followed without hesitation. He’d never questioned why. Not until recently.

He took a shaky breath. “How long do these doses last?”

Volkova’s expression turned thoughtful, as if he’d been waiting for that question. “It depends,” he said. “For subjects in active use—those under close supervision—we administer boosters every few months to maintain control. But for agents in the field, or those assigned long-term infiltration roles, eventually, it begins to fade. The subject’s mind starts to rebuild itself, fragments of memory slip through the cracks. If too much time passes…”

He smiled faintly. “They may begin to remember who they were.”

Shilovsky’s hands were shaking again, maybe he had only received the first dose? Or it had been too long between doses. “And if it’s been years?”

“Then the process may need more of a kickstart,” Volkova said, his tone almost academic. “One dose likely won’t be enough. It would take several, spaced close together, to fully restore obedience. I’m still testing long term effects.”

Shilovsky felt his throat close. His pulse stuttered, the number ringing in his mind like a warning bell.

Shilovsky’s jaw clenched. “If you really made this serum for HYDRA, what did they use it for?”

Volkova gave a humorless laugh. “What do you think? To create men like you, but better. Men who don’t question, don’t feel. Tools to be sharpened and used until they break.”

He reached for a blood-streaked clipboard and smirked. “The fact that you’re here looking for it means HYDRA isn’t the only ones.”

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The only sound in the room was the faint hum of the monitor and the scratch of the paper reel tracing out its quiet, nervous line.

Shilovsky stood perfectly still, his thoughts caught in a storm he couldn’t escape. Every word Volkova had said coiled in his head like a parasite. He wanted to reject it, to tell himself it was a lie. That this man—this smug, hollow-eyed scientist—was simply trying to rattle him. But part of him, some buried instinct he didn’t want to acknowledge, knew there was truth buried somewhere in the madness.

He drew a slow breath, the air sharp and sterile in his lungs. It doesn’t matter. He had his orders. He always had orders. Kovac was counting on him. None of this changed the fact that he still had a mission. And he would complete it.

He glanced down at Volkova, who was still watching him with that faint, infuriating smirk. That was enough. Shilovsky’s fist shot out, connecting squarely with the side of Volkova’s jaw. The doctor’s head snapped back, his body going limp as he crumpled against the cold floor. Shilovsky stood over him for a heartbeat, chest heaving, then exhaled and flexed his bruised knuckles.

He hadn’t killed him. He’d wanted to, but he’d forced the impulse down. Volkova wasn’t part of the mission. And besides, if he was telling the truth, someone might need him alive later.

Shilovsky glanced toward the door, listening. The hallway outside was quiet. No alarms, no shouts. Either no one had heard the struggle, or they were too afraid to intervene.

He wiped the sweat from his brow, the motion shaky. His vision swam briefly, and he steadied himself against the wall. The sickness still clung to him, a deep nausea in his gut, and a dull ache behind his eyes, but he pushed through it. There wasn’t time to stop.

He had to find Kovac.

He took one last look at the unconscious doctor, then turned toward the door. His boots were silent against the tile as he slipped out into the corridor, the fluorescent lights overhead flickering weakly.

Each step sent a throb of pain through his skull, but he kept moving. He couldn’t afford to fall apart—not now. His orders were simple. Retrieve Kovac. Secure the data. Get out.

He didn’t need a serum to obey. He would prove it.

Chapter 20

2027
Yelena

The pair rushed out quickly. Yelena explained to the office manager that more officers would arrive soon to follow up on the report. He looked annoyed but accepted the answer. The office was closer to a staircase leading to the surface than the tunnel they’d come through, so they took that route.

As soon as they were out in the sunlight, Yelena pulled out her phone. “Bob, you wanna drive back while I call Sam?”

Bob rarely got to drive or fly anything. It wasn’t that he wasn’t allowed to—there was just always someone else who took control or argued over it. He didn’t care enough to make a fuss, but he loved the rare chances he got.

“Yeah, of course!” he said, taking the keys eagerly. “Wait—do you have Sam’s number?”

Yelena looked down at her phone. “Right. No, I don’t. But I shoved Bucky’s phone in my pocket when Ava took it from his room. He’ll have Sam’s number.”

“Do you even know his passcode?” Bob asked as they approached the van.

Yelena pocketed her phone and pulled out Bucky’s. “No, but he’s old. I bet I can guess it on the first try.” She stared at the screen for a second, as if waiting for it to reveal the answer. “What year was he born again—1916, right?”

“Uh, I think so. That sounds about right,” Bob said, unlocking the van.

Yelena typed the numbers in. The phone unlocked immediately. “Ha! Told you.” She waved it triumphantly, already pulling up Sam’s contact as she climbed into the passenger seat.

The phone rang several times before going to voicemail. Yelena hung up and immediately hit redial.

“Maybe just take the number and call him from your phone?” Bob suggested carefully.

“No. He’s going to answer this phone,” Yelena said, stubbornness sharpening her tone. “I’ll keep calling until he does.”

Bob muttered something about pettiness under his breath but focused on driving.

On the fifth try, Sam finally answered. “What do you want, Bucky? I told you not to call me.” His voice was clipped, annoyed.

“Wow, that’s a rude way to answer the phone,” Yelena said, making her tone as wounded as possible. “It’s not Bucky, anyway—it’s Yelena.”

There was a pause on the other end, long enough that she could practically hear Sam deciding whether to hang up. “Why are you calling me on Bucky’s phone, Yelena?” he finally asked.

“Because I need your help with something. It’s really important.” She leaned back in her seat, kicking her boots onto the dashboard.

“No. Ask your team for help.” His voice went muffled for a moment—he was clearly talking to someone else nearby—but she couldn’t make out the words.

“Sam, this isn’t something I can ask them for help with,” she said, trying to steady her voice. “They don’t understand what’s going on.”

“Yelena, I said no. Does Bucky know you’re using his phone? Did you and Joaquin plan this?” His frustration was growing with every word.

“No, I haven’t spoken to Joaquín. And no, Bucky doesn’t know I have his phone—that’s kind of why I’m calling. I don’t know where he is, and something is really wrong, Sam. Seriously wrong.”

Bob pulled the van into the garage as she sat up straighter, her voice rising.

There was another pause on the line, followed by a sigh. “Sorry, but I can’t help you. I haven’t spoken to Bucky in months. I’d be the last person to know where he is. He’s probably just off being broody and weird. He’ll turn up.”

Yelena heard another voice behind him, faint and distant. Sam covered the phone for a second to respond to whoever it was. When he came back, his tone had softened, but it was still dismissive. “Yelena, he’s fine. He likes to be alone sometimes. I’m sure everything’s fine. I need to go. Shoot me a text when he shows up, okay?”

“Sam Wilson, don’t you dare hang up that phone.” She slammed the car door at the end of her sentence for emphasis. There was some muttered cursing on the other end, but the line stayed open.

“Believe me, I know he’s broody and quiet,” she said, voice tight now, shaking. “That’s not what this is. Maybe I wasn’t clear enough—something is seriously wrong with him. Like life-threateningly wrong. I don’t know what to do, and most of the team won’t help me. He’s out there alone, Sam, and he needs help. I know you two have been fighting, but if you still care about him—even a little bit—you’ll help us.”

The silence on the other line stretched on, long enough that Yelena started to wonder if maybe Sam had hung up and she just hadn’t noticed. Bob stared at her with wide eyes, his hand hovering uncertainly over the elevator call button. Then, finally, over the phone, came a soft, reluctant, “...okay.”

Yelena blinked. “Okay? Okay what?”

“Okay, I’ll help you. Just tell me where to meet you.”

Yelena grinned, giving Bob a quick thumbs-up. The tension in his shoulders melted instantly, and he let out a quiet breath of relief.

“Thank you, Sam,” Yelena said into the phone, trying not to sound too triumphant. “Meet us at the tower. I can fill you in on what’s happening when you get here.”

Sam said something else quickly—she couldn’t tell if it was meant for her or whoever was still in the room with him—and then hung up. Yelena was left staring at his contact on the screen.

“So... he said he’ll help?” Bob asked, his voice cautious but hopeful.

Yelena looked up from the phone to see him holding the elevator door open for her. “Yeah,” she said with a small nod. “He’s on his way now. Head up to the control room.”

She followed him into the elevator, pulling out her own phone to save Sam’s number while the doors slid shut.

Bob hit the button for the control room, and the hum of the elevator filled the silence. Yelena leaned back against the wall, tapping impatiently at her phone as she typed a few quick notes.

The elevator chimed softly. Bob glanced over at her, hesitant. “So... what’s the plan when Sam gets here? Are we going out to look for him or something?”

Yelena exhaled, watching the numbers climb. “No,” she said finally. “Like I told you, he could be anywhere by now. Searching blindly would waste time. First, I need to get Sam up to speed, and then I’m going to run the same program Bucky used earlier—the one that tracked where Volkova went the first time.”

Bob nodded but still looked uneasy. “Right. You think it’ll work?”

“It has to.”

The doors opened with a quiet ding, and Yelena was already stepping out before they had fully parted. She moved fast, crossing the control room and dropping into the main chair in front of the monitors. Her fingers flew over the keyboard as she logged into the databases they had access to. Bob hovered a few steps behind, watching her work but clearly feeling like he should be doing more.

“Okay,” she muttered more to herself than to Bob. “Sam should be here in ten, maybe fifteen minutes. Based on the timestamp of that video, Bucky disappeared about two hours ago. That means he could be halfway across the state by now.”

She zoomed in on a map overlay, scanning possible routes. Bob leaned forward slightly, peering at the screens. “So... if we’re not leaving right away, what do you need me to do?”

“Just hang on for a bit,” she said shortly. “When Sam gets here, I want him briefed immediately.”

Before Bob could answer, the elevator behind them dinged again. Yelena barely glanced over her shoulder as the doors opened to reveal Ava and Alexei. She didn’t stop typing.

“Yelena!” Ava called, her tone sharp but not unkind. “Did you find him? Or at least the comm device?”

Bob looked between the two women. “Uh—well, we found the comms device, but it was smashed. We’re trying to locate Bucky now. Sam should be here soon to help.”

“Shut up, Bob,” Yelena said without looking away from the monitors.

“Sam?” Ava repeated, lowering her arms slightly. “I thought he and Bucky hated each other. Why would he be coming here to help you?”

“They don’t hate each other,” Yelena said quickly. “There’s just some tension over the whole ‘New Avengers’ thing. He’s helping because he knows this is serious. Because he’s not an idiot.”

Ava’s eyes flicked between Yelena and the screens. The edge in her tone softened a little. “I never said it wasn’t serious. Find him. We’ll hold down the fort here and handle any incoming calls so the three of you can focus on the search, okay?”

Yelena paused just long enough to meet her eyes and give a curt nod.

“Let me know what you find,” Ava added, a little quieter now. She turned to leave, tugging Alexei after her toward the elevator. “I’ll send Sam up as soon as he gets here.”

As soon as the doors slid shut behind them, the room felt still again—tense but focused.

Yelena turned back to the computer, typing in the last sequence of commands. “This program will flag any security footage that picks up either Volkova or Bucky’s face. If they’re anywhere the system can see, we’ll know soon.”

Bob leaned forward, watching as the algorithm began to run, lines of code flickering across the screen. “And then what?”

“Then,” Yelena said quietly, eyes fixed on the monitor, “we find where they went.”

Yelena motioned for Bob to drag a few chairs over while she kept her eyes fixed on the monitor. “When I spoke to Volkova at the bar, he said he was working to acquire a lab or something. My guess is that’s where he’s heading now.”

Bob paused mid-drag. “Wait—you spoke with him at a bar?” He dropped the chairs into place, the legs scraping against the tile. “You didn’t mention that. When was this?”

“In Canada.” Yelena barely looked up. “He didn’t recognize me, so I went in undercover to get some information. But then he saw me talking to Bucky, realized something was off, and bolted. We went after him, but…” She trailed off with a shrug. “You know how that ended.”

Bob sat, eyebrows raised. “Right.”

A faint buzzing over the speaker made them both glance up. Someone was buzzing in from the lobby. Yelena straightened in her chair, the tension in her shoulders rising. “That’s him,” she said quietly.

For a moment, the sound of the elevator filled the silence—metal cables humming, soft mechanical clicks. Bob fidgeted with the hem of his sleeve. Then, with a low chime, the doors slid open to reveal Sam, his expression sharp and all business, with Joaquin trailing close behind.

“Okay, Yelena,” Sam said as he stepped inside. “Talk. What’s going on?”

Yelena lifted an eyebrow. “Hi. It’s good to see you too,” she said dryly, crossing her arms. “I’ve explained this about six times already, so you’re getting the SparkNotes version.”

Sam exhaled, but didn’t argue.

Yelena turned to glance at the screen behind her. The facial recognition system pinged faintly—just background noise, but it made her heartbeat quicken anyway.

“During a mission a little over a week ago,” she began, “Bucky encountered someone acting... off. He said the guy seemed to recognize him. Bucky felt like there was something important there, so he and I started digging.” She tapped the monitor, pulling up a series of files and mugshots as she spoke. “We found out the man worked for HYDRA on something called Project Lambda. Turns out, one of his family members also worked on the same project—for both HYDRA and the KGB.”

Sam frowned. “Wait—this has to do with HYDRA? Why didn’t you mention that on the phone?”

“Because I was just trying to get you to say yes, not give you a history lecture,” Yelena said, shooting him a look. “And don’t interrupt.”

She went on before he could reply, pacing a few steps as she spoke. “Bucky and I tracked the guy to Canada. We got separated, and when I found him again, he was unconscious. He didn’t remember much and we assumed it was a concussion. But after that, he was... different. Distracted, jumpy, distant.”

She stopped for a second, jaw tightening. “We pushed on anyway. Then the team got sent to that shipyard a few days ago. Bucky disappeared again, and when he came back, he was much worse. Like he wasn’t fully there.”

“Yelena, your arm,” Bob said softly.

She waved him off without missing a beat, but the motion drew Sam’s attention anyway. His eyes narrowed on her arms where her sleeves were pulled all the way to her wrists.

“That brings us to today,” she continued briskly. “We were sent on another mission, but Bucky stayed behind. When we got back, he was gone. My comms device had been left in the subway tunnels and somehow it had triggered an emergency signal.”

Yelena looked over at Bob, who was practically vibrating with energy beside her. “Bob, you want to finish?” she said, giving him a warning glance that silently screamed don’t mention the arm.

“Right,” Bob said quickly. “So, uh—we followed the signal’s last location to a maintenance tunnel, but the comm device had been smashed. We went to a nearby security office and convinced them to let us review their footage.”

He paused for breath, hands moving as he talked. “Bucky met up with Volkova in that same tunnel. We couldn’t tell exactly what happened, but something—something went wrong. Volkova did something to him, and then Bucky just... left with the guy. That’s when we called you.”

Sam and Joaquin exchanged a look. “Bucky just left with him?” Joaquin asked slowly.

“Maybe,” Yelena said. “Or he was forced to. Or threatened. We don’t know for sure—there was no audio, just video.”

She turned back to the monitor, pulling up the results of the search as the screens flickered to life, data scrolling faster than the eye could follow. “But whatever happened down there,” she added quietly, “it wasn’t voluntary.”

Sam folded his arms, watching as she clicked rapidly through the computer screens. The irritated look he’d worn when he first arrived had faded, replaced by a furrow of concern between his brows.

“So,” he said finally, “what’s your plan?”

Yelena didn’t look up, her eyes scanning the scrolling data. “Right now? I’m running a facial recognition sweep for both Bucky and Volkova. The system pinged a few results, but I need to confirm them manually. We find out where they are, and we go from there.”

A new window blinked open with a list of timestamps and coordinates. “There—one of the pings came in just a few minutes ago.”

Joaquin stepped closer as she clicked through the first video feed. The camera showed a grainy street shot—a man matching Volkova’s height and build crossing a busy intersection. Bucky was not with him. Yelena flipped to another file. This time, Volkova stood outside a sleek, glass-fronted building staying close to the shadows.

Her frown deepened. “That’s strange.”

“What?” Sam asked.

“Volkova’s there, but the program didn’t tag Bucky at all…” She trailed off, leaning closer to the screen. “If Volkova is hanging around downtown being sketchy, where is Bukcy at?”

Sam’s voice softened slightly. “You sure the system didn’t just miss him?”

“It’s possible,” Yelena said, unconvinced. “But the software’s usually dead-on. It even tracks partial facial data.”

Bob peered at the image. “Where exactly is that?”

Yelena squinted at the file name and pulled up the metadata. “It’s outside an office complex downtown. Looks like—”

From behind them, Joaquin spoke up. “It’s not Echelon Corporation, is it?”

Yelena blinked, turning around to face him. “Yeah, actually. It is. Why?”

Joaquin looked up from his phone, his expression tight. “Because there was an incident there. About five minutes ago. Actually, it’s still an ongoing situation. They just pinged us asking if Sam can step in.”

The room seemed to still.

“What kind of incident?” Sam asked.

Joaquin hesitated. “Security feeds say there was a break-in on the top floor. A masked intruder forced his way into an executive office and locked the door from the inside. Police are there now, but no one has been able to get inside.”

Yelena’s eyes flicked to the monitor again, back to Volkova’s blurred face in the screenshot. “You think it’s Volkova?”

Joaquin nodded once. “The timing fits.”

Sam didn’t let him finish. “Then he’s starting to make real moves now. This is about more than just Bucky.” He turned to Joaquin, ”Respond to that message. Tell them I will be there in a few minutes and not to do anything until then.”

Bob shifted uncertainly. “So… are we going to—”

He didn’t get to finish. Yelena was already moving, chair scraping backward as she grabbed her jacket from the backrest. “Sam, you drive.”

Sam followed her toward the elevator at a jog. The elevator doors slid open, and they stepped inside.

Joaquin sighed, tucking his phone into his jacket, glancing over at Bob. “Well, let’s go.” They both broke into a run, barely catching the doors before they closed.

The elevator hummed quietly as it descended. Sam leaned against the rail, arms crossed, while Yelena bounced lightly on her heels, impatient energy radiating off her. Joaquin scrolled rapidly through his phone, and Bob stood stiffly in the corner, his eyes darting between the other three.

When the doors opened at the ground level, the group spilled out in a rush. The late afternoon sun caught a nearby window and Sam threw up a hand to shield his eyes before jogging toward his car parked at the curb.

“Everyone in,” he said, unlocking the doors.

Yelena slid into the passenger seat before he’d even finished speaking, Joaquin and Bob scrambling into the back. The engine roared to life as Sam pulled away from the curb, the tires squealing faintly against the pavement.

“Address?” he asked, glancing in the rearview mirror.

“Give me two seconds, I’ll send it to the gps.” Jaoquin said.

For a few minutes, the only sounds were the growl of the engine and the faint buzz of police chatter from Sam’s radio. Finally, he broke the silence. “So, Yelena. Any idea what Volkova would want with the CEO of this company?”

Yelena stared out the windshield, expression tight. “No idea. We’ve barely scratched the surface of his plans. But he doesn’t seem like the type to do anything without a reason, I just can’t figure out what this one is.”

Sam glanced sideways at her. “Your best guess?”

She sighed, rubbing her temple. “I don’t even know what Echelon does. If I had to guess—money, weapons, maybe access to tech or lab equipment? Or maybe it’s something personal. I don’t know.”

“Echelon Corporation,” Joaquin said suddenly, his voice cutting through the tension. “They’re a security company. Private contracts. Very high-end.”

Yelena twisted in her seat to look at him. “And?”

“I’m getting there,” he said, scrolling faster. “According to CIA files, Richard Echelon—the CEO—was under investigation about six years ago. There were rumors he had ties to HYDRA, but nothing was ever proven. Guy covers his tracks too well.”

The car fell silent.

Sam’s jaw tightened as he stared at the road. “Great. More ties to HYDRA.” He muttered something under his breath and tightened his grip on the wheel. “I thought we were done with this bullshit.”

No one argued. The city lights blurred past as they drove, the fading daylight bleeding into the amber glow of the streetlamps.

When they turned onto the final street, flashing red and blue lights filled the windshield. Sam slammed on the brakes, bringing the car to an abrupt stop.

They all stared.

The Echelon Tower loomed above them—tall, sleek, its mirrored surface fractured by a jagged hole on the top floor. Police cars and fire trucks lined the street. Officers shouted into radios while paramedics treated shaken office workers on the sidewalk, some of them bleeding or wrapped with bandages.

“What the hell happened?” Bob whispered, pressing a hand to the window.

Yelena didn’t answer. Her eyes were locked on the side of the building.

From the shattered window, a single black climbing rope dangled, swaying gently in the wind.

Chapter 21

Notes:

Man, I keep forgetting to post chapters. 😅 A new season of one of my favourite shows just aired and most of my nerdy focus has been tied to that lately.

2027
Yelena

Sam and Joaquin rushed forward to the officer in charge, weaving through clusters of police and paramedics. Yelena and Bob trailed behind at a brisk pace, sticking close enough that it looked like they belonged there.

Sam was already mid-conversation with the officer when they caught up.

“—stationed just inside the elevator, but I don’t want to risk anyone getting closer.” The officer finished, his eyes flicking toward Yelena and Bob with suspicion.

Sam nodded, following the man’s gaze upward toward the shattered window. “Okay. Keep your officers on the ground. We’ll take it from here.”

Sam stepped away from the barricade and motioned sharply for the others to huddle closer. The four of them formed a tight circle near the hood of a police cruiser, its lights still strobing red and blue.

“Okay, here’s what we know.” Sam kept his voice low. “Someone rappelled down from the roof and smashed through that office window.” He pointed up at the jagged gap in the glass. “No one got a good look at him. He stepped into the hallway roughly a minute after the crash.”

Yelena followed his line of sight. Fifteen stories up, the hole looked like a black hole amidst the glass reflecting the bright oranges and yellows of the sunset.

Sam continued, “He fired off two shots from the doorway. Hit one man in the shoulder. Second shot missed a woman by inches. Everyone bolted after that and called it in. When officers went up to clear the floor, they found the entire area around the office rigged with explosives. No one’s gone in since.”

A breeze carried the earthy smell of rain and smoke from somewhere down the block. Yelena crossed her arms.

“Well, that sounds fun,” she muttered. “So if Volkova is still in that office, we need to figure out how to get up there without triggering the explosives or spooking him into going back out the window again.”

Sam cracked a humorless smile. “Well, I have a way. How do you feel about flying?”

Yelena gave him a suspicious look. “I can handle flying. Wait. Do you mean like…” She mimed wings with both hands.

Sam was already walking back toward his car. He popped the trunk and pulled out a large silver case, unlatching it with practiced ease. Sleek metal wingssat folded inside, catching the flashing red light.

Yelena whistled. “Okay. Fair enough.”

“Yelena and I can go through the window,” Sam said, already fitting the wings into place. He glanced over his shoulder. “Joaquin, you and Bob check the surrounding area. See if you can find Bucky or any sign of him.”

Joaquin stared at the shattered window, then at the wings, then at Sam. “You sure you don’t want backup?”

“We’ve got it. Radio me if you find anything.”
Yelena took a slow breath, letting it settle her nerves. The wind carried the distant wail of another arriving siren.

“Okay,” she said finally. “Let’s do this.”

Sam gave her a reassuring nod. “Just relax, and maybe don’t look down.”

He reached out and gripped her forearm. Yelena tightened her jaw, shut her eyes and the two of them shot skyward in a rush of air.

She was sure it took only a few seconds for them to reach the broken window, but her nerves stretched each second into something much longer. Wind roared past her ears, numbing them, and her stomach felt like it was somewhere near her boots. Sam finally yelled over the wind, his voice cracking through the rush of air, “You might want to open your eyes now!”

Yelena cracked her eyes open just enough to see the jagged window frame a floor or two above them. The building loomed like a dark cliff wall, the broken glass glittering around the opening.

“Okay, Yelena,” Sam called, tightening his grip. “I’m going to put you right up against the window, but you’ll have to jump from me through it yourself. Are you ready?”

“I guess,” Yelena shouted back, already bracing her legs, coiling them like springs. “What about you?”

“I’ll be there in a minute. I have to let go of you first. Just be careful,” Sam said. “We don’t know where Volkova is or what he’s up to.”

He flew them the last few feet, hovering as close as he could to the ruined frame.

Yelena swung her body forward, stretching until her boot caught the lower edge of the window. She pushed off hard, flinging herself through the opening and tucking her knees in tight. Shards crunched under her boots and bounced off her jacket as she rolled, forearms shielding her face.

The moment she stopped, her muscles snapped into action. She planted her feet, lifted her head, and reached for the gun strapped to her thigh. Her eyes swept the room, cataloging everything in fast, sharp fragments.

It was dark. Too dark for an office that should have overhead lighting. The only illumination came from a single lamp perched on the corner of a large wooden desk, the warm bulb casting long, uneasy shadows across the room.

Behind the desk sat a middle-aged man, his face slick with sweat. His hands trembled in the air, palms out, his breath coming in short, panicked bursts. In front of him stood another man dressed head-to-toe in black, a gun aimed directly at the terrified CEO.

The angle of the lamp threw the gunman’s face into shadow. Both men turned stiffly toward Yelena, surprise cutting through the thick tension in the room.

Behind her there was a sharp ping of more glass breaking, then a soft thump of boots hitting carpet. She didn’t need to look. Sam was beside her.

The sudden noise snapped the gunman out of his stillness. He pivoted, turning the gun from the man in the chair to Yelena and Sam as he stepped forward. The shadows slipped away just enough for the fading sunlight to catch his outline.

It wasn’t Volkova.

Black tactical gear. Mask over the lower half of his face. Heavy goggles hiding his eyes. But the hair and the left arm, gleaming with metal in the low light, were unmistakable.

Yelena’s breath caught. She lowered her weapon. “Bucky? Fuck, we were expecting to find Volkova up here. Are you okay?” She started to stand fully, slipping her gun back into its holster.

She barely had time to straighten before her view was swallowed by one of Sam’s wings. His hand closed around her shoulder and he yanked her down just as the sharp metallic ping of bullets rang out, ricocheting off the wings.

“What the hell?” Yelena snapped. “Bucky!” She tried to lean out for a look, but Sam held her down firmly.

The gunfire paused. Yelena risked a quick glance around the curved edge of the wing—

Only for Sam to pull her back again as another volley rang out, this time from a different angle, bullets striking the wings in rapid staccato.

“That’s not Bucky,” Sam said, voice grim and low.

“What? Yes it is—” Yelena tried to stand again, frustration burning through her nerves, but Sam jerked her back down as more gunfire sparked off the metal.

“No.” His eyes were unfocused, calculating, like he was watching a nightmare unfold in repeat. “That is the Winter Soldier.”

From across the room, a shaking voice finally whispered, barely above a whimper, “It’s done. Please, let me go now.”

Yelena shot Sam a warning glare—daring him to try pulling her back again—and rose slowly to her feet. She eased forward until the top of her head crested over the protective curve of his wings. From this angle she could just make out Bucky standing at the desk again. The terrified CEO was holding something out to him with a shaking hand.

Bucky took it without hesitation, pocketing it in one smooth motion. Then he lifted the gun again and fired one clean shot.

The crack echoed through the office. The man’s head jerked back, splattering the wall behind him with blood and brain matter. The body slumped sideways in the chair, twitching once before going still.

Yelena’s breath stumbled. She stepped out a little farther from Sam’s vibranium wings, ignoring the way her pulse hammered in her fingertips. Sam rose beside her, staying close, but this time he didn’t grab for her.

“Bucky?” she said, voice quieter than she expected. “Hey. Look at me. What is going on? What happened in the subway earlier today?”

No reaction, not even a flicker.

He didn’t turn his head or tilt it or show any sign he’d heard her at all. His goggles hid his eyes; his mask hid his expression. She had nothing to read.

“Buck,” Sam tried, voice low but steady. “Stand down.” Still nothing.

Finally, he turned, briefly, just long enough for Yelena to feel a spike of hope spark in her chest. But then his gaze snapped back to the corpse like she wasn’t even there. Without warning he bolted forward.

“Hey—!” Sam lunged for Yelena on instinct, but Bucky sprinted right past both of them, not slowing, not hesitating or even acknowledging them in the slightest. He launched himself through the broken window as if the jagged glass wasn’t even there. His metal fingers clamped around the rope waiting outside, stopping his momentum in one violent jolt.

By the time Yelena scrambled to the shattered ledge, he was already halfway up. Another heartbeat and he was gone, disappearing over the edge of the roof.

“What just happened?” she whispered, turning back toward Sam. The shock on his face had turned into something harder. Anger, and maybe fear.

Yelena chose to ignore him. She forced her legs forward and crossed to the computer. She stepped around the puddling gore, lifting her boots high so she wouldn’t slip. The screen displayed rows of names, addresses, personal details. Whatever the CEO had handed Bucky was probably a drive containing the same information.

She snapped a rapid set of photos with her phone while Sam leaned dangerously out the window, eyes tracking upward. When she finished, she joined him just in time to see a helicopter lift off from the rooftop above them, its rotors slicing the air.

“So,” she said, already resigned, “should we take the elevator down or just…” She gestured out the window in a loose approximation of freefall.

Sam rolled his eyes without even looking at her and simply held out his hand. She sighed. “Guess we’re jumping.”

His grip closed around her forearm—right on top of the bruise that was still tender—and she flinched, but didn’t pull away. She shut her eyes as her stomach dropped, the floor vanishing beneath her. Wind screamed against her ears until, seconds later, her feet hit asphalt and Sam released her. She heard the soft whir of his wings folding shut.

Bob and Joaquin were already in front of them, eyes wide. The officer from earlier was stomping in their direction, face bright red. Sam shot Yelena a warning look before stepping forward to intercept him, posture shifting into that calm, authoritative mode.

“What happened?” Bob asked quietly when Yelena drifted closer. “You look… shaken.”

“We saw the guy jump out the window and climb to the helicopter,” Joaquin added. “We searched everywhere. No sign of Bucky.”

“You wouldn’t have found him.” Yelena swallowed hard. Her voice still wasn’t steady. “We can talk once we’re somewhere more secure.”

She flicked her gaze toward Sam as he finished with the officer. The man muttered something into his radio before turning away sharply.

“Let’s go,” Sam said, passing by them and heading straight for the car. “He’s sending the bomb squad to handle the explosives. Coroner after that.”

Joaquin moved to follow. Bob lingered beside Yelena.

“What happened up there? Was it Volkova?”

Yelena merely shook her head as she climbed into the passenger seat. She barely registered the slam of her door or the low mechanical whir of Sam collapsing his wings into the case before he slid into the driver’s seat. The car was silent as they pulled away from the flashing lights and the knot of officers behind them, the chaos shrinking in the rearview mirror until it was nothing but a blur of blue and red.

The silence stretched until Sam snapped.

“What the hell, Yelena?” His voice cracked sharp through the quiet. “You said Bucky was acting weird. I figured weird meant more distant than usual, maybe snappier or something. Not Winter Soldier weird!”

Yelena winced. Joaquin leaned forward between the seats, eyes darting between them. “Wait—what?” he asked. “Winter Soldier?”

“He was just acting distant and quiet like I said,” Yelena shot back. She tried to meet Sam’s anger head-on, but her voice wouldn’t hold. “Nothing happened up until now to suggest anything more.”

“Yelena,” Bob said softly from the back. “Your arm.” Right. That.

“Bob mentioned that earlier,” Sam said, his voice still hard, but a sliver of confusion cut through. “What happened to your arm?”

Yelena didn’t answer. Sam pulled the car into the Watchtower’s garage, tires squealing slightly as he turned. Before he could shut off the engine, Yelena snapped, “That was different from this.” She shot a sharp glare at Bob, who shrank back a little.

Sam’s tone softened, barely. “Yelena… I noticed you flinch when I grabbed your arm flying back down. What happened?”

“Let’s go upstairs first,” she muttered, already shoving her door open. “I need time to actually explain.”

She didn’t wait for them. Instead, she stalked toward the elevator. Behind her, she heard Bob hesitate, then Sam’s quiet command for everyone to move. By the time they joined her, she was already inside the elevator, arms crossed tight over her chest like she was holding herself together.

No one spoke on the ride up. Yelena tapped her foot rapidly, staring at the closing seam of the elevator doors.

When they stepped into the control room, John was sitting at the big monitor, scanning old mission footage and typing notes.

“Get out, Walker.” Yelena said, voice sharp and brittle.

“What? No. I was here first.” He turned in his chair, then froze as he noticed Sam and Joaquin behind her. “Oh, shit. Fine.”

He grabbed a tablet and bolted.

As soon as the doors closed behind him, Sam crossed his arms. “Okay, Yelena. Talk.”

Yelena exhaled shakily. “I told you the gist of what’s been going on. But I left out the incident in the gym because I didn’t want you all to misinterpret it like the rest of the team already has.”

She rolled up her sleeve. The bruise—faded now, more sickly green-yellow than violent purple—still sprawled across her forearm, shaped unmistakably like the imprint of fingers.

“Shit,” Joaquin muttered.

“Bucky did that?” Sam’s voice rose, disbelief sharpening the edges.

“Yes,” she snapped, dropping the sleeve fast enough that the fabric snapped against her skin. “But it was an accident. We were sparring. He grabbed my arm to stop a punch and just… grabbed too hard. Way too hard. But he wasn’t there— it was like he was in some kind of trance. He looked horrified when he snapped out of it.”

“I get that. But after what we saw today…” Sam said quietly.

Joaquin leaned forward. “What happened up there? Did you find Volkova or what?”

“No,” Sam said. He flicked a glance at Yelena. “It was Bucky. But it wasn’t. The way he moved, the way he handled himself. The only time I’ve seen that before was when we first met. When he was still the Winter Soldier.”

Bob looked at Yelena, noticing her fists clenched tight, nails digging into her palms.

“Yelena?” he asked gently.

She swallowed. Hard. The words stuck in her throat before she forced them out. “He was wearing a mask. And goggles,” she whispered. “I couldn’t see his face. I couldn’t see his eyes.”

The room went still.

“Before, when he was off or losing control, I could see it him trying to fight it. Trying to hang on. I could tell he was still in there somewhere.” Her voice cracked. “But today… I don’t know. I don’t know if something worse happened or if he just gave up the fight”

“I said something was seriously wrong. Maybe we could have prevented this—helped him before it got this bad if we had gotten help. If the rest of the team hadn’t brushed it off. If we… I don’t know.” Her voice cracked despite the anger behind it.

Sam rested a hand gently on her shoulder. “Hey. Don’t blame yourself or your team. It’s none of your fault. All we can do now is try to fix whatever is going on. Where do we start?”

“The list of names,” Yelena said suddenly, her eyes widening as the memory slammed back into place. “Before he shot the guy, I think he was having him download a list—names, addresses, stuff like that.” She pulled out her phone with shaking hands and typed furiously. The silence stretched on until the photos finally appeared on the large monitor in front of them.

Yelena rushed to the screen, copying and pasting names into their database one after another. Her fingers flew over the keyboard.

“Bucky shot someone?” Bob asked quietly from her side, his voice hollow as he stared up at the endless scrolling list.

Yelena ignored the question entirely, her focus sharpening into something almost frantic. “It’s all HYDRA,” she breathed. “Everyone on this list is or was suspected to be part of HYDRA.”

“That’s not possible.” Sam stepped up beside her, scanning the screen with disbelief. “We cleaned up what was left of HYDRA. Everyone is either dead or in prison.”

“Or,” Yelena countered, “they found someone to help make them disappear. I bet that’s what this Echelon guy was doing.” She scrolled deeper, revealing more pages, more names. “You said he ran a private security business? Here’s who he was securing. He wasn’t just protecting people; he was hiding them.”

“Which means this is bigger than just Volkova wanting Bucky,” Bob said suddenly. His voice had taken on a sharp edge. “Bucky was just a step in a much larger plan.”

He leaned forward, gently nudging Yelena aside so he could access an older file. “Wait… I recognize some of these names.” He flipped quickly through the stored documents until he found the one he was looking for.

“There!” he said, stabbing his finger at the screen. Names overlapped between the two lists—several of them.

“Okay? That’s definitely more than a coincidence,” Yelena said, counting the matches under her breath, her heart pounding. “But what does this have to do with Volkova? Why would he want this list? And why did he need Bucky to get it for him?”

“Because.” Bob swallowed hard, pulling up yet another archived file. “This is a list of agents who were part of a specialty HYDRA strike team. The team tasked with cleaning up potential security leaks and rogue agents. People HYDRA thought were liabilities.” He paused, eyes scanning the next document as it loaded.

“Such as…” The screen changed again. A photo of Volkova’s father filled the display—stern, military posture, HYDRA insignia faintly visible in the background. His file had a red stamp slashed across the bottom.

Deceased.

Silence fell thick and heavy as the pieces finally locked together. No one moved.

Joaquin was the first to speak, his voice barely more than a whisper. “So… Volkova is going after the people who killed his father?”

“And he’s using the Winter Soldier to do it,” Sam added quietly, grimly.

Yelena stared at the name list, her throat tightening. “We have to find him. Now.”

Chapter 22

2027
Yelena

“Okay, but we already knew we needed to find him. That’s what we’ve been trying to do. It’s why we called Sam in the first place,” Bob said, minimizing the tabs he’d opened.

“The problem is that we need to find him while also staying a step ahead,” Sam added. “We can’t keep running into situations when they’re already spiraling out of control. We need to find him before he hurts someone else.”

“Any ideas on how to do that?” Joaquin asked. “There are almost twenty names on that list—spread across the globe. We can’t just watch every single person or hope we can guess who they go after first.”

Everyone exchanged uncertain glances, waiting for someone to come up with a plan. Yelena stayed silent.

“Lena? Any ideas?” Bob finally asked, noticing the way her eyes were fixed on the blank screen. When she still didn’t answer, he reached over and gently poked her shoulder.

“We don’t find them by chasing them to every name on the list,” she said quietly, still not looking away. “We find where they’re hiding when they aren’t killing former HYDRA agents.”

“What?” Sam asked. “We already said we can’t track down twenty former HYDRA agents. You want us to find Volkova’s hideout—which could be pretty much anywhere?”

Yelena finally tore her gaze from the screen. “Volkova told me something when I met him at the bar,” she said, her tone shifting. “Back when I was undercover. He said he was ‘picking up on a project he thought he’d lost a long time ago.’ I didn’t know what project he meant then, but now we do. That project was Bucky. Or the Winter Soldier.”

Sam’s eyes narrowed. “He said that to you?”

She nodded. “He also said he’d lost access to his lab, but had ‘a friend’ who owned a building he could buy. Our cover was blown before I could get any more out of him but that has to be where he’s basing his operations now. And, I’d be willing to bet it’s where Bucky is when he’s not being sent out of hit missions.”

Joaquin shifted his weight uneasily. “That’s… a solid lead, but—”

“We don’t know anything about this building,” Sam finished for him. “Not the location, not who owned it before, or what it was used for. The building could literally be anywhere on the planet.”

Bob stepped closer to her, lowering his voice so only she heard. “It’s a great idea, Lena. Really. If we had anything else to go off of, I’d be all in. But right now? With nothing but ‘a friend with a building’… it’s a wild goose chase. Unfortunately tracking the names is probably still our best shot.”

Yelena inhaled sharply through her nose, frustration written all over her face. “No. Tracking those guys gets us nowhere but face-to-face with Bucky again in a no win situation. And even if we manage to figure out who the next target is, then what?” She looked around the room, daring anyone to interrupt. “We show up, confront him in another high-stress fight situation? And hope it ends differently than it did tonight? Because it won’t.”

No one spoke at first, considering her words.

“But,” she added reluctantly, “I’m not going to shoot down your idea. We can split it. Bob and Joaquin can work on the list—figure out who’s the highest-risk target, who Volkova would go after next, whatever intel you can dig up. Meanwhile…” She turned to Sam. “You and I can try to find the building.”

Sam opened his mouth as if to argue, but then stopped. Slowly, he nodded. “Okay. Splitting up makes sense.” He glanced at the time on the monitor and winced. “But not tonight. It’s late, and everyone’s fried. We’re not going to find anything useful while running on fumes. Joaquin and I have already had a long day before we got the call from you.”

Joaquin stretched, the motion making his joints pop. “Yeah, I’m not gonna be helpful if I fall asleep on the keyboard.”

“We’ll be back early in the morning,” Sam said, already heading for the elevator. “I’ll even bring coffee and doughnuts.”

Yelena wanted to keep working, to figure everything out that night, but she knew he was right. “Fine,” she muttered. “Morning.”

Sam gave her a reassuring nod before he and Joaquin stepped into the elevator. The doors slid shut, leaving the room abruptly quiet.

Yelena stared at the screen again, her reflection faintly visible in the dark glass, her jaw tight and her fists clenched at her sides.

“I’m going down to the gym,” Yelena said suddenly, stepping away from the monitor. “I need to move, I’m too restless.”

Bob frowned. “Or—and hear me out—you could eat something and get some sleep. It’s been a really long day.”

“I will,” she said, already moving toward the elevator. “I’m just… not tired right now.”

He didn’t argue again, just followed her into the elevator, hands shoved into his pockets. When the doors opened on the gym level, Yelena stepped out but Bob stayed inside.

“You sure?” he asked gently.

“Yeah,” she said without looking back.

He nodded and the doors slid shut, leaving her alone.

The gym was dim, lit only by a few overhead lights left on since no one had been in there all day. The quiet felt heavy and the room felt too big without the rest of the team. Yelena walked past the sparring mats and slowed slightly.

It was the same mat where she and Bucky had sparred just a few days earlier. It felt like a lifetime ago now when he was off but still trying. Before he’d slipped completely behind that wall she couldn’t reach through.

Her stomach twisted, and she turned away quickly, heading toward the back of the gym.

The smaller training room was empty. The air smelled faintly of chalk and rubber mats, and the fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead. She scanned the room briefly, her gaze snagging on the heavy bag Bucky had been punching earlier.

Without thinking, she walked up to it and planted her feet. One quick jab. Then another. Then a flurry of hits and kicks. The bag swung violently, chains rattling overhead. Yelena kept going.

She didn’t hear the door open behind her. “Uh… hey.”

She spun, breath sharp in her chest.

Bob stood in the doorway holding up two Hot Pockets—one intact, the other very clearly missing two bites.

“I, uh… brought you one,” he said, lifting the whole one toward her. “And I ate half of mine in the elevator because I was starving.”

She walked over, took the unbitten Hot Pocket, and shook her head. “You know we’re not supposed to have food in the gym.”

Bob shrugged. “I won’t tell Bucky if you don’t.”

She gave him a sad, fleeting smile that didn’t reach her eyes and sat down on the edge of the mat. Bob joined her, legs crossed, eating the rest of his Hot Pocket in quiet solidarity. For a moment, the only sound was crinkling wrappers and the faint hum of the ventilation system.

When she finished, she balled the wrapper in her hands.

Bob hesitated before speaking. “If you’re still not tired… do you want to spar a bit? Might help.”

Yelena looked toward the open doorway. The sparring mats were visible through it, pale under the overhead lights. “No,” she said softly. “I’m going to go up to bed.”

“Okay, good.” Bob stood, brushing crumbs from his hands. “I’ll walk with you.”

They left the gym together, neither of them speaking as they headed toward the elevator. When the doors opened for them, Yelena stepped inside first. Bob followed, silent but steady at her side.
_____
Bob woke earlier than usual the next morning. He shuffled toward the main living area, rubbing a hand over his face, expecting the space to be empty.

It wasn’t.

Yelena sat at the kitchen table with two tablets and an entire spread of printed papers arranged in a messy but oddly purposeful pattern around her. She had a pen between her teeth and another in her hair.

“You didn’t sleep at all, did you?”

“I did,” she said immediately, not looking up as she flipped a page.

Bob gave her a flat, silent stare. “Really?” he asked, walking over and sliding into the chair across from her. “Because a team member slowly spiraling and not sleeping sounds a little familiar.”

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t start. It’s not the same, and I’ve been up for less than an hour.”

He held up his hands in surrender. “Alright. Then what’s all this?” He nodded toward the spread of papers.

Before she could answer, one of the tablets buzzed sharply.

Yelena snatched it up, tapped a button, and said, “Doors unlocked. Come on up to floor ninety.”

Bob blinked. “Was that Sam and Joaquin?”

“Yes,” she said, already setting the tablet aside and returning to her papers.

They both watched the elevator numbers climb. When the doors slid open, Sam and Joaquin stepped out—Sam carrying a tray of coffees balanced expertly in one hand, and Joaquin clutching a box of doughnuts.

“Looks like you two had an early start,” Sam said.

Bob, without a hint of shame, grabbed a doughnut before Joaquin had even put the box down.

“Good morning to you too,” Joaquin muttered, though he wasn’t really offended.

“I already have an idea for tracking the guys on the list,” Joaquin added, grabbing his first doughnut.

“Perfect,” Sam said, handing coffees to Bob and Joaquin. Bob immediately used his free hand to grab a second doughnut. Joaquin laughed and the two disappeared back toward the elevator in a hurry, coffee and pastries in hand.

Sam placed Yelena’s coffee in front of her before taking the seat next to her. “Alright. What are you working on, and why does it look like you’re planning a war?”

“I might be,” she muttered, tapping the stack closest to her. “After we encountered Volkova in the bar, he said he’d lost access to his old lab but had a friend with a building he could buy, like I said last night. It has to be where he’s operating from. And the fact that he has moved forward with his plan, tells me he has the building now."

“And you have a plan to find that needle in the haystack?” Sam asked.

“Sort of,” she said. “I think it’s probably a HYDRA building.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Yes,” she said flatly, “So, I have spent hours going through our databases and listing every HYDRA-owned property I could find.”

Sam glanced at the literal pile of papers. “Yelena, did you sleep at all?”

“Yes!” She snapped, having the answer that question for the second time. “I started this project as soon as Bucky and I got home from Canada.”

“Okay,” Sam said with a small smile. “Still, that must have been… a lot of buildings.”

“You have no idea.” She leaned back slightly, stretching her sore neck. “But once I had the full list, I cut everything that couldn’t possibly be used as a lab. Then everything the U.S. government seized or shut down. Then everything confirmed to be destroyed by natural disasters or other governments.”

“How many are left?”

“Twenty-one.”

Sam exhaled. “That’s still a lot.”

“I know,” she agreed. “But now I can run facial recognition. Track where Volkova has been in the few weeks. If any of these buildings matches places he visited? Then we narrow it down.”

Sam nodded approvingly as the elevator dinged.

John stepped out, yawning, hair mussed, looking like he’d rolled out of bed minutes prior. He headed straight for the kitchen.

“What’s going on?” he asked, reaching for the doughnut box.

Yelena yanked it away before he could get his hands on it. “These are not for you.”

John blinked, then frowned. “Rude.”

“We’re working,” Yelena snapped. “And you should mind your own business.”

“Jeez,” he said, opening the fridge and pulling out eggs. “Ava said you guys were still trying to track down Barnes.”

He wandered a little closer, glancing over the papers spread across the table. One caught his eye—a photo of a HYDRA base in Europe.

“Wait,” he said, brow furrowing. “Are you thinking he fled the country?”

Yelena snatched the paper from under his hand so fast he actually flinched.

“Make your breakfast,” she said coldly, “and leave us alone.”

Sam tapped the edge of one of the sheets. “Yelena. Look.”

She barely heard him at first, too focused on the stacks of papers in front of her. But when she turned, Sam was staring between a printed page and her tablet, his brow pulled together.

“What?” she asked, moving around the table fast.

He handed her the tablet. On the screen was a list of locations, each one paired with a surveillance photo. Some were blurred by motion, some were perfect, but they all showed Volkova.

Yelena’s pulse spiked. She leaned over the screen and started reading off the small labels under each capture. “Tallinn… Narva… Pskov… that’s a train station… this one is near the airport.” She squinted and zoomed in. “These four are all the same place. Same station, and the city—” she tapped it, “—is only twenty miles from building J4.”

Sam held up the paper he’d been comparing against, the bold J4 printed at the top. Before he could speak, Yelena clicked on the most recent photo, timestamped early that morning.

The image loaded and her breath stopped.

It was Volkova. No question. And just behind his shoulder—blurred, half-turned away, hood up over his hear—was Bucky. Unmistakable even in the distorted image.

Sam let out a quiet curse. He looked at the page in his hand again. “This one’s right on the border of Russia and Estonia. Near Lake Peipus.” He glanced at her. “You think this is where Volkova’s operating from?”

Yelena didn’t answer immediately. She snatched the paper from him and flipped through the pile, searching for its pair. Her fingers stopped on another sheet marked with the same letter. She pulled it out and held it close, scanning every line. Her eyes widened.

“Yes,” she whispered.

Sam, and John both stood staring at her. The room was still. Finally John broke the silence. “What? What is it?”

Yelena swallowed, then looked up. “This HYDRA building—J4—it wasn’t just a bunker or a hideout. It used to be an old mine that they converted into a lab.”

She continued, voice low. “It was one of their primary testing facilities during the fifties through the seventies because of its remote location. They tested everything there.” Her jaw tightened. “Including Lambda.”

Sam breathed out, “Oh shit.”

Yelena glanced back at the tablet still displaying the security feed image: Volkova stepping off a platform, Bucky behind him like a shadow. She set the paper down hard enough that the rest shifted across the table.

“We’re done looking,” she said. Her chair scraped as she pushed to her feet. “We know where Bucky is.”

Sam blinked. “So that means—”

“It means we need to leave,” Yelena said sharply. “Right now.” She grabbed her coffee with one hand and the tablet with the other. “We need to get Bob and Joaquin.”

John lingered near the counter, halfway through reaching for the doughnut box again. “You’re seriously going straight there? That sounds dangerous and pretty reckless.”

Yelena didn’t even look at him. “Don’t care. We’re not wasting another second.”

Sam had already jogged toward the elevator, holding it open while Yelena swept the papers into a pile. She slammed them on top of the two tablets and hurried over. Sam reached out and took the stack from her before she dropped everything, his brows rising as he watched her struggle to juggle it all.

When the doors opened again onto the control room, Bob and Joaquin were standing on opposite sides of the space. Bob had a paper map pinned to the wall, a red Sharpie held like a dagger in his fist. Joaquin was perched on a chair in front of the monitor, reading off locations. They both turned when Sam and Yelena entered.

Yelena dropped the two tablets onto the desk in front of the monitor, not bothering to plug them in. “Grab your things, you two. We know where Bucky is!” she announced.

“Wait, really? That was fast.” Bob said, capping the Sharpie.

“We have a pretty solid idea,” Sam said, resting a hand gently on her shoulder. “We don’t know for sure.”

Yelena shot him a glare over her shoulder.

He held his hands up defensively. “I just don’t want you to get discouraged if we don’t find him there.”

“We will.” She was already turning toward the elevator. “Come on, gear up.” She stabbed the call button repeatedly until the doors opened. With quick glances at each other, the other three joined her before the doors shut.

As they climbed floors, Yelena bounced from foot to foot, restless energy radiating off her. She folded and unfolded the few papers she’d kept, staring holes into the black-and-white photo of the building. When the elevator opened, all four stepped out, though Sam and Joaquin hung back while Yelena and Bob started for their rooms.

“I just need to change and grab my weapons. I’ll be out in like two minutes,” Yelena called over her shoulder. Sam gave a thumbs up even though she didn’t look back. Bob had already disappeared into his room.

True to her word, Yelena reappeared almost exactly two minutes later, dressed in her usual gear and strapping weapons into place. Bob joined them outside the elevator a minute later. “So… do we have a plan? Do we know what we’re rushing into? Building schematics? Anything like that?” he asked, snapping the strap on his holster.

“No…” Yelena admitted slowly. “But it’s a long flight. I can do more research on the way.” She pressed the call button again, impatient.

“I get that,” Sam said, “and if you’re determined to go right now, we’re with you. I just want to make sure we’re being smart about this.”

“I know. And I am. If you want to fly the jet, I’ll dig deeper and come up with something more solid. But the longer we wait, the more chance he has to hurt someone else. Or worse.” She pulled her hair into a small ponytail, ignoring the strands that immediately fell loose.

When the doors opened to the rooftop, everyone stopped short. Standing a few yards in front of the jet, shivering in the cold morning wind, were Ava, John, and Alexei.

“Um… what are you doing?” Yelena asked, stepping out onto the roof.

Ava took a step toward her. “We’re coming with you. John said you think you know where Bucky is. Lena, I know it may seem like we don’t care, but we do. We’re coming with.”

“Where are we going?” Alexei asked from behind her.

Yelena walked past them, heading for the jet. From somewhere behind her, a double chime sounded. She turned to see Joaquin checking his phone.

“Crap.”

“What? What’s going on?” Sam asked, leaning over his shoulder.

“It’s not a huge deal but… someone needs to deal with this. Just boring government stuff.” Joaquin glanced up at the concerned look on Sam’s face. They both looked between the phone and the jet. “You go with them. I’ll handle this. Call me if you need more backup.”

He didn’t wait for an answer, didn’t give Sam a chance to argue. He jogged back into the elevator.

“And then there were three,” Yelena muttered.

“Six,” Ava corrected quickly, catching up to her. “You still haven’t answered Alexei—where are we going?”

Yelena waited impatiently for the jet’s ramp to lower, barely glancing her way. “Russia. But Ava, things have sort of… escalated.”

Ava followed her inside, the others trailing close behind. “Then it’s a good thing you have backup,” she said.

Chapter 23

Notes:

I'm just a few chapter away from finishing writing this. I believe it will end up being 32 chapters.

1956
Shilovsky

The corridors blurred together—white walls, steel doors, the faint buzz of fluorescent lights that flickered like dying insects. Shilovsky’s footsteps echoed unevenly, the sound of his boots slightly off rhythm from the pounding in his head. He gritted his teeth, trying to focus, but the edges of his vision still pulsed and warped.

The sick feeling hadn’t passed. Whatever Kovac had injected him with still burned through his veins, leaving his body heavy and his thoughts sluggish. His throat was dry, his heartbeat uneven, and his breath came in shallow bursts. He’d been in worse shape before—he was sure of that, even if he couldn’t remember when.

He leaned against a wall for a moment, steadying himself. The facility didn’t seem large, half a dozen corridors branching off a central passage, no more than two levels. That was good. It meant fewer places to search. It also meant fewer places to hide once they realized he was loose.

He pushed off the wall and kept moving. Door after door, he checked rooms: offices, labs, a small infirmary. Somewhere down the hall, a voice barked an order, followed by the faint sound of boots. He froze, listening. The sound faded, moving away.

He pressed on.

The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting long shadows. His reflection flashed across polished metal surfaces once again—pale face, dark circles under his eyes, a streak of dried blood along his temple.

He rounded a corner and nearly stumbled, catching himself on a doorframe. A metal doorknob hung loosely, broken clean at the base. Someone had forced their way through recently. He tightened his grip on the door and pushed.

The hinges groaned as the door swung open.

He had just enough time to register movement before he heard the unmistakable click of a pistol being cocked. His muscles tensed on instinct, eyes snapping up… and then he froze.

“Wow,” came a familiar voice, calm but edged with irritation. “Took you long enough. I was starting to wonder if they had you locked up.”

Agent Kovac stood near the far wall, one hand steady on a sidearm aimed squarely at his chest. Her other hand was busy rifling through stacks of papers on a metal desk. Her jacket was gone, sleeves rolled to her elbows, hair sticking slightly to her temple from sweat.

When she saw his expression, she lowered the gun, the corner of her mouth twitching upward in what might have been relief, or maybe just amusement. “You look terrible,” she added, turning back to her work.

Shilovsky exhaled slowly, his pulse still hammering. “I feel worse.”

“I’d imagine so.” She didn’t glance back, pulling open a filing drawer and yanking out another stack of documents. “You weren’t supposed to be in there that long.”

“How long was I in there?” he asked, scanning the room. It looked like a records office, three desks, a filing cabinet overturned, the faint smell of smoke and chemicals in the air.

“Long enough for me to find this.” She held up a folder before shoving it into a leather satchel that already bulged with papers. “You’d be amazed what these people leave lying around when they think they’re invincible.”

He took a shaky step forward, steadying himself against the desk. “You got what we came for?”

“Almost. I want to be sure we have everything on Lambda before we move.”

“Do you know what Lambda actually is?” he pressed, moving slowly to her side.

She shot him a sharp look, as if weighing how much to tell him. “I know enough to know it’s dangerous. And that it doesn’t belong in HYDRA’s hands.” She slung the satchel across her shoulder. “That’s all we need to know right now.”

Shilovsky didn’t answer. He could still feel Volkova’s words gnawing at the back of his mind—obedience without effort.

Kovac noticed the distant look in his eyes. “Can you walk?”

He nodded, though the truth was debatable. “Yes.”

“Good. Then we’re leaving.”

She moved to the door, pausing to peek into the corridor. “There’s a stairwell down the next hall that leads to a side exit. We’ll head for that.”

“And after?”

Her eyes flicked to him, sharp and unreadable. “After, we vanish. There’s a thick enough treeline outside we can stick to long enough to get some distance.”

He pushed off the desk, following her toward the door. His legs felt unsteady, but the act of moving steadied his focus. Whatever doubts he had, whatever questions were clawing at the back of his mind, could wait.

For now, they had to get out alive.

As he reached the doorway, Kovac glanced over her shoulder with a faint smirk. “Next time, try to keep it together a little better, yes?”

He didn’t smile, he just stared at her in disbelief. After everything—after the pain, the confusion, nearly blacking out in that cold, sterile room—Kovac was standing there like she had just finished running errands.

She didn’t even glance at him, just pointed toward a white metal box sitting on the counter beside the desk. “Grab that and let’s go,” she said briskly. “We’re running out of time.”

He blinked, the words barely sinking in through the fog still clouding his mind. “That?”

“Yes, that,” she snapped, stuffing one last folder into her satchel. “It’s what we came for. Don’t drop it.”

He crossed the room, still unsteady, and picked up the box. It was heavier than it looked, cold to the touch—definitely some kind of portable cooler. “You know, I nearly died back there,” he said, his voice hoarse.

She slung the strap of her satchel over her shoulder, finally giving him a sidelong glance. “You’re being dramatic.”

“Dramatic?” His tone sharpened. “I heard myself flatline.”

Kovac froze mid-step, looked genuinely surprised for the first time, and then winced. “Oh, shit. Really?”

He stared at her, waiting for… something. An apology, maybe, or just concern.

“Maybe I gave you too much of that stuff,” she said with a half-smirk. “My bad.”

He couldn’t decide if he wanted to laugh or strangle her. Before he could say anything else, she brushed past him toward the door, muttering, “Come on, soldier. Let’s move before we both end up in body bags.”

Still reeling, he followed her into the hallway. The cooler dug into his fingers as he gripped the handle tighter than necessary. The fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting long, jerky shadows down the corridor. Somewhere distant, voices shouted in German, orders barked, boots pounding against tile.

Kovac glanced down one direction, then the other, lips pressed thin. “Well,” she said dryly, “I’m surprised we made it this far without getting caught.”

Before Shilovsky could reply, they turned the next corner—and walked straight into a squad of armed soldiers.

For a fraction of a second, everyone froze. The first rifle came up. Kovac’s voice was sharp and fast. “Whatever you do, don’t let that case get damaged!”

Then the hallway exploded into chaos.

The first burst of gunfire ripped through the air, deafening in the confined space. Shilovsky reacted on instinct, snapping the case to his chest with one arm and throwing himself sideways. Bullets ricocheted off the wall beside him. One grazed his shoulder; another struck his left arm and flattened harmlessly against the metal.

The clang made two soldiers hesitate just long enough. Shilovsky surged forward.

He slammed his shoulder into the nearest man’s chest, ripping the rifle from his hands and driving it butt-first into his jaw. The man crumpled. Another soldier swung a bayonet toward him; Shilovsky ducked under it, caught the blade mid-strike, and twisted, sending the attacker sprawling backward into his comrade.

A knife clattered to the ground. He snatched it up, spinning it through his fingers once before hurling it across the hall. The blade buried itself cleanly in a man’s thigh, dropping him instantly.

The next burst of gunfire came from behind—too close. Shilovsky spun, raising his metal arm. Three bullets struck it in rapid succession, sparking off harmlessly. He caught the shooter’s wrist before the man could fire again, wrenching the gun away and driving his knee into the man’s ribs.

Kovac ducked behind an overturned cart, firing short, precise bursts at the soldiers advancing from the rear. “You’d think they’d make these places with less narrow hallways!” she shouted over the noise.

“Stay down!” Shilovsky barked, twisting the rifle in his grip and slamming it across another soldier’s face.

A grenade bounced down the corridor, clattering toward them. Without thinking, he snatched it up and hurled it back the way it came. The explosion shook the floor, sending dust raining from the ceiling.

Smoke filled the hallway, thick and acrid. Through it, the shapes of soldiers stumbled, disoriented. Shilovsky moved like a shadow through themt. He drove an elbow into a throat, swept a leg out from under another, spun, and caught a blade midair, flipping it to strike the man behind him without even turning his head.

He didn’t think; his body did. Every motion felt both instinctive and alien, as though someone else had written the code for his reflexes long ago. The case in his hand stayed close, never leaving his grasp even as he moved through the chaos.

When the smoke finally began to clear, only two soldiers were left standing. One raised a rifle; Shilovsky lunged forward, slammed the weapon aside, and drove his fist into the man’s gut. The other tried to retreat, but Kovac shot him cleanly in the leg.

The echo of the last gunshot faded, leaving only the ringing in his ears and the harsh rhythm of his breathing.

“Not bad,” Kovac said, straightening and brushing dust from her sleeve. “For someone who almost died five minutes ago.”

He didn’t answer. He was staring down at the case in his hand. A jagged crack spidered along the corner of the thin metal, thin but unmistakable.

He frowned, running his thumb over it. The metal was dented inward, the seal no longer perfect.

Behind him, Kovac’s tone shifted—tight, urgent. “Tell me that didn’t just happen.”

He didn’t respond right away. The distant sound of more boots echoed down the hall, louder this time.

Shilovsky looked up, jaw tightening. “We need to move,” he said, shifting the case under his arm.

They reached the jet just as the wind began to pick up, cutting through their clothes like shards of glass. Both were pale and trembling from cold and exhaustion, their breath visible in the dim light of dusk. Kovac trudged ahead, still muttering under her breath. Shilovsky followed silently, the cracked case heavy in his hands and his limbs aching from both the fight and the lingering effects of whatever she had injected him with.

When they finally reached the aircraft, Kovac leaned against its side, catching her breath. “We’ll rest here for the night,” she said, voice rough. “I’m too tired to fly safely, and you look like death. We both need a few hours.”

Shilovsky shook his head. “We’re too close. The facility’s alarm was still blaring when we left. If HYDRA has patrols, they’ll find the jet easily.”

Kovac glared at him for a moment, then sighed. “Fine. We’ll put some distance between us. I’ll fly us north, maybe fifty, sixty kilometers, and we’ll land again. But after that, I’m done until sunrise. Deal?”

He nodded, too drained to argue further.

They climbed into the jet. The familiar scent of fuel and cold metal filled the air, and as soon as the door sealed shut behind them, the world outside vanished into muffled silence. For the first time since the chaos started, they were alone.

Both of them looked down at the case in Shilovsky’s hands. The black latch gleamed faintly in the dim cabin light, the faintest hiss escaping from the cracked seal.

“Well,” Kovac said, rubbing her face with her gloved hands, “we might as well see if we’re screwed now instead of finding out mid-flight. Go on, open it.”

Shilovsky hesitated, his thumb hovering over the latch. He exhaled slowly, then pressed it open.

The lid lifted with a hiss of escaping cold air. Inside were three neatly arranged rows of vials nestled in a foam insert. The top row held liquid so dark it was nearly black, only a faint tint of blue visible when the light caught it. The second and third rows were filled with deep crimson fluid, it looked like blood.

At least a quarter of the glass was shattered. Jagged shards glinted in the light, and a dark, sticky liquid coated everything inside, pooling in the corners of the container. The smell was faint but sharp, chemical and metallic all at once.

Kovac muttered a curse under her breath and immediately grabbed a pair of gloves from the small medical kit in the back of the jet. “Don’t touch it,” she said sharply, already pulling them on. “I don’t know much about what this stuff does but I know you probably don’t want it on your skin.”

She crouched down beside him and began carefully moving aside shards of glass, her fingers deft despite the gloves. “Could be worse,” she said after a few moments, tone half muttered to herself. “Six black vials intact… eight red ones… that might be enough.”

“Enough for what?” he asked quietly.

“For the KGB to reverse-engineer the formula,” she said, still focused on her work. “Assuming we can keep it cold enough and stable for transport.”

She moved the vials over to another container inside the jet, checking the seals, then removed the gloves and tossed them aside. Her expression was tight, unreadable. “We’re lucky,” she said finally.

She stood and made her way toward the cockpit, her boots echoing softly against the metal floor. “Close it up. The cooler should last until we land again. But the less air that gets in, the better.”

Shilovsky didn’t move. He just stared at the cooler.

The mission had been clear: retrieve the serum, bring it back to the KGB. That was all. It was supposed to be simple. But now, looking at the ruined vials and thinking of Volkova’s words—the calm, clinical way the man had explained how the serum stripped away identity, will, memory—Shilovsky’s stomach twisted.

He had followed orders as long as he could remember. He was made to follow them. But for the first time in as long as he could remember, something inside him truly resisted.

He thought of what Volkova had said about Lambda’s effects, how it erased a person and left only obedience behind. His grip tightened on the edge of the case. The cold seeped through the metal and into his skin, grounding him.

It was his mission. His duty. His purpose.

But something deep in his chest told him that this mission was wrong. That if he completed it, there would be no going back for him.

“Shilovsky?” Kovac called from the front of the jet. He didn’t answer right away.

He could hear her flipping switches, the hum of the engines rising. “Close the damn case already,” she shouted over her shoulder. “We can’t afford to lose what’s left.”

He finally shut the lid, hearing the faint click of the latch sealing. But he didn’t look away. Even with the case closed, he couldn’t shake the feeling.

As the engines roared to life and the jet began to lift, he leaned back against the cold metal wall, exhaustion washing over him. Kovac’s voice came faintly from the cockpit, sharp and focused, but he barely heard her.

His thoughts were elsewhere.

Chapter 24

1956
Shilovsky

They landed in a clearing somewhere deep in the forest, the sound of the jet’s engines fading into the quiet rustle of wind through pine trees. Kovac powered down the controls, her fingers moving with practiced precision despite the exhaustion in her face.

“Four hours,” she said as she stood, rubbing her neck. “Sun’ll be up by then. We’ll rest, then get back in the air before anyone starts looking for us.”

She moved toward the rear of the jet, tapping a few switches along the way. A faint hum filled the air as the alarm and security system armed—an invisible perimeter that would alert them to anything approaching.

“Don’t touch the alarm,” she muttered, already half turned toward the back. “You’ll set it off if you even breathe near it wrong.”

He nodded, though she didn’t wait for a response.

Kovac dropped onto one of the bench seats, kicked off her boots, and lay down without another word. Within moments, her breathing slowed, evening out into a steady rhythm.

Shilovsky watched her for a long moment. He envied that about her—the ability to sleep anywhere. She could close her eyes and the world would fall away.

He, on the other hand, couldn’t even remember the last time he’d truly slept.

He lay down on the seat across from her, shifting until he could rest his head against the wall. The cold metal pressed through his jacket, grounding and uncomfortable. He closed his eyes, tried to focus on his breathing, tried to slow his heart.

But he couldn’t. Even in the quiet of the cabin, his mind refused to still.

He could practically feel it—the serum sitting at the back of the jet, sealed in its metal case. It was as if its presence had weight, pressing against his thoughts.

He tried to tell himself it was only exhaustion. His mind inventing ghosts out of fear and confusion. But he knew better. The thing they’d stolen wasn’t just a chemical weapon or some military experiment—it was alive in its own way.

He rolled over, staring at the ceiling, watching the faint red glow of the emergency lights blink on and off.

He clenched his jaw.

He knew he’d been lied to. The KGB had told him the serum belonged to them—that HYDRA had stolen it. That retrieving it was a matter of loyalty and national security.

But HYDRA’s doctor hadn’t been lying. He’d seen it in Volkova’s face, in the way the man had enjoyed explaining it, like he was proud of what he’d done.

If HYDRA had made it… if the KGB had wanted it badly enough to send him after it… then how deep did the lies go? He closed his eyes again, but the images wouldn’t stop. The doctor’s grin. The shattered vials. The dark liquid spreading like blood through the case.

After everything he learned during this mission, he didn’t know anymore where his orders ended and where his own thoughts began. Maybe there was no difference. He wondered how long he’d been like this—obedient, empty, killing and retrieving and following orders without question. He wondered what had been taken from him, if anything actually had.

He could hear Kovac breathing softly across from him. He thought about waking her, about telling her everything Volkova had said, but the words stuck in his throat. And, he thought that waking her up may result in his imminent death.

He also didn’t know if he could trust her. He didn’t even know if he could trust himself.

He turned his head back toward the window. Outside, the sky was dark but beginning to fade, the horizon just starting to pale. Four hours. That was all they had before they had to move again.

He exhaled slowly, forcing himself to close his eyes one last time and told himself that when he woke up, he would focus on the mission. Deliver the serum. Complete the task. That was his job, his responsibility. He had dedicated his life to serving his country and the KGB.

But still, beneath the exhaustion, beneath the silence of the jet, another thought burned quietly—an ache in the back of his mind that wouldn’t go away. He didn’t know how much of that life had been built on lies. He was starting to realize that the truth might be something he didn’t want to remember at all.

The low hum of the cabin systems and the occasional soft whir of the heater filled the silence. Kovac was still asleep, motionless except for the faint rise and fall of her chest.

He knew should have been resting too. They needed their strength for the flight ahead, but his mind refused to still. There were too many unanswered questions. Too many unknowns. What he really needed was to make sense of everything that had happened. To lay it out logically, like a mission report.

First, the simplest fact: two different people had mistaken him for an American.

That alone shouldn’t have meant anything—misidentifications happened all the time, especially in the chaos of conflict. But both of them had been so sure. Even with the holes in his memory, that much didn’t sit right. He could forget small things, entire years maybe—but how could anyone forget being American? That didn’t seem possible.

He knew where he was from and who he served and the idea that he might have been American was absurd.

Kovac had mentioned other countries trying to create soldiers like him. Maybe one of the American experiments resembled him enough to cause confusion. That had to be it. He could accept that. It was logical enough, though he’d heard of only one confirmed American super soldier, Captain America.

He exhaled slowly, rubbing his temple. The next question was harder.

Who had the serum first? HYDRA or the KGB?

Volkova had claimed to have made it for HYDRA. He’d sounded so certain, so smug. But men like Volkova thrived on manipulation, on feeding half-truths to create confusion.

But the KGB—he knew what they were capable of. He had seen the brilliance of their scientists, the discipline of their research divisions. It wasn’t far-fetched to think they could have made something like Lambda first. Maybe HYDRA had stolen it, or reverse-engineered it.

He turned his head, looking toward the rear of the jet where the case sat, sealed tight. The faint hum of the refrigeration unit filled the silence, steady as a heartbeat.

Every time he looked at it, unease rippled through him.

His memory loss. The walls in his mind that stopped him from reaching too far into his past. The numbness where emotion should have been. The evidence lined up so well with what he had been told of the serum.

But if it wasn’t Lambda, then what was it?

He tried to reason through it. There were other explanations. He’d clearly suffered trauma in his past—he’d lost his left arm. Whatever had caused that injury had probably been catastrophic. It was possible, even likely, that the damage had affected his memory.

Yes. That made sense as well.

As for his lack of personality or emotion… well, that wasn’t unusual among soldiers in their line of work. Detachment was a weapon—one he’d mastered early. Kovac was no different, really. They both had their masks, their sharp edges. No one in the KGB was particularly warm or sentimental. That was what survival looked like.

His thoughts began to slow, the logic settling into place.

The same went for his abilities. The precision, the instinctive control, the way his body seemed to move before his mind caught up. Those weren’t symptoms of programming—they were products of training. Years of it. The best the KGB had to offer. He had earned those skills.

He repeated that to himself until he believed it. You’re a good soldier because you were made to be one. Not by some serum. By discipline. By choice.

He exhaled, feeling the tension start to bleed out of his chest.

The last piece, though—the one he couldn’t shake—was the fear of what would happen once they brought the serum back.

If the KGB had it, and if it hadn’t already been used on him… would they use it now?

He stared up at the ceiling, the thought hanging in the cold air.

No. They wouldn’t. He’d proven himself. He was loyal, reliable. He had completed every mission, no matter how dangerous. He didn’t need a serum to make him obedient. He told himself that again and again. They wouldn’t use it on him. They didn’t need to.

He shifted, turning his face toward the wall, eyes growing heavy at last. He could almost convince himself that his logic was sound—that everything added up.

He’d been mistaken for an American because of coincidence. The serum belonged to the KGB. His memory loss was from injury, not serum. His skills were earned, not manufactured. And his loyalty—his loyalty was unquestionable.

He repeated those truths silently as sleep began to claim him, one by one, until the lines between them blurred.
_____
The gentle shudder of the jet easing into flight tugged Shilovsky out of the thin sleep he'd finally found. He blinked once, twice, and sat up so fast his head hummed. Pale morning light filtered through the windshield, painting the cabin in gold. For a moment he couldn't place where he was—then Kovac’s profile came into focus, turned toward him.

“You slept through the alarm,” she said, an almost amused edge to her voice. “I figured I’d let you rest a little longer. Least I could do after poisoning you.”

He had to swallow to stop the dizziness. He pushed himself up, stretching slow and careful. The motion steadied him. He crossed to the cockpit and sat opposite her, hands folded in his lap.

“How did you sleep?” Kovac asked.

“Not well,” he admitted.

“You look it,” she said bluntly, a small smile lighting up her face.

“You look happy.” Shilovsky noted. She seemed lighter somehow, less rigid. The worry that had shadowed her the last days had eased.

She shrugged. “I was terrified this whole mission would blow up. But we got what we needed. We still have time to get back.” Her fingers toyed with the edge of the console. “For me, there was a lot at stake. This was my first field operation of this scale. I grew up in the Red Room, I have trained for this my whole life, but nothing prepares you fully until you’re out there. You either sink or you swim. Today we didn’t drown.”

He let the words settle between them. He wanted to be glad for her, wanted to share a real relief, but his eyes kept drifting back, toward the storage case strapped low in the cabin. A knot of cold sat in his stomach.

“What happens when we hand the serum over?” he asked, his voice low.

Kovac’s expression shifted; the easy relief vanished and something like professional caution took its place. “That’s not for us to decide,” she said. “We deliver. We don’t ask questions. You need to remember that.”

He nodded. Still, he couldn’t quite let the question go. “I know. I just… I worry about what it does, and who will be on the receiving end.”

She watched him a long second, the autopilot’s hum filling the small space. “I know little of what the serum does. If you know something important, tell me. Don’t lie to me.”

He swallowed. “I spoke to the doctor who said he created it. He said it alters the mind, erases memory, suppresses who a person is, makes obedience effortless.”

Kovac’s face changed again—surprise, then a very quick, assessing calm. “Why would he tell you that?” she asked.

“Because I told him I thought it had been used on me,” he said. The confession seemed to burn in his throat as he spoke. “He insisted it hadn’t.”

“How would he know?” Kovac leaned forward.

“He said my brain didn’t match the signature of that serum,” Shilovsky said slowly, choosing his words carefully. “He said someone had altered my mind, but not in the way Lambda does. He said If I had been given it, it would be evident. I wouldn’t be asking questions or having doubts or feeling anything really.”

Kovac let out a breath that might have been a laugh or a curse. “That tracks.” She rubbed the back of her neck. “When I was assigned this mission I expected to basically be working with a machine. Something obedient, empty. You are… not that. You’re colder than most, yes, but you are still very much a man. That surprised me.”

He felt a small feeling of relief at her words. It was rare to be called human by someone in his line of work.

Before he could respond, the console blared a shrill alarm. Kovac swore and spun toward the windshield. Shilovsky followed her gaze.

Two fast-moving silhouettes, metal glinting occasionally, were streaking up through the blue sky. They were on an intercept course, each carving a clean line toward the jet. Kovac’s hand flew to a switch.

The jet jolted hard as Kovac threw the controls into a dive, the engines screaming their protest. Shilovsky’s hand shot out, gripping the side of his seat as the first missile streaked past the left wing, so close he could practically feel the air shift in its wake. A heartbeat later, the second struck home.

The explosion was blinding.

The entire craft lurched violently, the sound a roar that swallowed every thought. The right wing vanished into fire, the cabin filling with the smell of burning fuel. Shilovsky’s stomach slammed upward as the jet tipped, spinning, first once, then faster and faster, until the horizon was a blur of green and gray.

Kovac was shouting, though the words were lost in the howl. Her hands gripped the yoke, knuckles white, trying to fight the spin, but the jet bucked and rolled harder. Outside the cracked window, he could see the remains of the wing disintegrating—chunks of metal tearing loose, tumbling away in flames.

A deafening crack split the air as one of those burning fragments smashed through the windshield. Shards of glass exploded inward, the blast knocking both of them backward. The broken frame tore a hole straight through the instrument panel, sparks flaring across Kovac’s arms. She threw them up to shield her face, instinctively letting go of the controls.

That was when Shilovsky saw the ground rising toward them too fast to do anything but brace.

He didn’t think. He unlatched his seatbelt and lunged across the narrow gap, throwing himself over Kovac just as more metal screamed through the cabin. The heat of the flames burned against the back of his neck. He felt the sting of glass, the drag of something sharp across his shoulder, then the impact.

The jet tore through the treetops, branches snapping like gunfire. The world became a blur of noise and motion and pain—and then, with one final, gut-wrenching crunch, everything stopped.

The silence that followed was wrong. It was too complete, too sudden. His ears rang with the echo of destruction. He could smell smoke, fuel, and blood.

A low groan came from beneath him.

He tried to push himself up, but pain ripped through his side—white-hot and immediate. He cried out, collapsing halfway, breath leaving his lungs in a strangled gasp. Kovac stirred at the sound, blinking up at him. Her face was streaked with soot, one side of her hair singed, but she was alive.

“Don’t move,” she said sharply, voice raw but focused now. She wriggled out from under him, wincing, and turned toward the source of his pain. The look on her face hardened instantly. “Ah, damn it…”

He followed her gaze and saw it—a jagged piece of the windshield frame, driven deep into his side. The metal gleamed wet and red in the dim light, pulsing with each shallow breath.

“How bad?” he managed, his voice barely more than a rasp.

“I’m not going to lie to you,” she said, crouching beside him. “It’s pretty bad. It went straight through—doesn’t look like it hit anything vital, but it’s deep.”

She braced her foot against the twisted floor and gripped the shard near its base. “Hold still.”

He gritted his teeth as she began to bend the metal, her movements slow and careful. The screech of it made his stomach turn. When it finally snapped off near his skin, the shock of pain nearly took him under.

“There,” she said, breathless. “It’s still in, but at least it won’t catch on anything.”

She moved to his side, looping an arm under his and helping him upright. Each inch was agony. He leaned hard against the ruined console, staring at the blood smeared across the pilot’s seat—his blood.

Kovac’s hand brushed her own chest and came away wet. For a moment she looked down in confusion, then realization hit. The blood wasn’t hers. The piece of metal that had impaled him would have gone straight through her heart if he hadn’t moved.

She stared at him, the shock softening her face. “You… you saved my life,” she said quietly. “If you hadn’t covered me, that would’ve gone through me instead.”

He turned his head, following her gaze to the mangled seat. The truth of it sank in slowly. He said nothing—just breathed, shallow and uneven, feeling the pain pulse beneath his ribs.

Kovac snapped out of it first. She pushed herself up, stumbling toward the back of the jet. “Stay still,” she ordered. Her hands moved fast, pulling open compartments and grabbing anything that wasn’t on fire—bandages, spare clothes, a small med kit. She returned and knelt beside him again, working with mechanical precision.

Her hands were steady as she wrapped layers of cloth around the wound, careful not to disturb the metal lodged inside. Every pull of fabric drew a sharp hiss from his throat, but she ignored it, binding it tight until the bleeding slowed.

When she finally leaned back, her face was streaked with sweat and ash. “It’ll hold,” she said, more to herself than him.

He nodded faintly, then lifted his head. “Who fired at us?”

The question hung between them like smoke. Kovac froze for half a second, realization dawning. “We don’t have time to find out,” she said. “They’ll come looking to finish the job. We need to move.”

He grimaced as she helped him to his feet. “I can walk,” he said, though his voice lacked conviction.

“Good. You’ll have to.”

They moved quickly through the wreckage, the air thick with heat and fumes. Kovac gathered what she could—the satchel of data, the cooler holding the serum that she tore from the wall, a rifle slung over her shoulder. Shilovsky took a single pistol from the shattered console, checking the magazine by habit.

They climbed through what was left of the side hatch and dropped into the clearing below. The forest stretched around them, quiet except for the faint crackle of flames licking through the wreckage.

Then, in the distance, voices—shouting.

Kovac turned her head sharply toward the sound. Her eyes met his.

“They’re coming,” she whispered.

Chapter 25

2027
Yelena

As soon as they were all on the jet, John immediately offered to fly, moving automatically toward the pilot’s seat.

“No.” Yelena snapped, pointing toward the back of the jet. “You don’t even know where we’re going. Sam is flying while I finish up some research. Remember, you are tagging along on our mission.”

John opened his mouth to argue, but Ava shot him a glare and he stopped, instead taking his spot near the back. Yelena dropped into the seat beside Sam, logging into the small computer connected to the jet.

“You have the coordinates, right?”

Sam nodded, holding up the folded sheet of paper and entering the coordinates carefully into the navigation system.

Bob sat in the seat directly behind Sam, positioned where he could easily talk to Yelena. Ava ended up beside him, while John and Alexei claimed the bench seats in the back.

“So,” Ava said as Sam lifted the jet into the air, “are one of you going to explain how things have escalated, or are we just going to be in for a surprise?”

Yelena, already deep in her research, waved a hand toward Bob. “You got this one?”

“Um… yeah, I guess.” Bob twisted his hands together, trying to figure out where to start. “Well, so, uh…” He glanced at Yelena, but she wasn’t paying any attention.

“So the last thing we really know,” Ava offered, “is that he was acting weird, didn’t join us on the last mission, and then completely disappeared.”

“Right,” Bob said.

“And he messed up Yelena’s arm,” John added, glancing across at Alexei.

“Yeah, that.” Bob muttered. “Well, like Yelena said, that was an accident. So, she and I went back to the subway to look for him. We didn’t find him, but we did see him on some security footage. He was with Volkova—the guy we know is behind everything—and he did something, and then the two left together.”

“Really?” Ava asked. “He willingly left with this guy? I really do want to believe this is all a misunderstanding, but that still seems really suspicious.”

“I don’t think he left willingly,” Bob said quietly, looking down at his hands. “It was hard to tell what happened on the video feed, but it was… weird.”

Sam glanced over his shoulder and caught Bob’s eye but said nothing.

“Okay, go on,” Ava prompted. “Yelena said things have escalated—how did they escalate?”

Bob looked up toward Sam again. “I… well, I wasn’t there. Joaquin and I were on the ground. Sam and Lena were the ones up in the building with him.”

Sam sighed. “Stop beating around the bush. They need to know what—who—we’re up against.” He checked the instruments quickly before the jet began a gentle descent.

“Who?” Ava asked, raising an eyebrow.

Bob nodded. “He’s not… Bucky right now. There was an incident with a CEO in a building, but it wasn’t exactly Bucky, it was…” He trailed off again.

“The Winter Soldier,” Sam said finally. “We’re not entirely sure what happened or why, but when we walk into whatever we’re walking into, we won’t be facing Bucky. We’ll be up against the Winter Soldier.”

The jet went quiet for a long moment until John muttered, “Shit,” under his breath.

Everyone was still processing the information when Yelena suddenly spun around in her seat. “Okay! Here’s the plan!”

With uneasy glances at each other, everyone slowly turned their attention to her.

“So,” she began, tapping the computer screen, “I found schematics and some information on the building. It’s pretty remote—next to a lake. A small structure was built out from the front of a mine in the ‘20s. It was in operation until 1936. After the war, HYDRA bought the land, tore down the building, and put their own lab in its place, using the mine tunnels for enclosed space to run tests and human experiments.”

She glanced back at the computer to double-check her information. “The lab was in operation until 1972, after multiple cave-ins and significant structural damage made it unsafe. It was shut down. The building changed hands multiple times after that until it was sold to an anonymous buyer four days ago.”

“Super interesting history lesson,” John said, “but how does that help us? What’s the actual plan?”

Yelena zoomed in on the blueprint, tapping the screen with two fingers. “I’m getting there,” she snapped before continuing. “The building originally had two entrances, but one collapsed years ago and there’s been zero indication that they rebuilt it. So—we’re going in through the main entrance.”

She leaned back a little, giving the others a better view of the blueprint. “Inside, it’s pretty compact. A maze of corridors, a couple offices, a few workrooms—then everything funnels into the main lab. The lab itself is built into the opening of old mine, but the actual mine can only be accessed from a separate doorway just outside the lab.”

“Sounds cozy,” Bob muttered.

Yelena ignored him. “Sam, John, and I will enter the lab. It’s the most likely place Bucky and Volkova will be. Alexei, Ava, and Bob—circle around. Check the remaining corridors and the mine entrance. I want to make sure there are no surprises.”

Ava leaned closer, trying to see. “If Bucky’s back to being the Winter Soldier, are you sure you want to face him with just you three?”

“We’ll be fine until you meet up with us,” Yelena said, glancing quickly at Sam. “And I’m hoping when it’s a less high-stress situation, I can get through to him.”

Sam snorted. “Good luck. Steve barely did.”

“Well, all I can do is hope.”

Ava let out a slow breath. “Well, let’s do this shit.” She unbuckled her harness and stood, the rest of the team following her lead as they split into two groups and stepped out of the jet.

The cold slapped them immediately. They all shivered as they started toward the sagging concrete building half-buried in snow.

“You know,” Ava muttered, blowing into her hands, “when you said Russia, maybe I should’ve gone back in and grabbed an actual jacket.”

“Just get inside,” Yelena said through chattering teeth.

The door was rusted and bent on its hinges. John stepped forward and yanked it open with a long, echoing creak.

“Great,” he muttered. “There goes the element of surprise.”

They stepped into the darkness. The air was stale and metallic, and every sound seemed to bounce off the concrete walls.

“This place is creepy,” Bob whispered, pulling out his phone for light.

“In and out,” Yelena said. “Hopefully. That direction leads to the mine entrance. This way is the lab.” She gestured down two different corridors. “Radio if you find anything.”

She, Sam, and John stayed close together, using the glow from Sam’s phone to guide them. The deeper they moved, the more the darkness thinned. A faint yellow glow spilled from ahead—wide metal doors left open, humming quietly.

Yelena stepped ahead first, slowing as she crossed the threshold into the lab. Sam paused just outside to tuck his phone away so he’d have both hands free. John lingered near the doorway, tracing bullet holes in the cracked concrete.

That few seconds of separation was all it took. The heavy doors slammed shut behind them with a mechanical whir and a deafening clang.

Yelena spun back, lunging for the handle. It didn’t budge.
“Sam! John!” she called, hearing their muffled shouts through the steel.

Something snapped through the air. She jerked her head aside just as a blade embedded itself in the wall beside her, concrete dust drifting down past her cheek.

Her heart beat hard as she turned back toward the lab.

Volkova stood across the room, arms folded, expression cold. Beside him—Bucky, masked and goggled, two knives still in his hands. Another matching one stuck out from the concrete wall by her head.

“Volkova,” she said, forcing her voice steady. “Nice to see you again. You have my friend, and I want him back.”

Her hand drifted toward the gun at her hip, slow and careful. The second her fingers brushed the grip, another knife flew through the air. This one caught her sleeve and pinned her arm to the wall.

“Shit!”

She tugged at the blade with her free hand as Volkova spoke in quiet Russian. “Restrain her. Don’t kill her. Yet.”

She glanced up just in time to see Bucky striding toward her, fast and silent. Switching her grip, she used the edge of the knife to slice through at her trapped sleeve. The fabric tore just as he swung. She twisted aside, feeling the air warp around his fist as it slammed into the wall where her shoulder had been.

Concrete shuddered. Cracks spiderwebbed outward from the impact, splintering up the wall and crawling all the way across the ceiling. Dust drifted down like ash.

Behind her, Sam and John hammered at the door, the reinforced metal whining under each hit but refusing to give. The pounding echoed through the room.

She ducked another blow from Bucky’s left arm, but she didn’t see the right until his fingers clamped around her upper arm like a vise. She jerked and twisted—nothing. He barely had to shift his weight to catch her other arm too, trapping her with no space left to dodge.

Volkova approached calmly, holding a frayed gray tie torn from one of the lab coats hanging in the corner. “It’s not rope, but it will work for the time being,” he said, looping it around her wrists and yanking them behind her back.

Bucky kept her pinned while Volkova knelt to tie her ankles, binding them and then looping the ends so her wrists and legs were lashed together. When the knots were secure, Bucky released her and both men stepped back.

“You know,” Volkova said lightly, brushing dust off his sleeve, “I’m still a little bitter about the bar.” His eyes narrowed. “The rest of your team is annoying, but you? You are a royal pain in the ass. I can deal with them later, but I want you out of the way now.”

He reached over and pulled a small pistol from the holster on Bucky’s side, pressing it into the soldier’s left hand.

Yelena watched Bucky’s fingers curl around the metal, his gaze locked on her the entire time.

“Shit,” she whispered. She hadn’t expected this to go smoothly—but she hadn’t expected to be shot minutes after finding the lab either. And by Bucky, of all people.

“Bucky, please… don’t do this.” Her voice cracked as she stared at the blank lenses of his goggles, hoping for even a flicker of recognition. “This isn’t you.”

Behind her, the door screeched under another hit. Sam and John’s voices were louder now, distorted by metal bending under their assault. Bits of concrete rained from the ceiling with each impact, sprinkling across her shoulders.

Bucky lifted the gun, leveling it with her forehead. Yelena’s pulse roared in her ears as his finger slid onto the trigger.

“Please, Bucky. Don’t do this.”

“Shoot her,” Volkova ordered.

Yelena shut her eyes. “It’s okay,” she breathed. “This isn’t you. It’s not your fault.”

The gun fired.

The ring of the gunshot was immediately swallowed by a deep rumble. Yelena’s eyes flew open. She wasn’t dead. Blinking through the shock, she twisted to look over her shoulder.

The bullet had buried itself in the wall. Far too close for comfort. If not for the adrenaline flooding her system, she might have felt it brush her cheek. She snapped her gaze back to Bucky. With the mask covering his face, she couldn’t tell if he’d missed on purpose or by accident.

Next to him, Volkova’s expression contorted with horror. Bucky shifted, finger sliding back toward the trigger.

Okay. Missing was probably an accident.

Before he could fire again, Volkova swung his arm out, smacking the gun aside. The second shot punched into the wall, this one was a few feet from Yelena.

“Dammit—stop!” Volkova snarled. “Look at the cracks! You’ll bring the whole building down!”

Yelena followed his gaze. Two fresh bullet holes connected to two sets of cracks racing outward, thickening and spidering across the wall. Growing by the second.

He was right. The whole building was coming down.

Unable to stand with her limbs bound, Yelena tucked her head and rolled hard toward the reinforced door just as the first massive slab of concrete sheared free and crashed down. The rest followed in a thunderous cascade.

She pressed herself into the metal as tightly as she could while debris crashed down around her—dust choking the air, stone clattering off the floor, chunks of ceiling smashing down like falling bombs.

Her ears rang violently as the lab disappeared behind a curtain of dust and destruction. She squeezed her eyes shut, coughing as grit scraped her throat with every breath.

Then, as abruptly as it had begun, the cave-in stopped.

Yelena opened her eyes slowly. Dust still stung them, turning the air into a gritty haze. Where Bucky and Volkova had stood seconds ago was now nothing but a jagged expanse of rubble. Most of the lights had been shattered, but one still flickered desperately, buzzing like it was clinging to life.

She looked up. The wall behind her was mostly gone—only a few warped chunks remained, clinging to the twisted skeleton of the reinforced doorframe. That flimsy frame had saved her life.

Legs trembling, she pushed herself upright and dragged her bound wrists across the bent metal until the cords snapped. Her ankles were next. She brushed dust from her face, trying to clear her vision.

A blur flickered across her peripheral vision before vanishing. A beat later, Ava appeared right in front of her.

“I found her!” she yelled into the dark. A distant shout answered, but the words were lost in the ringing in Yelena’s ears. “You okay?”

Yelena flexed her arms, her ribs, her legs. Everything hurt, but nothing felt broken. “I think so. The doorframe kept me from getting crushed. Is everyone else okay?”

“Yeah. The entrance to the cave is mostly intact—just a few boulders. Sam and John got hit with debris but had the same idea as you and used the doorway.” Ava offered her a hand.

But Yelena wasn’t looking at her. She stared straight ahead. “Bucky. He and Volkova were right in front of me.” She was already crawling over the debris toward the last place she’d seen them.

“Shit, really?” Ava scanned what used to be the lab. “Lena, this place is gone. The whole lab and probably ten feet of rock came down. The chances of…” She stopped herself and moved carefully to follow.

The two picked their way through the rubble, shifting rocks only when absolutely necessary. Yelena froze when she spotted something—a hand jutting from the stone.

“I found someone!” she shouted, scrambling toward it. She cleared debris piece by piece, careful not to trigger another collapse, until a face emerged beneath the dust.

Volkova. His head lay against a slab of concrete, a dark pool of blood soaking the rock and dirt around him. Yelena pressed two fingers to his neck, searching for a pulse.

Nothing. When Ava reached her side, Yelena shook her head.

“Is that Volkova?” she asked quietly. “He’s dead?”

“Yeah.” Yelena stood slowly. “Guess stopping him ended up being pretty easy. He kind of… stopped himself, trying to kill me.”

Ava looked up at the exposed mine ceiling. “Lena… we need to go. It looks like they drilled into the rock to support the lab. The cave-in might not be done yet.”

Yelena followed her gaze. The flickering light showed it clearly—large drill holes packed into the stone above them, cracks radiating from each one like fractures in thin ice.

“We’ll go. As soon as we find Bucky,” Yelena said, moving carefully toward the rubble beside Volkova. As if responding to her words, a chunk of rock shifted in front of her. She dropped to her knees, inching closer. Ava noticed it too.

Together, they shifted enough debris to reveal Bucky’s metal arm, braced protectively over his head. He twitched and let out a low groan of pain.

“Come on,” Yelena muttered, pushing more rocks aside and easing him free.

Once enough rubble was cleared, the flickering light finally revealed him. His goggles—still strapped to his face—were missing one lens. The other was cracked straight down the center. His clothes were coated in dust, but what made Yelena freeze was his left leg, bent at an odd angle a leg just below his knee.

“Fuck. That is definitely broken,” she said. Through the one eye she could see, he blinked slowly, then let his eyelid slide shut again. “He’s barely conscious. We need to get him out of here. Where’s the rest of the team?”

Ava took a steadying breath, her gaze lingering uneasily on the mask and broken goggles, but she joined Yelena in lifting him from the rocks as carefully as they could. “Bob and Alexei stayed at the mine entrance. I told John and Sam to meet us there. This way.” She nodded toward what remained of the lab’s back wall.

They climbed and stumbled over the boulders, debris giving way bit by bit. Each time they shifted, Bucky let out a quiet, pained sound. Occasionally his eyes fluttered open, but he never fully woke.

“Ava? Yelena?” Bob’s voice echoed from somewhere in the darkness ahead, followed by a shaky beam of light. He jogged toward them. “Did you find—oh.” His light landed on Bucky.

“Come on, Bob. Help us get him to the others,” Ava said through clenched teeth, shifting aside so he could take some of the weight.

The team sat huddled against the cave wall, every one of them coated in the same grey dust. Sam had a long gash down his cheek, but besides that, everyone looked more shaken than injured. They lowered Bucky against the opposite wall, careful with his leg.

“What about Volkova? Did you find him?” Bob asked, nervous eyes darting between Yelena and Bucky.

“Yeah. He’s dead,” Yelena said.

“Great! So all of this is over, right?” John said. “We got Bucky, the bad guy’s dead. Mission success.”

“And we’re trapped in a mine, dumbass,” Ava shot back. “Or did you miss that part?”

John looked up at the ceiling. “Right. There’s that. Anyone have any signal?” He pulled out his phone.

“No. And even if we did, we don’t know what condition Bucky’s in. Volkova being dead doesn’t necessarily fix him. Maybe he’ll snap out of whatever he did to him—but maybe not.”

“That too,” John muttered, crossing his arms.

“I’ve got nothing,” Sam said, checking his phone as well. “Which means I can’t contact Joaquin either.”

Bob glanced into the dark tunnel stretching beyond them. “Yelena, this is a giant mine, right? So there has to be more than one exit.”

“Maybe,” Yelena said, sitting cross-legged in the dirt beside Bucky. “Maybe not. But if you’re suggesting we head deeper into the cave—you’re right. It’s probably our best bet.”

She leaned over and gently removed Bucky’s broken goggles, brushing his hair from his face. A cut traced the side of his head where the frames had dug in, but the bleeding had already stopped.

“Okay. What do we have on us?” Sam asked, nodding toward Alexei, who had grabbed one of the emergency bags before leaving the jet.

“Not much.” Alexei dropped the bag and rummaged through it. “We really need to restock these. Looks like… two flashlights, three flares, granola bars, nuts, six bottles of water. Some random gear. Compass, rope, stuff like that.”

“Okay. We can work with that.” Sam took one of the flashlights. “Anyone seriously injured?”

“His leg is definitely broken,” Yelena said, leaning her head against the stone wall. “No telling if he can walk until he wakes up, but I’m betting on ‘no.’”

“Alright. We’ll reassess when he comes to.” Sam used gauze and alcohol to clean the cut along his own cheek. “Think you can wake him?”

Yelena nodded and turned back toward Bucky. Bob crossed the small space to help, kneeling on Bucky’s other side. Together they shook his shoulder gently, calling his name in quiet but urgent tones.

Every so often Bucky would groan or clench his eyes tighter, but that was it—until John wandered over to a spot where water dripped steadily from a corroded pipe sticking from the shattered wall.

He let the grey water pool in his hands, then walked back to Yelena and Bob and splashed it across Bucky’s face.

Bucky’s eyes snapped open. He recoiled, trying to push himself backward, but his back hit the rock wall. He shifted, trying to stand—managed a crouch on one leg—then cried out and collapsed again when the broken limb refused to hold him.

His last resort came fast—the glint of metal as he yanked his second pistol from the strap at his thigh. He gripped it with shaking hands, sweeping the muzzle from one teammate to the next, chest heaving, breathing like a cornered animal.

“Well,” Ava said slowly, raising her hands high, “I guess that answers the question of whether or not Volkova’s death fixes him.”

“Guess so,” Yelena murmured.

She kept her hands visible, her voice soft, and her eyes locked on the terrified man aiming a gun at all of them.

Chapter 26

Notes:

Well, it’s gonna be a little harder for me to post. I work at a high school and will usually work on writing/posting from my work laptop on my lunch or between classes, but the school recently blocked AO3. I will have to wait until I get home and hope I don’t forget. 😓

2027
Yelena

“Who the hell are you?” Bucky asked in Russian. His eyes swept over the group, finally narrowing on Yelena.

She rose carefully to her knees, hands lifted. Slowly, she eased herself between him and the gun. This was more dangerous than stepping between him and the punching bag, but she knew she had to deescalate.

“Hey,” she said softly, also in Russian. “Look around you. There was a cave-in, and we’re all trapped. We’re not getting out through the lab. Our best chance is continuing through the mine.”

His gaze kept darting around the cramped space, wide with fear. She could practically hear his breathing echo in the dark.

“You may not know us right now and that’s okay,” she continued. “But you’re injured. Sorry to break it to you, but you’re not getting out of here on your own. It’s going to be a lot of walking, and you need our help.”

Somewhere behind her she heard Alexei quietly translating. Bucky’s eyes snapped to him, then back to her.

“I don’t need you,” he said sharply. He lowered the gun a fraction and reached back, using the wall to pull himself upright, clearly keeping his weight off his broken leg.

He pushed off the wall and took a few small, painful steps deeper into the tunnel, keeping the gun trained on Yelena. Bob jumped to his feet, throwing out an arm to offer support.

Bucky’s attention flicked from Yelena to Bob and, forgetting his leg, he accidentally stepped down on it. His face twisted in pain. Bob lurched forward to catch him as he stumbled, and Bucky whipped the gun up to Bob’s chest and fired. The shot echoed violently through the tunnel, sending a few more rocks clattering from above.

Both Bob and Bucky stared at the hole punched clean through Bob’s shirt.

“Ow,” Bob muttered, dropping his hand.

Bucky just kept staring.

“Yeah, he’s bulletproof. And dumb,” Yelena said, shooting Bob a glare. “You can see how on edge he is. Why would you lunge at him?”

Bucky’s eyes shifted past Bob to something behind Yelena. She followed his gaze and saw Sam inching slowly onto his knees.

“Hey, Bucky,” Sam said, keeping his hands visible. “I can tell you’re scared. You’re probably in a lot of pain, too. But Yelena’s right—we’re all stuck here. You can take our help or not, that’s fine. Just understand that if we start shooting each other, it’ll end badly for everyone.”

Sam glanced toward Yelena, who picked up the cue instantly.

“Exactly. There’s only one way out. We have to move together, and we’re all armed. You might be able to shoot one or two of us, but you can’t kill everyone before someone gets you. And as you just learned, Bob is bulletproof. So for now, we need a temporary truce.”

Bucky looked back and forth between them, then at the weapons strapped to the rest of the team. After a long moment, he slowly holstered the gun.

“Okay. That’s progress,” Yelena said quietly. “Shall we start walking?”

She motioned down the tunnel in the direction Bucky had already been hobbling. Bob stood and moved beside her.

“A temporary truce? What about when we get out of here? What then?” he whispered.

“We just have to hope we get through to him by then,” she said.

The others stood, spreading out as far from Bucky as space allowed. He leaned heavily on the wall as he moved, his eyes sweeping the group behind him.

Sam rested a hand gently on Yelena’s shoulder. “Okay, well, he probably won’t try to kill us right now, but all bets are off once we’re out. And with his leg, he’s moving too slowly. We’ll never make it out at this pace without help.”

“I’m working on that,” Yelena murmured. “How did you guys snap him out of it before?”

“I’m not sure,” Sam admitted. “The first time… I don’t know if Steve actually did. He said Bucky didn’t even recognize him when they spoke after fighting in the street. The second time, Steve claimed Bucky pulled him out of the river, but Steve hit his head pretty hard. He could’ve been mistaken.”

Sam met Bucky’s eyes for a brief second, then looked away.

“What about after that?” Yelena asked. “Anything that can help.”

“After that, he vanished for three years. When we finally found him again, I hadn’t really spoken to him before he was arrested. But Steve said he seemed to remember something. At least he wasn’t trying to kill us. Then Zemo used the code words and he was back to full Winter Soldier for a bit.”

“So, did Volkova use the same code words?” Bob asked, his voice low as their footsteps echoed through the tunnel.

“I don’t think so. When Bucky was in Wakanda, they helped him get free of all that,” Sam said. “Besides, the last time he broke out of it was when he hit his head. Cognitive recalibration.”

“He definitely hit his head when the lab caved in. That didn’t fix it,” Yelena said. She adjusted her grip on the flashlight, scanning the uneven ground ahead. “What else?”

“Nothing else.” Sam’s tone thickened with concern. “After that, he was fine. Healing. Trying to forgive himself. He never went back… until now.”

“Super helpful,” Yelena muttered, rolling her eyes. “Okay. Plan B.”

“What’s plan B?” Bob asked, but Yelena was already moving forward toward Bucky.

She kept her steps slow, nonthreatening. “Hey,” she said softly in Russian. “How’s your leg?”

“It is fine,” Bucky answered without looking at her.

“It looks painful. Sure you don’t want help? Leaning on me would be easier than leaning on the wall.”

“No.” He hissed as his foot hit the ground wrong and pain shot up his leg.

“Okay. I’m here if you need me,” she murmured, staying at his side. “And… I wanted to thank you. For not shooting me back in the lab.”

“It was an accident.” His voice wavered just slightly.

“Was it, though? I know you. You’re a perfect shot, and I was only a few yards away. Even Bob could’ve made that shot.”

“You do not know me.”

“Okay. Believe what you want.” Yelena gave him a warm, almost teasing smile, then lengthened her stride until she fell in beside Ava, who held the second flashlight.

“How are you doing?” Yelena asked quietly.

Ava glanced at Bucky, who was staring straight ahead, too focused on staying upright to pay attention to anything else. “I’m fine. But Yelena… what’s the plan? He shot Bob without hesitation.”

“I know.” Yelena glanced back toward Bob. “I’m working on one. For now I’m just hoping to get him to warm up a bit. See what’s left in there… if anything.” Her voice drifted off.

“You’re worried he might be gone?” Ava asked gently.

“I really don’t know,” Yelena admitted. “Before, when something was wrong, you could tell he was fighting it. Now… I don’t just know.”

Ava sighed, the sound echoing faintly off the stone. “Well, what’s your evidence for each side?”

“Volkova told him to shoot me. He raised the gun and fired. It was so close that if I’d breathed too hard, the bullet would’ve hit me. I thanked him for not shooting me, and he said it was an accident.”

“Do you think it was an accident?” Ava asked.

“I think he’s a near perfect shot. And he was close enough that there’s no way he missed unless he meant to. Even if he didn’t realize he meant to.”

“So you think some part of him is still in there? Still fighting?”

Yelena’s eyes drifted to Bucky again. “I think so. Yeah.”

“Okay.” Ava touched her shoulder. “Then we keep trying.”

“And what if I’m wrong?”

“Then we deal with it then,” Ava said. “But right now, he’s going to collapse if he keeps walking on that leg.” She nodded toward Bucky, who was leaning on the wall more heavily with every step, his breath growing uneven.

Yelena slowed her pace until she fell back beside Bob and Sam. She leaned close to Bob, whispering directly into his ear. “I need you to pretend to trip on a rock or something. Pretend you hurt your ankle. We need a reason to stop.”

Bob nodded. He waited until Yelena had moved ahead again, then kicked a loose stone and dropped to one knee with a dramatic grunt.

“Ow, fuck! Hold on a sec!” he yelled, grabbing his ankle. “I fell on my ankle really badly!”

Yelena rushed to him, crouching beside him with exaggerated concern. She tugged his pant leg up just enough for show, keeping her body between Bob and Bucky. “Damn. It’s already starting to bruise. Maybe we should stop for a bit. Sit down so Bob can get off his ankle.” She tugged the pant leg back down.

“Good call,” Ava said. “I could use some water anyway.”

The team eased themselves onto the ground, every movement slowed by sore muscles and fresh bruises. Gravel crunched beneath them as they settled against the rough stone walls.

Bucky kept moving a few feet farther forward, stopping only when the distance between him and the others stretched into a small, dark gap. He stayed standing, braced against the tunnel wall.

“We’ll probably be here for a little while,” Yelena said. “You might want to sit, take some pressure off your leg.”

Bucky looked deeper into the tunnel as if he seriously considered limping off alone into the darkness. For a moment she thought he might try. But eventually he slid down the wall, using one hand to brace himself as he lowered to the floor. Yelena let out a quiet breath of relief she didn’t realize she’d been holding.

Ava opened the backpack the moment Alexie shrugged it off his shoulder. She rifled through it, pulling out water bottles and the flimsy first aid kit. The plastic crinkled loudly in the cavern’s stillness. Yelena took one of the waters and the kit, then walked carefully toward Bucky.

“Okay if I sit with you?” she asked, already lowering herself to the ground beside him.

“No.”

She ignored the hostility and held out the unopened bottle. He looked at it but didn’t reach for it.

“Come on, you have to be thirsty.” Still nothing. “Alright… how about your leg? Can I look at it? Just see how bad it is? I brought medical supplies.”

His head snapped toward her. Yelena jerked back an inch before she could stop herself. Even in the dim, flickering light of the two flashlights, his eyes were different, flat, cold, and almost hollow.

“No. Stop trying to help me.” His voice was steel. “I don’t know who you think I am, but you’re wrong. As soon as we’re out of here, you will leave me alone or I will kill you. Understood?”

“Got it.” Yelena swallowed hard and forced her voice to stay steady. “I’m gonna go check on Bob. See how his ankle’s doing.”

She pushed herself up and crossed back to the others. The moment she reached them, Sam leaned in.

“Bob says his ankle’s fine. You told him to fake an injury?” he whispered.

“Yeah. I knew Bucky wouldn’t agree to stop for himself, but if the whole team was pausing because of Bob… I figured he’d stop too.” Yelena folded her arms tightly across her chest, trying not to let her hands shake.

“It looked like you were talking to him. How is he?” Bob scooted closer, concern pulling his brows together.

“Not Bucky, that’s for sure,” she muttered. “I don’t know what to do. Like I told Ava—Volkova told him to shoot me, and he tried. He missed from maybe three yards away.”

Bob frowned. “He missed on purpose? He was hitting the moving targets earlier from way farther than that.”

“I think so. But when I tried talking to him, it felt… hopeless. He’s actually a little scary right now.”

“I get that.” Sam let out a soft laugh. “You know, when we first met, he jumped on my car, punched through the windshield, and ripped the steering wheel out of my hands.”

“Wait—seriously?” Bob said, eyes wide.

Yelena glanced toward Bucky, sitting rigid and alone. “That actually helps a little. He’s at least more normal than that right now.” She nodded toward Bob’s ankle, speaking loud enough the group could hear. “You ready to move?”

He took her offered hand and rose slowly. “Yeah. Feeling better. Good enough to walk, anyway.”

Bucky was already pushing himself upright again, bracing most of his weight on the wall. Ava shoved the water bottles and supplies back into the backpack and handed it to Alexie.

“What time is it?” she asked.

Sam checked his phone. “Two in the afternoon.”

“Ugh, I’m exhausted already,” Ava groaned.

“It does feel like it should be later,” John agreed. “Maybe it’s all the adrenaline and chaos.”

They continued for another four hours. The deeper they went, the colder it became—breath puffing in faint clouds, the rocky tunnel floor covered in dust that shifted under each step. At one point they reached a fork and spent fifteen frustrating minutes arguing about which path looked best before choosing the left.

By 6:30, the slow pace and rough terrain had left everyone stumbling. The air felt heavier, colder, and the darkness around them seeming to stretch endlessly.

“I feel like we should’ve made it out by now,” Sam said, worry edging into his voice.

“Maybe, maybe not,” Yelena replied. “I didn’t spend much time studying the mine layout. Didn’t think we’d need it. But it was massive, and if I remember right, it opened into a natural cave system that eventually led out. The tunnels go on for miles. And we’re… not exactly moving fast.”

She slowed, dragging her feet just enough to signal Sam. He caught on immediately. They drifted farther back until the others were well ahead.

“So,” Sam murmured, keeping his eyes on the group in front as best he could, “what are you thinking we do?”

“We have to stop. Get some rest. If Bucky keeps walking on that leg he’s going to collapse any minute.” Yelena said, pointing toward where Bucky was practically dragging his injured leg, each step a stiff, jarring pull that made her wince just to watch.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Sam asked, rubbing his hands up and down his arms to emphasize just how cold the cave had become. Their breath fogged the air now. “We started out low on supplies, and what we have won’t last long. Plus, it’s going to feel a lot colder if we stop moving.”

“I know. I know.” Yelena pushed hair away from her face, exhaling slowly. “It’s not a great plan, but I feel like it’s our best bet. And… it might give me more time to get Bucky back.”

Sam was silent for a long moment, boots crunching against loose stones. Finally he nodded. “Okay. Fine. We’ll rest. At least for a few hours.”

“Thank you. I can make the announcement.” Yelena picked up her pace, moving until she was walking in the middle of the group. “Hey! Let’s stop for the night,” she called. “We’re all tired, and some rest will be good.”

A tired chorus followed—some relieved noises, some annoyed grumbles—but no one disagreed. Everyone drifted toward the walls of the tunnel, sinking down onto the cold, uneven ground. Even the air felt heavier now, as though the mine itself was pressing down on them.

Alexei slid the bag off his shoulders and handed out water. Then he dumped the last of the food onto the ground between them. It wasn’t much—some bars, a crumpled bag of trail mix, two fruit pouches—but there was enough for each person to grab one thing.

Yelena snagged a cinnamon-apple protein bar and brought it over to Bucky. His eyes tracked her the entire way, cold and sharp behind exhaustion. She didn’t speak, she simply set the bar at his feet and backed away.

Exhaustion and pain were eating at him; she could see it. If she pushed him now, he’d only retreat further.

“So… how do we want to do sleep?” John asked, glancing meaningfully at Bucky. “No offense, but I think it would be a very bad idea if we all tried sleeping at once.”

“I can stay awake and keep watch!” Alexei volunteered immediately.

“I don’t need as much sleep either,” John added. “We split the night up into two shifts.”

Bob hesitated, then lifted a hand. “I—I could take one too. That way you both get a little more sleep.”

“You sure?” John asked, skeptical.

“Yeah. I’ll be fine. Promise.”

John shrugged. “Okay. You want the first shift? Easier to stay awake than to get woken up. Wake Alexei in two hours. Alexei wakes me two hours after that. Sound good?”

Ava gave a tired thumbs-up, already curling tightly against her backpack. John and Alexei settled side-by-side against the wall, not touching but close enough to share warmth.

Sam found a spot beside Bob and Yelena. He gave her a small nod before lying down. Yelena wedged herself between Ava and Bob, close enough to feel both of them breathing.

“You sure you’ll be okay?” she whispered.

“Yes. Really.” Bob offered her a small smile. “I’ve noticed… I don’t need as much sleep as I used to. Doesn’t mean I’m not tired, but I can function on less. Besides, it’s only two hours.”

He switched on the flashlight, then immediately cupped a hand over it, dimming the glow to a muted golden haze. Just enough to see. The mine creaked around them—old wood, distant dripping water, the restless shifting of stone. Every sound seemed amplified.

Every few minutes Bob lifted the flashlight, scanning the tunnel. A quick sweep down the left. A slower one to the right. A few times the dim beam slid over Bucky.

Each time, Bucky was still awake.

Bob cleared his throat gently. “You, uh… want to sleep? Just for a while? We’re safe here. And your leg—sleep might help with the pain.”

Bucky didn’t answer. Didn’t even blink. Just stared with that cold, unreadable emptiness.

Bob swallowed and tried again. “Do you… recognize me at all? Even a little?”

Nothing. Bucky’s face stayed perfectly still.

Bob looked down at the flashlight, checked the time on his watch, then whispered, more to fill the silence than anything, “I need to wake Alexei in an hour. You should try to sleep before then. It’ll make tomorrow easier.”

Still no response.

Bob exhaled, adjusted the flashlight so the light stayed low and steady, and kept his quiet vigil.

Chapter 27

Notes:

Okay, NOW I’m working on the epilogue. It actually ended up being a chapter longer than I had planned. ❤️

2027
Yelena

Yelena woke shivering.

For a moment she didn’t even know where she was. Everything was black. Not just dark—black. The flashlights had been on when she fell asleep but now they were either off or dead.

Her fingers, stiff from the chill, fumbled over the rocky ground until they brushed the corner of her phone. She pulled it close, shielding the screen with her other hand as she unlocked it. The glow stabbed at her eyes, making her squint, but at least the darkness peeled back enough for her to breathe.

It was five in the morning.

“Great,” she muttered, the curse slipping out in Russian under her breath.

She lowered the phone and reached for the flashlight by her knee. She flicked it on, sweeping the beam slowly across the group.

Everyone was still there, fast asleep. Except Bucky.

He sat with his back against the rock wall, exactly where he had been the night before. His head was slightly tilted downward, but his eyes were open. He didn’t flinch when the light passed over him. Didn’t acknowledge her at all.

Yelena’s stomach tightened. She turned the flashlight toward the rest of the team.

“HEY!” she shouted. “Wake up! All of you!”

Ava jolted so hard she smacked her head against the wall. Alexei groaned. Sam lifted his hands defensively as if expecting an attack. John cursed, already halfway to his feet before his brain caught up.

“What the hell?” John snapped, blinking blearily. “Why are you screaming?”

“Because,” Yelena said, pointing the flashlight directly at him, “no one was on watch! Everyone was asleep.”

John’s face hardened immediately before he swung toward Bob. “Seriously? If you couldn’t keep awake, you shouldn’t have volunteered. This is exactly—”

Bob bristled, sitting up straighter. “I DID stay awake. I stayed awake the whole time. I woke Alexei up exactly when I was supposed to!”

All eyes snapped to Alexei.

Alexei winced. “I—uh… okay, look. It was dark. Really dark. It was hard to stay awake.” He rubbed his neck, guilt and embarrassment fighting for space on his face. “I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

“You didn’t mean to—?!” John started, incredulous.

And just like that, the arguing erupted. Voices overlapping, sharp accusations bouncing off the stone walls, frustration taking over after too little food, too much fear, and nowhere near enough sleep.

Yelena grit her teeth, ready to yell again, when something in her peripheral vision caught her attention.

Sam was watching her.

He wasn’t panicking or yelling—he just gave her a small, tired smile and tilted his chin toward Bucky.

Yelena followed the gesture.

Bucky still hadn’t moved. He sat perfectly still, eyes forward as he watched them, arms resting loosely over his knees.

Awake the entire night.

Her breath hitched.

She leaned toward Sam, whispering, “He was up the whole time?”

Sam nodded subtly. “Seems like it. He could have fallen asleep and woken back up but somehow, I doubt it.” His eyes softened. “If he wanted to hurt us… that was the moment.”

Yelena looked back at Bucky, her chest tightening in something that was almost relief. Her voice dropped. “He didn’t even try.”

Before Sam could answer, the argument behind her hit a new volume.

“ENOUGH!” Yelena shouted.

Her voice slammed into the tunnel walls—and the mine responded.

A low, grinding rumble shuddered above them. Pebbles rained down first, then small chunks of stone. Ava yelped and covered her head. Bob scooted away from the wall. Yelena ducked instinctively, shielding her face as dust filled the air in a soft gray cloud.

For a moment everything went still again. Then, cautiously, they all lowered their arms.

Yelena swept the flashlight along the newly exposed cracks in the ceiling. “See?” she said, voice sharp but steady. “This place is barely holding together. So unless you want the mountain to bury us alive, shut up.”

Silence settled fast.

She took a breath, steadying herself. “We’re moving. Now. No more long breaks, no more arguments. We have to get out today.”

Even Bucky shifted at that—just a faint tightening of his jaw, but it was the first sign of acknowledgment she’d gotten from him in almost twenty-four hours.

One by one, the team gathered their things, the weight of the collapsing mine pushing them forward.

The next few hours were a slow, grinding march through the dark. The further they went, the more the mine shifted from man-made tunnels into something more natural. Support beams thinned out. The walls stopped looking carved and started looking eroded—jagged stone swallowing the last hints of machinery and structure.

Yelena lifted her flashlight toward the uneven ceiling, her breath fogging in the cold air. “This is good,” she said over her shoulder. “It means we’re heading toward the natural cave system. That’s where the exit is.”

Sam stepped around a fallen beam, rubbing his hands together. “Good, because I really love the idea of being crushed by a mountain even less today than I did yesterday.”

The path narrowed, forcing the group to bunch together. Pools of crystal-clear water appeared in the dips and folds of the rock, some shallow, some deep enough that the light couldn’t find the bottom. At one point the floor simply dropped away on the right side, revealing a black void that swallowed the beam of the flashlight.

“Stay close,” John warned quietly. “One wrong step and we won’t find you again.”

No one argued.

By the time they stopped for a brief rest, everyone’s nerves were strung tight. The air smelled damp and metallic. Water dripped rhythmically from somewhere up ahead, the steady plink echoing like a heartbeat.

Bucky had stopped several feet from the group, leaning heavily on the wall but keeping himself separate as usual .

Yelena swallowed, then stood and dusted off her hands. “Okay,” she whispered to herself. “Round two, or six?”

She made her way over to him, careful on the slick stone. “How’s your leg?” she asked quietly.

“Fine,” he said flatly. “Stop talking to me.”

“Right, right,” she said, waving a hand dismissively. “Because you’re just waiting to get out of the mine so you can kill us. I remember.”

His jaw twitched.

“But I’m curious,” she added casually. “You had the perfect opportunity last night. Entire team asleep. You awake. Even with your fucked up leg, it would have been easy. So why didn’t you?”

He blinked, expression shifting just slightly. “What?”

“Why didn’t you kill us?” she repeated, stepping a little closer. “Last night. When everyone—including John, who sleeps like a tranquilized bear—was out cold.”

His stare hardened. “Do you want me to kill you?”

“No.” She lifted her chin. “But the fact that you didn’t means there’s still something of you left. A piece of you that’s fighting, even if you don’t feel it. And I am trying to get that part back.”

The words seemed to hit him like a slap.

His head snapped toward her, and he pushed off the wall, anger suddenly raw and bright in his eyes. “I don’t know what you and that other guy keep talking about,” he snarled, voice rising. “But you’re insane. Both of you. Leave me the fuck alone. I am not— I am NOT who you think I am—”

The rest was drowned out by the cave itself reacting to his shout.

A deep crack split through the ceiling overhead. The stone groaned, then exploded downward in a shower of debris. A massive chunk—easily the size of a small car—hit the ground so close it nearly clipped Yelena’s boot.

The impact shook the ledge beneath them.

Both of them instinctively stepped back—and realized too late that there was no ground behind them.

The narrow strip of rock tilted, crumbled, and gave way.

Yelena’s stomach lurched. Bucky’s metal hand shot out, catching the jagged edge of the ledge they had just tumbled from. His body slammed against the rock wall, knocking the air from his chest, but he held on.

Yelena wasn’t as lucky.

Her boots scraped uselessly against the stone as she slid farther down, catching only a thin, sharp protrusion of rock with both hands. Dust rained over her. Beneath her feet was nothing but darkness.

“Yelena!” Sam shouted from above.

“I’m here!” she yelled back, voice shaking despite her efforts to keep it steady.

The team rushed to the edge, reaching down for Bucky, desperate hands stretching toward him.

“Grab my hand!” John shouted.

But Bucky didn’t reach out.

Instead, his gaze darted down to Yelena—dangling, slipping, the rock she clung to crumbling by inches.

He let go.

“Bucky—!” Sam lunged forward, too late.

Bucky dropped several feet, landing hard on a narrow outcropping jutting from the cavern wall. His wounded leg hit first and buckled. A raw sound tore from his throat, half-pain, half-shock. He fell to one knee, teeth clenched.

Ignoring the pain, he reached down toward Yelena. “Take it!” he barked.

Yelena wasted no time. Her grip on the tiny ledge gave out just as her hand slapped into his. He hauled her up beside him, the two of them pressed shoulder to shoulder on a slab barely wide enough for both of them to stand.

Above, a frayed rope dropped into view, bouncing lightly off the wall.

“Only one at a time!” Sam called down. “It won’t hold both of you!”

Yelena grabbed the rope and immediately offered it to Bucky. “Go.”

He shoved it back toward her, jaw tight, saying nothing.

Her eyebrows climbed. “…Okay.”

She hesitated only a moment before wrapping the rope around her arm and giving it a firm tug. Hands from above immediately began pulling her upward inch by inch. The jagged wall scraped her boots, her palms burned, but she kept climbing.

Finally, firm hands closed around her arms and hauled her onto solid ground.

Bob was instantly at her side. “Are you okay? Is he okay? Did you hit your head? Did he hit his head? Do you need and medical stuff—”

“I’m fine,” Yelena said, breathless and grinning wide.

Bob blinked at her. “…What is wrong with you?”

“He helped me up,” she whispered, still catching her breath. “He actually grabbed me and pulled me to safety.”

Bob stared at her like she had sprouted a second head. Then he glanced toward the ledge where Sam and John were hauling Bucky up, the man gritting his teeth hard enough his jaw trembled.

“You’re sure?” Bob whispered.

“Yes,” she said firmly.

He still looked unconvinced.

When Bucky was finally hauled over the edge, he rolled onto his back, panting, eyes hard but unfocused. No one approached him too closely—his expression alone made them think twice—but they all gave him space to recover.

Five adrenaline filled minutes passed in shaky silence. At some point when he had fallen–either the first time or when he dropped down– the mask over his mouth lost a large chip. The exposed metal and mesh stuck out at a jagged angle, scraping against his already bleeding cheek.

He glanced around to make sure no one was watching, Yelena dropped her eyes to the ground quickly. Then, very slowly as if he was breaking a rule, he lifted his hand and pulled the mask off of his face. He set it carefully on the ground next to him.

No one seemed to notice but Yelena.

Sam pushed himself upright with a groan. “Alright,” he said, rubbing dust from his arms. “If the mountain is done trying to kill us for a minute… we should keep moving.”

The group gathered themselves, checked their gear, and stepped back into formation.

No one said it aloud, but every one of them kept glancing at Bucky. And Yelena walked just a little closer to him than before.

The group moved much more carefully after that, the echo of their earlier fall lingering in every footstep. Eventually, John rubbed his hands up and down his arms. “Okay… does anyone else feel that?” he asked, frowning. “Because I swear it’s not as cold as before.”

Ava snorted. “We’re moving again. That’s probably all it is.”

“No,” John insisted, glancing around as though expecting the walls to answer him. “I mean it. It feels… warmer. Even if it’s just a little.”

Alexei paused, breathing deeply through his nose. “He’s right. Air feels different.”

Yelena looked over her shoulder, her steps slowing. “Warmer is good. Means we’re probably getting closer to the exit. Or at least further from the heart of the cave.”

“That’s great,” Bob said, “assuming we don’t get crushed by another cave-in first.”

As if summoned, a small chunk of stone dislodged from above and hit the ground with a sharp crack.

Everyone froze.

“…Yeah,” Bob muttered. “Like that.” A few more pebbles trickled down like a warning.

“Keep moving,” Sam said quietly. “But maybe a little faster.”

The tunnel narrowed, forcing them closer together. Their flashlights caught glimmers of moisture along the walls, veins of mineral deposits, and fractured rock that looked one good vibration away from coming down entirely.

Sam drifted toward Yelena until the two walked nearly shoulder to shoulder again.

“If we’re getting close to the exit,” he murmured, keeping his voice low so it didn’t echo, “we need a plan. For him.”

Her eyes slid toward the back of the group, where Bucky limped several yards behind them, barely keeping pace. Every few steps his injured leg buckled, and he braced a hand against the wall, jaw tight with pain.

Sam continued, “We could knock him out and drag him back to the tower. It wouldn’t be too hard right now.”

“It’d also piss him off more than he already is,” Yelena whispered back. “And if he wakes up in restraints again, after everything he’s gone through—” She shook her head. “Not the best option.”

Sam exhaled slowly. “I know. I’m just… thinking out loud.”

“But if we get out of the cave and he bolts,” she said, voice barely above a breath, “we may never find him again. Not if he doesn’t want to be found.”

Sam didn’t disagree.

Ahead, the tunnel sloped downward before curving sharply left. Water pooled in the low spots, shining like mirrors beneath their lights. The footing grew worse—slick stone, sudden dips, a few narrow ledges hugging yawning drops where the ground had eroded away.

Behind them, Bucky stumbled again.

He didn’t fall, but the cry he let out was enough to send a shiver up Yelenas spine. “The fall messed up his leg worse,” she murmured. “He’s barely holding it together.”

“Yeah,” Sam said. “We’re on borrowed time with him.”

“Worst case,” Yelena said quietly, “we capture him. Bring him to Wakanda. See if they can help again.”

Sam hesitated. A long moment stretched. “…Maybe,” he said finally. “Maybe. But for now…”

“We keep just trying the same bullshit as before,” Yelena finished for him.

Sam nodded. “I guess.”

They kept walking, the silence between them growing heavier as the cave narrowed again. The beam from Sam’s flashlight swept ahead, catching two branching tunnels. Another fork.

John groaned. “Great. Again.”

“We went left last time,” Ava said. “So we go left again.”

“That’s not a good strategy,” Alexei muttered.

“It’s better than standing here freezing our asses off,” John snapped. “Left works for me.”

“That is not—” Alexei started.

But the arguments fizzled into the usual bickering. Eventually everyone gave a reluctant nod toward the left passage.

“Left it is,” Sam confirmed. “Stay close. Watch your footing.”

They moved on, cautious, stepping around puddles that reflected their light like fractured mirrors.

Bob drifted up beside Yelena, lowering his voice. “Hey… uh… question.”

She sighed. “This better be good.”

Bob pointed at a nearby pool of water, clear as glass. “You think we can drink any of that? I mean… it looks clean.”

“No,” Yelena said.

“No,” Sam echoed.

“No,” Ava added sharply.

“No,” Alexei grumbled.

“No,” John snapped.

Even from behind them, Bucky said, “Don’t.”

Bob blinked, looking around at all the glaring faces. “…Guess not.”

Yelena couldn’t help laughing. She bumped his shoulder, reaching out to grab his hand and giving it a brief squeeze before pulling him with her as she slowed enough to match Bucky’s slow pace.

Bucky shot them both a glare. “What now?”

Yelena released Bob’s hand and crossed her arms. “Just wanted to say thank you.”

“For what?” His voice was flat, almost bored.

“For saving me.”

He stared at her like she’d spoken another language. “I didn’t save you.”

“Sure you did. When we fell. You grabbed me.”

“I didn’t.” He shook his head hard, jaw tight. But the way the flashlight caught his eyes briefly, Yelena could almost see the fight coming back. “Why would I save you?”

Yelena looked to Bob, who shrugged and gave her an I told you so face. She ignored it, pushing on.

“Maybe I imagined it,” she said. “But thanks anyway. I guess.” Bucky scowled, turning his attention back down the tunnel.

Up ahead, John’s voice carried back toward them. “Holy shit, look at how the ceiling of the cave—”

He didn’t finish.

The sound was enormous. A grinding roar, the violent crack of stone breaking free, then the full, deafening collapse as the ceiling dropped.

The world disappeared in dust and darkness.

Yelena was thrown backward, hitting the ground hard. She coughed, waving a hand in front of her face as the dust slowly thinned.

“Bob?” she called. “Bucky?”

“I’m here,” Bob coughed back.

Bucky’s voice came a second later. “Still alive.”

Her chest loosened a fraction.

She scrambled to her feet and yelled into the choking haze, “Sam, you guys oaky?!”

A faint answer filtered back through the settling dust. “We’re okay! I think!” Relief washed over her.

“Who’s over there?” she shouted, climbing toward the largest mound of fallen rock. A sliver of open space glowed faintly near the top.

Sam’s voice answered. “Me, Ava, John, Alexei. You guys?”

“Good,” Yelena said. “Bob and Bucky are okay too.”

Behind her, Bob shouted, “Be really careful! That whole thing looks like a terrible idea!”

“It is,” she muttered, climbing anyway. “But I need to see how bad it is.”

Hand over hand, boot finding tiny footholds, she made her way to the opening. When she reached it, she swore loudly.

A large stone sat lodged near the top. She shoved with both hands, gritting her teeth until it shifted and rolled free—then tumbled down and down and down, the sound fading into a deep, echoing void.

She leaned forward to look. It wasn’t a drop. It was a pit. An endless dark that had swallowed the entire middle of the tunnel.

On the other side, Ava climbed up from her side of the collapse, eyes going wide as she looked down.

“Oh shit,” Ava muttered. “Yelena? How deep you think that is? It looks like a sinkhole or something.”

“I don’t know,” Yelena said. “But probably too deep to climb through. If that’s what you’re thinking.”

Ava grimaced. “Hang on.”

She climbed back down. A minute later she returned with Sam squeezing into the narrow space beside her.

“Can you fly across?” Ava asked.

Sam stared at the cramped ceiling barely two feet above them. “There’s no way. The wings won’t even open in here.”

John’s voice echoed faintly behind him. “We have rope! Maybe we could—”

“And do what?” Ava snapped. “Tie it to a rock and have them walk across? That is the dumbest idea.”

Yelena glanced back down the way she came.

Bucky had given up standing completely, leaning against the wall with his injured leg stretched out, breath shallow and tight. He looked exhausted. Pale. And in obvious pain he was trying—and failing—to hide.

Bob hovered awkwardly near him, unsure what to do.

Yelena turned back to Ava and Sam. “We’re going to backtrack. See where the right tunnel leads.” There was a long pause. “If either group gets out,” she said, “we call for help.”

Ava nodded slowly. “Okay. That’s… yeah. That’s our only option.”

She climbed back down to her team.

Yelena did the same, the descent far more careful now that she knew what waited beneath the rocks.

Reaching the ground beside Bob and Bucky, she dusted off her hands. “We’re splitting up. They keep going on their side, we backtrack on ours.”

Bob frowned. “We could hear you.”

Bucky pushed himself upright with a hiss of pain, bracing on the cave wall. “Fine.”

Only then did Yelena realize something else. The tunnel around them was almost pitch black. Sam and John had the flashlights.

Her stomach dropped.

“Without light,” she whispered.

Bob swallowed hard. “Cell phone, I guess?”

She took a breath, steadying herself. “I guess. Mine’s almost dead, though. But we can manage.”

Chapter 28

Notes:

Second to last Shilovsky chapter!

1956
Shilovsky

Shilovsky stumbled after Kovac, his boots slipping in the churned-up snow. He made it only three uneven steps before the strength went out of his legs. He folded at the waist with a strangled breath, one arm wrapping around his ribs as a wet, metallic cough tore out of him. Blood splattered into the snow.

Kovac whipped around. “Chyort,” she hissed under her breath. She crouched, yanked the satchel from her shoulder, and slung it across his instead. This way she could adjust and get her arm under his before he could crumple completely.

“Come on,” she muttered, hauling him upright. “We have to go. We don’t have time for you to die right now.”

Shilovsky managed a sound, caught between a laugh and a groan.

The trees thickened ahead, their branches heavy with frost. Kovac dragged him toward them just as a new noise tore through the smoke-filled clearing behind them—boots crunching, voices cutting sharply through the cold air. Multiple voices approaching fast.

She pushed them deeper into the line of trees, weaving through the tight undergrowth until the burning metal of the crashed jet was mostly hidden behind a wall of branches. Only then did she ease him down toward the snow.

“Here,” she whispered, lowering him against the rough trunk of a pine. He sagged immediately, head dropping forward.

Kovac crept toward the edge of the trees, staying low, peering through a tangle of branches and smoke. She froze.

Dark figures picked their way through the broken remains of the jet—six men. All armed and moving with the sharp, clipped precision of trained soldiers. Even through the haze, she could see the insignia on their jackets. An American flag.

When she slipped back to Shilovsky’s side, her voice was tight. “They’re Americans,” she whispered. “We were shot down by Americans.”

Shilovsky cracked one eye open. The look he gave her was full of pain but also a glint of determination. “Not an… accident,” he rasped.

“No,” she agreed quietly. “Definitely not.”

She started to reach for him—then saw it. A smear of red streaked through the snow from where they had stumbled through the trees, bright and impossible to miss. More drops from where he had coughed, all leading to the bright puddle forming underneath him.

“K чёрту…” she breathed. “We left a trail.”

She hurried to her feet, adrenaline spiking hard. “We need to move. Now.”

Shilovsky didn’t argue. He tried to push himself upright, but his arm buckled. Kovac grabbed him before he fell and hauled him against her again.

“They reached the wreck too fast,” she said, half thinking aloud as they stumbled deeper into the woods. “They had to already be on the ground. Which means they have a vehicle nearby.” She glanced up at him. “Can you keep moving long enough for us to find it?”

Shilovsky swallowed, tasting blood. Then he straightened as much as his shattered ribs allowed, spat a mouthful of red into the snow again, and nodded once.

“Good.” She readjusted his weight under her shoulder and started pushing forward, angling them wide around the crash. They kept distance from the clearing, moving through thicker brush, adjacent to the path they had watched the Americans come from.

But every few steps Shilovsky leaned heavier and heavier against her. Kovac’s grip tightened.

“You’re getting heavier,” she muttered. “Stop that.”

He made a low sound, something slurred and not quite words. His eyes fluttered.

“Hey—hey.” She jerked him slightly, forcing his feet to keep moving. “Stay with me. Just a little longer.”

Behind them, distant but growing clearer, came the echo of shouting in English. Kovac didn’t look back, she just dragged him faster.

They pushed through the last line of trees and stumbled into a narrow clearing—barely ten meters across, at the edge of the clearing was a military jeep half hidden under a canopy of snow heavy trees. The engine was still warm, steam drifting up as snow flakes landed on the metal hood.

Kovac sucked in a sharp breath of relief. “There,” she whispered. “Come on.”

Shilovsky barely managed to stay upright as she dragged him to the back. She yanked the rear door down and guided him up—half lifting, half shoving until he collapsed onto the cold metal flooring. The impact forced another choked groan out of him.

Before he could catch his breath, Kovac was already tearing open the front of his jacket. The thin fabric ribbed under her hands. When she pulled it aside and then ripped his shirt wide open, her expression changed instantly.

Her eyes widened and her face drained of color. He knew that look. “How bad?” he rasped.

Kovac’s jaw clenched hard. “It’s fine,” she said quickly. “It’s—really not that bad.”

Her voice wavered on the last word. She wasn’t as good a liar as she thought.

The cold air hit the open wound, and Shilovsky felt the warmth of his own blood spreading across his stomach and ribs. Breathing was agony, each inhale felt like a shard of glass. Kovac tore her eyes away from the injury and looked back toward the woods.

The voices were closer now. They could faintly hear boots crunching through snow. She spun back around, frantic. “We need medical supplies. The wound needs to be dressed or you’re going to bleed out. Especially with how rough this terrain is going to be.”

She leaned over him, ripping open metal supply boxes in the back of the jeep. Tools clattered. Ammunition boxes shifted. She dug deeper, muttering curses under her breath until she yanked out a smaller kit.

Shilovsky forced out a breath. “Kovac. We have to move.”

“I know.” She snapped the lid off the kit. “Just give me ten seconds or you won’t survive the ride.”

She dug through the supplies with shaking hands—gauze, powder, bandages. She pressed a thick wad of gauze to the wound, and he arched off the metal floor with a strangled cry.

“Sorry, sorry—just hold still,” she whispered, even though she knew he couldn’t.

She wrapped the bandages tight around him, hands moving fast, glancing back toward the trees every few seconds. The voices were close enough now that Shilovsky could make out individual words, the sharp rhythm of English overlapping with radio chatter.

Kovac tied the bandage off with trembling fingers. “That’s going to have to do. We’re out of time.”

At that exact moment, Shilovsky saw movement through the trees. Branches parted as a soldier stepped into the clearing. He lifted his rifle immediately and shouted something in English. Three more men spilled in behind him, fanning out.

“Kovac,” Shilovsky breathed.

“I see them.” She vaulted into the front seat, slammed the door, and turned the ignition. The jeep coughed, sputtered, and stalled. “Come on, come on—”

Shilovsky forced himself upright, every rib screaming. He raised his weapon with both shaking hands, aimed at the nearest soldier, and fired. He missed by inches.

The recoil sent fire ripping through his chest, and he doubled over with a cry.

All four soldiers jerked their rifles toward the jeep—then one froze. His eyes locked on Shilovsky, confusion and recognition washing over his face.

“Sergeant Barnes?” the man blurted. “There’s no way.”

Another soldier lowered his weapon, glancing between the first man and Shilovsky, eyes widening. “Bu—” His voice was cut off as the jeep suddenly roared to life.

Kovac slammed her foot down and the vehicle lurched forward violently. Shilovsky was thrown backward, skull cracking against metal. The world spun. Pain detonated through him like an explosion.

He tried to push himself up, but a wave of nausea and white-hot agony crushed him.

The trees above were only blurs through the torn canvas roof. Branches whipped by. The jeep bounced and skidded across the frozen forest floor, the engine growling.

He was shaking uncontrollably. He’d been cold before, but now—now he felt as if he was carved from ice. Kovac shouted something from the front, but he couldn’t make out the words. Everything inside him was starting to go numb and fade into a soupy darkness.
_____
Shilovsky woke with a violent jolt, breath catching, vision swimming. Someone was shaking his arm hard—too hard for how raw his nerves felt. Kovac’s voice came through first, high and thinned with panic.

“Shilovsky. Hey—wake up! Wake up!”

He tried to sit up on instinct, but the moment he flexed his abdomen a knife of pain shot through him. He let out a strangled gasp and fell back against the cold metal floor of the jeep. Kovac exhaled sharply, shoulders sagging in visible relief.

“God, don’t do that again,” she muttered, wiping a trembling hand over her face. “I thought you’d bled out on me.”

Shilovsky blinked against the blur, forcing his eyes downward. In the dimness it was hard to see, but he could make out the knot of bandages cinched around his torso—dark with dried blood, darker in patches where fresh had seeped through. A twisted shard of metal still protruded from his side, ugly and jagged, its edges stained nearly black. His stomach flipped.

“How long was I out?” he rasped.

“A while,” Kovac said. He could hear exhaustion in her voice—thin, stretched to breaking. “Long enough to scare me half to death.”

He lifted his head enough to glance around. Outside, the night was a solid wall of black. “Where are we?” he asked.

Kovac shook her head. “Not sure. Somewhere north of Kyiv. I had to stop for gas again, and…” She hesitated. “And I need a few hours of sleep before I can keep driving. If I go any longer, I’ll put us in a ditch.”

She rubbed at her eyes, then sighed. “Even if I could drive through two more days without stopping, we’re going to get back to Siberia later than our allotted return window.”

Shilovsky grunted. “Another way? Faster?”

“Not unless you think you can find a jet lying around unattended.” She gave him a grim smile. “And steal it without being caught or shot. Hard enough normally—not exactly easy with your current condition.”

His gaze dropped to the metal shard. His stomach twisted again.

“Speaking of,” she said, scooting closer, “now that we’re stopped, I should check it.”

She began peeling away the top layers of blood-stained bandage. The cloth clung to the wound; even the cold couldn’t fully numb the pressure of her hands. When the wound was exposed, she hissed through her teeth.

“It already looks infected.” She dug through the medical box, pulling out a few jars. “Everything’s labeled in English. And my English is… not great.”

“Let me.” He held out his hand.

She passed him the jars. It took effort to hold them, his fingers felt thick and clumsy, but after squinting at the faded labels he handed one back.

“That one’s antibiotics.”

She raised a brow. “How do you know that?”

He shrugged, leaning back again. “Doesn’t matter.”

Kovac uncapped the jar, scooping the salve with two fingers and spreading it carefully around the wound. He winced despite himself. “I’m not pulling the metal out,” she murmured firmly. “If it’s plugging something vital, you’ll bleed out in seconds. We wait until we have proper help.”

When she finished rewrapping the bandages, she wiped her hands clean and dropped down onto the floor beside him with a groan. She lifted a small brown package. “This looks like food. Found it in another box.”

Shilovsky took it, tore it open—and recoiled. The smell of smoked meat hit him too sharply. His stomach lurched. He forced down a few pieces of jerky anyway, but it sat like stones in his gut. He passed the rest back; Kovac finished hers quickly.

“Wake me in a few hours,” she mumbled, already sliding down against the wall. “Then I’ll drive.” She was asleep in under a minute.

Shilovsky remained still, listening to her soft breathing. His own pulse throbbed painfully against the bandage. Fever radiated off his skin.

His mind drifted unwillingly to the American soldier’s shout in the clearing.

Sergeant Barnes?

Who was that man? And why did that name, Barnes, carry a vague familiarity. Was it the American man he had been mistaken for time and time again. Or was his mind twisting the memory now, due to his fever?

He wasn’t sure. Everything felt slippery, unreal.

He shifted closer to the supply boxes, using one arm to drag them toward him. The effort left him shaking. Inside the first metal crate he found a bottle of water and drank the entire thing in one go, unable to stop himself. More food sat beside it—canned stuff, a few bars of chocolate. He pocketed the chocolate for later.

The next box held gear and clothing. He pulled out a thick jacket and draped it over Kovac. Another he laid over his own shoulders, fingers brushing the embroidered name on the patch.

Dernier.

He exhaled a long, unsteady breath and reached for the final item in the box—a notebook. The name stamped on the front read Dugan.

He flipped through it, scanning for anything useful. It was something to keep his mind occupied while he tried to stay awake. Shilovsky leaned back against the cold metal, jacket pulled tight, notebook open in his hands. His vision blurred at the edges, but he kept reading.

He finished the last page of Dugan’s notebook sometime before dawn. It had taken him longer than it should have for such a thin book but his vision slipped in and out of focus, lines of text bending and doubling. The writing itself wasn’t remarkable, mostly mission logs and personal notes, but the names scattered throughout it tugged at something deep inside his mind. Dugan. Morita. Jones. Falsworth. Each description or piece of personality felt faintly familiar, like trying to remember a song he hadn’t heard in decades.

By the time he snapped the notebook shut, the sky beyond the ripped canvas roof had begun to gray. He looked toward Kovac, curled awkwardly beneath the jacket he’d given her. She hadn’t been asleep long—two hours maybe—but they didn’t have the luxury of time. And he didn’t like how muddled his thoughts felt, how difficult it suddenly was to keep even the simplest facts straight.

He reached out and nudged her shoulder lightly.

“Kovac,” he murmured. “Time to go.”

She stiffened, then jerked awake with a small gasp. A long yawn cracked her jaw, and she stretched, blinking blearily at him. “Already?”

“The sun’s coming up,” he said quietly.

She scrubbed a hand over her face. “Fine. Fine. I’m up.” She didn’t look up until he pressed something into her hand—the bar of chocolate he’d found. Her eyes brightened instantly.

“Oh, thank you,” she sighed, tearing into the wrapper with more enthusiasm than she’d shown in days.

The next day passed in nothing but a blur. Kovac drove almost nonstop, weaving through the thick forests and patchy backroads, avoiding highways unless absolutely necessary. They couldn’t afford to add hours to their trip, but they also couldn’t risk being spotted.

At one point, Shilovsky tried to push himself up and climb into the front seat beside her, thinking it would be easier to stay awake if he could see the road. But the moment he tried to swing his leg under him, white-hot agony tore through his side, stealing his breath. Kovac had cursed, firmly ordering him to stay put.

By afternoon, she stopped for gas and climbed into the back to check on him. She told him he was burning up. By evening, he could feel it himself—heat radiating off his skin, sweat chilling instantly in the cold air. The wound pulsed with a sickening, throbbing ache, and every jostle of the jeep sent a fresh spike of fire through him. By nightfall he was barely coherent.

Kovac made her decision quickly. “I’m driving through the night,” she said, jaw tight. “If infection doesn’t kill you, the fever will. I’m not risking stopping again.”

She grabbed the thin piece of metal separating the cab from the back and snapped it off with a grunt, tossing it aside so she could see him more clearly. Then she helped him inch backward until his head rested just behind her legs, within easy reach if he faded out.

“Stay awake,” she said, glancing back at him every few seconds. “Talk to me.”

She started with small things—weather, the cold, how ridiculous it was that the Americans had chocolate in their equipment crates. She kept yawning as she spoke, her words sometimes drifting into nonsense before she corrected herself. Slowly, without meaning to, her questions grew more personal as she struggled to think of ways to keep him talking.

“What’s your favorite color?” she asked at one point, as if they were sitting in a café instead of an armed jeep barreling through a freezing forest.

He gave her a faint smile. “Blue. I think.”

She huffed a quiet laugh. “You think?”

“Hard to remember things right now.”

Her gaze flicked to his metal arm, glinting dully under the moonlight. “Does your arm ever hurt?”

He blinked at it as if considering it for the first time. “Sometimes, phantom pain I think it’s called. I don’t even remember how I lost the real one.” He hesitated, frustration bubbling beneath the fever haze. “Wait, I think I fell from somewhere. Maybe it was a mission gone wrong. It’s like I can almost remember it—almost.”

Kovac was silent for a moment, then shifted uncomfortably. He tried to think of a similar question, some way to connect with her.

“What about the scar on your collar?” he asked, voice slurred. “How did you get that one?”

Her grip tightened on the steering wheel. For a long moment, she didn’t answer. When she finally spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper.

“Her name was Nadia.”

Shilovsky blinked, forcing his eyes to stay open.

“In the Red Room,” Kovac continued, “they tell you not to make friends. Over and over. You’re there to train, not bond.” She let out a humorless breath. “But it’s hard not to. The training is brutal. You grow up with the same girls. You learn to survive with them.”

She swallowed. “Nadia and I… we were as close as we dared to be.”

“What happened?” he murmured.

“Our final test.” Her voice cracked. “I was given a knife and taken out to the forest. Told to return only after my opponent was dead.” Her hand tightened until her knuckles whitened. “I didn’t know who it would be. Not until she stepped out from behind the trees.”

Shilovsky’s breath hitched. “You killed her?”

Kovac’s jaw trembled. “I didn’t have a choice.” She stared straight ahead, eyes burning with something cold. “It was her or me.”

Kovac gave a short, tired laugh, the kind that cracked at the edges. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to dump all that on you. Lack of sleep, I guess.” She rubbed one eye with the heel of her hand. “Tell me about you instead. Did you have any friends? Any you remember at least?”

Shilovsky blinked slowly, forcing his eyes open again. The question drifted through the fever fog, catching on something.

“Yeah,” he said after a long moment. “His name was… Steve.”

Kovac snorted. “Steve? That’s the most American name I’ve ever heard.” She shifted her grip on the wheel. “What was he like?”

Shilovsky frowned. The answer was right there but every time he tried to grab it, it dissolved. “I don’t remember.”

She glanced back. “If you don’t remember him, how do you know he was your friend?”

He inhaled shakily. “I don’t know. I just… know.” He shut his eyes, trying to picture the man’s face. It hovered at the edges of memory, blurred and indistinct but also warm and familiar. “I can almost see him, though, when I think really hard.”

He laughed weakly at how absurd that sounded.

Kovac gave a soft huff of amusement. “Yeah, that sounds about right for tonight.”

Silence fell over the jeep. The engine hummed beneath them, the forest rushing by in dark blurs.

Finally, Kovac said, “We’ve got less than an hour left. If we’re lucky, the KGB won’t be too furious about how late we are.”

“That’s good,” he murmured. “Maybe I’ll just… close my eyes for a second.”

“No.” Her voice cracked like a whip. “Stay awake.”

“I’m just… tired…”

His head dipped.

Kovac reached back blindly and smacked him across the face.

His eyes flew open. “Ow!”

“Sorry,” she snapped, sounding anything but sorry. “But you have to stay with me. Keep talking. Tell me what Steve looks like.”

He blinked slowly, trying to drag the memory forward. Kovac prodded.

“Hair. What color?”

“Blond,” Shilovsky muttered.

She laughed. “Blond? Really? Fine. What about his last name? What was it?”

“R…” He frowned. The rest wouldn’t come. It slipped away into the feverish blur. “I don’t… I can’t…”

His voice trailed off.

This time her slap was harder. “Stay awake, Shilovsky!”

He jolted, glaring at her through half-lidded eyes. “Stop… hitting me.”

“Then stop falling asleep,” she shot back. “Eyes. What color were his eyes?”

“Whose eyes?” His words were thick, slurred.

“Steve’s! What color were Steve’s eyes?”

A beat of silence.

“Who’s Steve?” he asked softly.

Kovac looked back fast. Her brows furrowed with sharp worry. She turned forward and pressed her foot harder on the gas.

“Okay,” she said, voice tight and falsely calm. “Okay, that’s fine. Forget remembering. Just describe what you see. That’s all. No memories. Just… what’s around you.”

He blinked at her, then at the ceiling of the jeep. “Where… are we?”

“We’re in a jeep,” she said, a little louder, as if volume could anchor him. “Driving. Almost there. Talk to me, Shilovsky.”
His head lolled to the side. He vaguely recalled a jet and fire but not how he ended up in a jeep.

“Hey! Look out the back window. What do you see?”

He lifted his head an inch. All he saw was a white blur. “Snow,” he murmured.

Kovac let out a shaky laugh. “Yeah, genius, snow. How about inside the jeep? What do you see here?”

He let his gaze drift. The back of the jeep swayed in slow motion. Boxes. Cloth. Metal. Shadows. He tried to focus.

“The box of food,” he whispered. “The jackets…”

Something heavy and warm was draped across his lap. He touched it clumsily.

“I have Jacques’ jacket on my legs.”

Kovac’s voice sharpened. “Whose?”

He lifted the fabric, squinting at the stitched name on the shoulder.

“Sorry… Dernier,” he mumbled. “Don’t know where I got the name Jac—”

He didn’t finish.

A wave of dizziness slammed into him so hard he felt the jeep tilt. His head thudded back. Kovac’s voice tore through the ringing in his ears—sharp, panicked, shouting his name.

“Shilovsky!”

The world folded inward. Everything went white.

Chapter 29

Notes:

Okay. This is it for the Shilovsky part of the story. 😅

1956
Shilovsky

Shilovsky fought sleep with everything he had.

He couldn’t remember why he wasn’t supposed to sleep—just that something important tugged at the back of his mind, an urgent warning echoing in a dark, feverish fog. His eyelids felt glued shut, impossibly heavy, but some dim instinct insisted that if he let go, if he drifted too far, something bad would happen.

Voices swam around him, muffled and distorted like they were underwater. Someone shouted, panicked and desperate. Kovac maybe? The voice wavered in and out, too distant to be sure. He tried to follow it, but his consciousness slipped like wet ice beneath his hands.

Then he felt motion, violent and jarring. Arms hoisted him, cold hands against his burning skin, the scrape of metal against metal as he was shifted. The movement sent a bolt of agony tearing through his side. The pain snapped everything into momentary clarity, and he forced his eyes open.

The world was a blur. A smear of white snow. Then the shadow of a dark hallway. Then fluorescent lights so bright they pierced straight through his skull.

More voices. Closer this time. Dozens of them, overlapping and frantic. He tried to separate the words but they tangled together, none of them making sense. A rhythmic beeping began somewhere behind the noise, steady but sharp, matching the thundering pulse in his ears.

He tried to speak, to force the air through his throat. He needed to ask where Kovac was. He’d promised her that he would defend her when the KGB demanded answers for why they were late. Morozov would punish her if he didn’t intervene. He couldn’t let that happen.

But no sound came. His throat felt scraped raw, his tongue thick and heavy.

The movement around him shifted again. Hands pressed down on him, held him still. Something cold and sharp bit into his side. A surgical light flared above him, blinding.

The pain that followed was indescribable.

He felt it before he heard anything—an explosion of fire radiating out from the wound, so intense that his vision went white. He didn’t know if he screamed; the sound drowned under the sudden frenzy of voices.

The beeping behind him began to race. Then it slowed.

Slower.

Slower.

Until it became a long, unbroken tone.

Someone yelled orders. More hands pressed down. The world ripped away from him.
——-
Minutes—or hours—maybe even days later, consciousness seeped back in like thawing ice. Everything was blurry again, but he could feel the heaviness of blankets over his legs and the faint chill of air against bare skin. He sensed wires, tape tugging gently at his arm, the dull pinch of multiple IV needles.

He shifted his gaze downward without moving his head. Tight, clean bandages wrapped around his abdomen, stark against the bruised skin. He must have been out for longer than he realized.

The room around him was quiet, dim, and empty. A small monitor beside the bed beeped steadily, and when he tried to swallow, his throat scraped painfully dry.

He tried to speak—but what came out was nothing but a ragged croak.

The monitor beside him chirped, reacting to his sudden spike in heart rate. A door opened immediately.

Dr. Ivanov walked in with a clipboard tucked under one arm, moving briskly. He looked exhausted but relieved. There was a faint bounce in his step, as if he had been waiting for this exact moment.

Without acknowledging him, Ivanov swept to the bedside, checking the monitor, scribbling notes, adjusting the IV lines one by one with practiced efficiency.

Shilovsky licked his cracked lips. Tried again. This time, a rasp of sound scraped free. “Where… is Kovac?”

Ivanov didn’t look up. “I’m sorry,” he said blandly, “I’m not sure who that is.”

The answer hit Shilovsky like another blow. He stared at the man, trying to sift through the haze of memory. He was almost certain Ivanov had been present during the briefing with Morozov—the day he met Kovac. Or had he imagined that? Everything was fractured.

He forced his gaze down toward the bandages. “What… happened?”

This time Ivanov raised an eyebrow. “You don’t remember?”

Shilovsky closed his eyes, searching. The burned wreckage. The screaming metal. The fall through the trees.

“The jet,” he muttered. “We crashed.”

Ivanov nodded slightly and jotted something onto the clipboard. He finished whatever note he was scribbling, then flipped the page on the clipboard. “Your mission,” he said casually, almost cheerfully, “was a complete success. The package you retrieved is already with our specialists. They are analyzing it now—reverse-engineering it, trying to recreate the serum.”

“Lambda… serum?”

Ivanov stopped moving at once.

His pen froze in mid-stroke. His shoulders tensed. Slowly, very slowly, he lifted his head and met Shilovsky’s eyes for the first time since entering the room. “Yes,” he said quietly. “Lambda.” A beat. “How do you know what it is called?”

Shilovsky swallowed, throat burning. “I—I heard it. One of the HYDRA scientists told me.”

Ivanov’s expression sharpened like a knife’s edge. “Which scientist? And what else did they tell you about Lambda?”

Shilovsky opened his mouth. He meant to tell him everything, at least the fragments he remembered, the fear in the scientist’s voice, the warnings about what the serum could do. But something deep and instinctive pulled hard at the back of his mind.

Don’t trust him.

The words weren’t spoken, but they were loud. Urgent.

So instead he said, “Nothing. Just the name.”

Ivanov held his stare for several long seconds. The silence stretched. At last he hummed a skeptical little sound and looked back down at the chart, writing something with renewed intensity.

He set the clipboard aside.

“We removed the metal shard that punctured your abdomen,” he said matter-of-factly. “There was significant tearing, but we stitched the tissue and closed the wound. You also had several superficial injuries—bruising, minor lacerations, dehydration.” He gestured toward the IV lines. “You are receiving antibiotics for the infection. You will pull through.”

Shilovsky nodded slightly. “When… when can I speak with Agent Kovac?”

“I told you,” Ivanov said without missing a beat, “I don’t know who that is. And you need rest—lots of it. You will be debriefed properly when you are medically cleared.”

Before Shilovsky could push further, Ivanov reached into a drawer beside the bed and withdrew a small syringe filled with milky white fluid. He held it up almost proudly.

“This is a mild sedative,” he said, injecting it into the IV port. “Sleep accelerates healing. You’ve done your part, Agent Shilovsky. Now let your body rest.”

“No—” Shilovsky tried to protest, but the drug spread fast, warm and syrupy through his veins. His thoughts slipped, blurred, scattered. His eyelids grew impossibly heavy.

He sank under.
——-
Time dissolved into fragments.

He woke sometimes to the shuffle of feet, hands adjusting the tubing, cold stethoscopes against his chest. Words drifted in and out—whispers exchanged between nurses, clipped discussion from the doctors. His dreams twisted with memories that didn’t feel like memories at all. He couldn’t tell the difference.

Once—maybe—he saw Morozov and Ivanov together at the foot of his bed. They spoke in hushed, excited voices while scanning his chart.

He caught only two clear phrases:

“…he’s nearly ready…”

“…as soon as he is healed enough.”

Then darkness swallowed him again.
——-
Eventually the heaviness eased. The syrupy fog receded from his brain, leaving him alert enough to know he was awake—properly awake—for the first time in a while.

A nurse worked in the adjoining lab area, sorting vials. When she turned and saw his eyes open, she froze for a second, startled, then hurried to his bedside and pressed a small call button above his head.

“Agent Shilovsky,” she said with a warm but professional tone, “good morning. How are you feeling? Any pain?”

He shifted a little, expecting the familiar sting in his side—but all he felt was the pull of tight skin. He glanced down.

The bandages were gone.

In their place was an angry red scar, puckered and stitched neatly, running along his ribs. It looked older than it should. He had no idea how much time had passed.

“Discomfort,” he said slowly. “No real pain.”

“That’s excellent.” The nurse offered a relieved smile and began taking his vitals with practiced efficiency. “Your recovery is right on schedule.”

The nurse had just finished wrapping the blood pressure cuff when the door swung open again. Dr. Ivanov strode inside with the same brisk, energized intensity he’d worn the last time Shilovsky saw him—something sharp and expectant gleaming behind his eyes.

He spoke to the nurse first, quiet and clipped, too low for Shilovsky to make out the words. Whatever he said made her stiffen, eyes widening slightly. She nodded.

Then Ivanov turned to him.

“How are you feeling, Soldier?”

Shilovsky rubbed his palm over his face, feeling dried sweat tacky against his skin. His hair clung to his forehead in greasy strands. But he didn’t feel feverish anymore.

“Better,” he said.

Ivanov nodded once. “Good. You will walk with the nurse back to your room. She will assist you in showering. When you’re clean and changed into fresh clothes, you’re to be brought directly to Morozov’s office. No delays. Understood?”

Ivanov glanced at the chart one last time, his eyes flicking over the notes with a small, satisfied smile tugging the corner of his mouth. Then he turned sharply and left the room, the door snapping shut behind him.

The nurse lingered, staring at the door long after he was gone. When she finally turned to Shilovsky, her expression was tight, uneasy. She stepped closer and extended both hands stiffly.

“Careful,” she murmured. “You’ve been in and out of consciousness for a little over a week. Weakness is normal.”

A week?

The number hit him like a blow. He swallowed hard and slid off the stretcher. His legs shook violently the moment his weight hit them, but he forced himself upright. The nurse slipped an arm out for him, though she leaned away as much as she could, as if afraid to stand too close.

He couldn’t help thinking of the way Kovac had braced herself under his arm, taking half his weight without hesitation, muttering at him to stay awake.

The nurse helped him down the hallway, steady but distant, careful not to touch him more than necessary. His room looked exactly the way he remembered—sterile, plain, untouched. Not even the blanket had shifted.

She guided him to the bathroom and helped him undress, her hands gentle but hurried, careful to keep her eyes averted. Bending, twisting—everything pulled at the stitches along his side, sending small sparks of pain radiating outward.

“I’ll stand right outside,” she said, voice soft. “Call if you need help.”

The water was lukewarm at best, and the longer he stood under it, the colder it ran. Grime and dried sweat washed off in gray streaks, swirling around the drain. He scrubbed fast, wincing every time his fingers brushed the tender skin near the scar.

When the water turned frigid, he shut it off and stepped out. The nurse was waiting with a towel already extended toward him.

He dried off quickly, shivering. She grabbed a folded pile of clothes from the dresser and helped him dress: clean trousers, a stiff button-down shirt. Before he could fasten the last buttons, she paused to inspect the wound again, her brow tightening.

“It’s healing better than expected,” she whispered, almost to herself.

Then she buttoned the shirt for him and stepped back. “Come on. Morozov is waiting.”

This time, she didn’t offer her arm—but she walked close enough that he knew it was there if he needed it.

As they made their way down the hall, he asked, “Agent Kovac… will she be in the office?”

The nurse stiffened. A nervous glance flicked his way. “I don’t… I don’t know,” she said carefully. She knocked on Morozov’s door. It swung open instantly.

Dr. Ivanov stood waiting just inside, his expression unreadable. He waved Shilovsky in. The nurse remained outside the doorway, her hands gripping each other tightly.

Shilovsky entered.

Ivanov offered a chair. For a moment, Shilovsky stared—surprised by the courtesy. But the ache in his side convinced him quickly, and he sat.

Morozov didn’t look at him at first. He was flipping through a thick stack of papers, muttering under his breath. Only when he reached the end of the stack did he lift his eyes.

“So,” he said, “it seems your mission was successful after all. Dr. Ivanov reports that the serum is exactly what we were searching for. Well done, soldier.”

“Thank you,” Shilovsky said. “But it wasn’t just me. I wouldn’t have gotten the serum without Agent Kovac.”

Morozov’s eyebrow lifted. Ivanov’s did too—though neither spoke.

Morozov leaned back in his chair. “Is there anything else, anything important, about the serum or the mission that you wish to share?”

Shilovsky thought. “No. The only thing I really learned was its name.”

He paused. “Oh, our jet was shot down by Americans,” he added. “That may matter. It’s why we were delayed.”

Morozov nodded casually. “Agent Kovac already briefed us on that.” He looked to Ivanov. “He’s all yours, doctor. I want the results on my desk as soon as possible.”

He waved a dismissive hand and returned to his papers.

Ivanov motioned for Shilovsky to stand. He did, ignoring the pull of pain.

“What results?” he asked as Ivanov led him out of the office.

Ivanov didn’t miss a beat. “Your physical tests. We need to know how soon you can return to the field. You’ll likely be on light duty at first. We just need to run a few tests.”

Shilovsky nodded slowly. “That makes sense.” But something in Ivanov’s tone made his skin crawl.

Shilovsky expected Ivanov to steer him toward the training wing, the long concrete corridor that led to the gym. Instead, Ivanov turned the opposite direction, toward the reinforced steel door of the main laboratory.

The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead. Every step echoed. Something twisted uneasily in Shilovsky’s stomach.

Ivanov held the lab door open, gesturing him inside. “Up on the table.”

The metal exam table sat in the center of the room, surrounded by carts of instruments, rows of locked cabinets, and the faint chemical smell of antiseptic. It sent a chill crawling up his spine, but he obeyed. He eased himself onto the cold metal surface, hissing softly when his stitches tugged.

“I thought… we were going to the training room,” Shilovsky said.

“You will,” Ivanov replied, rolling a tray closer. “Shortly. But first I want to give you one more round of antibiotics. The shower, the exertion—it may have irritated the wound. We don’t want a relapse.”

That made sense, he had to admit. The ache in his side had grown sharper since he’d walked here, a dull burning that pulsed with each breath.

He nodded. “The wound does sting a little.”

Ivanov hummed thoughtfully, as though confirming an expectation. He fitted an IV line to Shilovsky’s arm with practiced precision.

“Try to relax,” he said. “This will help ease the pain.”

A syringe appeared in Ivanov’s hand—filled again with that milky white sedative. Not as much as before. Still enough to tug at the edges of his awareness.

The needle slipped into the IV port with a soft click. Coolness flooded his bloodstream, spreading up his arm, across his shoulder, and then blooming behind his eyes. His limbs grew heavy almost instantly. He blinked hard, trying to stay alert.

A fog rolled in around his thoughts. Ivanov set the empty syringe aside and reached for another one.

Shilovsky watched through half-lidded eyes, the world wavering in soft motion. The doctor lifted the next vial into view.

The liquid inside the syringe was a deep, unnatural blue, almost black. It shimmered faintly when Ivanov tilted it, thick and viscous—nothing like antibiotics he had been given before.

Something about it tugged at Shilovsky’s memory. A shadow in the back of his mind.

His heart thudded heavily. That color. He knew that color.

His eyelids fluttered.

“Antibiotics?” he forced out, or thought he did. The words felt thick, slurred.

Ivanov didn’t answer, he didn’t even glance up. He simply tapped the syringe, checking for air bubbles, humming softly—a cheerful little tune, completely at odds with the icy dread tightening Shilovsky’s chest.

Shilovsky tried to sit up, or at least move, but his limbs wouldn’t respond. The sedative diluted his strength by the second, turning his body into an uncooperative weight.

His vision blurred at the edges. The syringe gleamed. The blue liquid shifted like ink. Then everything collapsed inward as the sedative took over.

And Shilovsky fell, once again, into the dark.
——-
Shilovsky’s eyes opened slowly. The overhead lights blurred for a moment before sharpening into stark white bars across the ceiling. He lifted his head and scanned the room. A man stood a few feet away, stiff with tension, watching him with something like excitement in his eyes.

The man stepped closer, cautious. “Are you feeling alright?” he asked.

Shilovsky gave a single, silent nod.

“Good.” The man let out a breath and scribbled on a clipboard. “We are going to run a few quick tests. Vitals, brain scan, simple things.”

He moved around the table with brisk efficiency, checking the monitors, shining a light in Shilovsky’s eyes, making notes without explaining anything further. A nurse slipped into the room, stopping politely behind him.

“Dr. Ivanov,” she said. “They are ready in the training room whenever you are.” Shilovsky watched her without speaking.

Ivanov nodded and waved her out. He finished the last of his measurements, his pen scratching lightly over the clipboard. Shilovsky followed the motion with his eyes, waiting for the next instruction like a machine waiting for activation.

“Everything looks good medically,” Ivanov said. “If you are feeling up to it, we would like to conduct some physical tests.”

Shilovsky nodded again.

“Go ahead and climb down. Be careful of your stitches.”

Shilovsky looked down as he sat up. A deep pink scar crossed his abdomen, held shut with black stitches. There was no memory attached to it. He had absolutely no clue how it got there. He buttoned his shirt without hesitation and stepped off the table.

Ivanov led him into the hallway. Their footsteps echoed evenly. The pull of stretched stitches tugged at his skin with each step, but he dismissed the pain as irrelevant and kept pace with the doctor. They descended a flight of stairs and stopped outside a gray metal door. Ivanov noted something else on his clipboard before motioning Shilovsky inside.

The training room was wide and dark, lined with soldiers stationed along the walls. Each one stood armed and rigid, their eyes fixed forward, ignoring him. Ivanov guided Shilovsky to the center of the room.

“We want to run a few tests,” Ivanov said. “We need to assess your physical condition as well as a few other things.”

He signaled one of the soldiers. The man stepped forward, rolling his shoulders once before raising his fists.

“Take him down,” Ivanov said to Shilovsky. “But do not kill him.”

The order settled in Shilovsky’s mind like a weight snapping into place. He stood without expression, waiting for the cue to move.

Ivanov shouted for them to begin.

Shilovsky closed the distance in a single step and struck at the man’s head. The soldier jerked aside at the last instant, the punch grazing his cheek. The man countered immediately with a hard kick toward Shilovsky’s injured side. The boot connected near the scar, sending a sharp throb across his abdomen, but Shilovsky seized the man’s ankle and twisted. The soldier cried out and dropped heavily onto one knee.

The stitches tore against Shilovsky’s skin. Pain flared bright and hot, but he ignored it. It did not slow him.

The soldier rolled sideways, forcing Shilovsky’s grip to loosen, and scrambled back to his feet. Sweat ran down the man’s face now. He lifted his fists again, but his posture had changed.

Shilovsky stepped toward him. The man launched a punch at his jaw with sudden desperation. The impact landed clean, cracking against bone. Shilovsky’s head snapped sideways for a moment. A burst of white light filled his vision, but no sound left him. No reaction surfaced. He turned his head back toward the soldier as though nothing had touched him.

The soldier hesitated. It was only a fraction of a second, but it was enough.

Shilovsky caught his wrist, twisted it sharply behind his back, and drove the man downward. The soldier hit the ground with a grunt. Shilovsky followed, pinning him by planting a knee between the shoulder blades. The man tried to buck upward, but Shilovsky grabbed the other wrist, folding both arms into an impossible angle.

Breathing hard, the soldier thrashed once, then twice. Shilovsky shifted his weight, clamping him in place. He reached for the pressure point at the side of the soldier’s neck, his thumb sinking in with precise force. The man’s struggles weakened and then went still. His body sagged into unconsciousness.

Only then did Shilovsky rise.

Warmth spread across his side, soaking through the fabric. He glanced down and saw blood seeping through his shirt again. The wound must have reopened, but the observation meant little to him. He lifted his eyes to Ivanov and stood motionless, waiting.

Ivanov nodded with visible satisfaction. He jotted several notes on his clipboard, his expression somewhere between pride and triumph. He called for one of the soldiers along the wall to drag the unconscious man away. The others did not move or react. They kept their gaze fixed forward.

Shilovsky remained exactly where he was, silent and ready for whatever came next.

Ivanov gave a small nod to one of the soldiers along the wall. The man stepped out of formation and left the room without a word. Shilovsky stood in the same spot in the center of the room, hands at his sides, eyes fixed ahead.

A minute later the door swung open again. The soldier returned dragging someone behind him, their steps uneven and clumsy. A burlap bag covered the person’s head, the fabric scraping against their shoulders as they stumbled. Their hands were bound in front of them with tight cords that bit into the skin leaving angry red marks.

The soldier hauled the captive a few feet in front of Shilovsky and forced them to their knees. With a hard tug he yanked the bag upward.

A woman blinked rapidly in the bright lights, her lashes fluttering as her eyes adjusted. Her hair was tangled, her face pale. Then her gaze finally found Shilovsky. Her expression changed instantly, relief flooded her features.

“Agent Shilovsky, you’re alive,” she said, her voice breathless with hope. “Thank god. I wasn’t sure if you made it or not. You were in such bad shape when we got back. They wouldn’t tell me anything.”

She glanced around the room. Her relief faltered. Her eyes darted from the armed soldiers to the doctor beside him, then back to Shilovsky, who watched her with a flat expression. Concern replaced her hope.

She swallowed and asked quietly, “Are you… okay?”

Shilovsky did not answer. He simply stood there, breathing evenly.

Ivanov stepped closer. He pressed the cold weight of a gun into Shilovsky’s hand. His voice was low and calm as he leaned in near Shilovsky’s ear.

“She is a rogue agent,” he said. “She returned late from her mission late. The KGB believes she is compromised. Do you understand?”

Shilovsky nodded once. He kept his eyes on the woman. Her face shifted from worry to shock. “Shilovsky?” she whispered.

Then realization crashed through her expression. Her breath caught and she shook her head slowly. “They gave you the serum, didn’t they?”

Ivanov ignored her completely. He continued speaking to Shilovsky with the same measured tone.

“Your next test is to execute this agent.”

He released the gun as Shilovsky’s fingers closed around the grip and stepped back. Shilovsky raised the weapon.

The woman’s lips trembled. A single tear slipped down her cheek. She shut her eyes tightly and whispered, her voice shaking, “It’s okay. It’s not your fault.”

The room was still, every soldier rigid, every breath suspended.

Shilovsky pulled the trigger.

The shot cracked through the silence. The bullet hit her cleanly in the center of the forehead. She fell backward without a sound, her body crumpling into a small, unmoving heap on the floor.

Shilovsky lowered the gun.

Ivanov was smiling beside him. The sound of his pen scratching over the clipboard broke the silence again. He nodded, pleased, and said in a satisfied tone, “Very good. Very good indeed. Morozov will be pleased.”