A/N: IT LIIIIIIIVES. As always, sorry for the horribly lengthy delay, in addition to just life stuff, this chapter fought back something FIERCE. But here it is, at last. A sincere THANK YOU to anyone still reading this-you guys are awesome. :D

Disclaimer: Disney owns everything.

Winter Soldier

Chapter 18

Anna hears Ryder before she sees him; or, more accurately, hears one of the orderlies outside tell him to calm down, and the subsequent grunt as Ryder pushes them aside.

The door slams open, and there he is. Wild-eyed and breathless.

"Is he going to make it?" he asks, coming to stand beside her. Anna shrugs, eyes never leaving Fury's body, which at present is surrounded by six...doctors? Nurses? Anna can't tell who's who—all of them are wearing surgical masks and they're moving quickly, barking orders back and forth...She gave up trying to follow what was happening shortly after they took Fury into surgery. Instead, she just keeps her eyes on his face and listens for the sound of the heart monitor. It's steady. For now.

"I don't know," she finally says, shifting her weight and crossing her arms. Ryder's expression darkens—she can see his reflection in the glass partition.

"Tell me about the shooter." It sounds like Ryder wants a distraction. Anna's happy to oblige. She's been alone with her thoughts in the small, dark room for...She rubs her eyes. Too long.

She could use a distraction as well.

"He's...fast. Strong," she tells him. Ryder rolls his eyes, unimpressed with her description. "Hey, it was dark alright? And he had like a...face mask, or something. And a hood."

"So we've got nothing, basically."

Anna huffs. "Actually, we do have something. You didn't let me finish." She eyes the taller man, and when he doesn't say anything, she states, "he had a metal arm."

Ryder hides his reaction well—she almost misses the subtle twitch of his mouth, his quiet intake of breath. But he breaks eye contact too quickly; it's a dead giveaway.

He knows this guy.

"Ballistics?" he asks. Anna doesn't answer him—she leaves that up to Agent Tomago. She's met the dark-haired agent once before, and knows she's essentially Fury's right hand woman. She had already been here when Anna came tearing in earlier.

The woman had been calm and composed, the picture of unaffected professionalism. Now, though, she's a little less so, a visible line etched between her eyebrows as she stares intently into the OR.

"Three slugs," she mutters. "No rifling. Completely untraceable."

Anna can see Ryder set his jaw. "Soviet slugs," he says.

"...Yeah," Tomago's brows raise in surprise. "How did you—"

"He's in V-tach."

"Crash cart coming in—"

"Nurse, help me with the drape."

The heart monitor's going crazy, as are the doctors and nurses. Anna stiffens, watching as they rush to surround Fury.

"BP's dropping!"

"Defibrillator!"

Ryder leans forward, to the point where he's almost pressed against the glass. His mouth is moving, like he's muttering to himself. There's a break in the noise as the nurses grab the equipment, and Anna realizes that he is muttering to himself.

"Don't do this to me, Nick. Don't do this to me."

"I want you to charge him at one hundred," the doctor is saying as he rubs the paddles together. "Stand back."

"C'mon on Nick," Ryder hisses.

Yeah, Fury, c'mon. Anna silently pleads.

"Three, two, one, clear." The doctor presses the paddles to Fury's exposed, bloody chest. His body jumps in response, but he's still flat-lining.

"Pulse?"

"No pulse."

"Okay, two hundred please. Stand back," they repeat the procedure, "three, two, one, clear!"

Paddles to chest. A shudder. No change.

"Get me an epinephrine. Pulse?!"

"Negative."

And then...it's like everything stops. The nurses and doctors stop rushing, the heart monitor stops beeping—it's just one, steady tone in the background. Neither Ryder nor Tomago seem to be breathing. And Anna...Anna is breathing. Deep, worried gulps of air. Because this...this can't be happening. She keeps waiting for Fury to sit up and curse at the surgeons, or something.

But he's so still.

Distantly, she hears the doctor ask the time. And that pretty much tells Anna all she needs to know. As the nurse answers, and the doctor notes the time of death, she silently slips out of the room, hand in her pocket, fingers brushing the flashdrive.

Trust no one. Fury said.

And as Tomago and Ryder step out into the hallway after her, she sighs and grips the device tightly.

Yeah, well. Easier said than done.

It's later—so much later, in fact, that it's no longer technically 'late.' Now it's early. Morning light creeps into the room where they're keeping Fury—his body, Anna mentally corrects herself, still having a hard time believing that the man is dead. But there he is, tucked under a crisp white sheet, chest horribly still.

Ryder's standing next to him, head bowed. He's got his fist covering his mouth, like he's going to cough. Every now and then he'll turn so that she can see the side of his face, and she can tell he's crying; or, he was crying. He's stopped now.

Anna tries to think of a time she's seen Ryder display anything other than 'smarm,' and keeps drawing a blank. And for that matter, did she ever get the sense that Ryder and Fury were friends?

She bites her lip and stares at her shoes, struck with the fact that she doesn't really know Ryder. Under normal circumstances, this wouldn't bother her as much. But S.H.I.E.L.D.'s been compromised. That...changes things.

Yeah but, it's Ryder.She tells herself, still chewing her bottom lip as she glances at his back. You can trust Ryder.

...Right?

Ryder had been integral in the Battle of New York; he'd saved countless lives. Anna can't ignore that fact. But she also can't ignore that little stunt he pulled back on the Lemurian Star. And how irritatingly dodgy he can be when trying to get get a straight answer out of him.

She scowls. She doesn't know what's going on and if there's one thing that gets her blood up, it's being left in the dark. She wants answers. And if Ryder knows what's good for him, he'll give them to her.

So when Tomago comes back for Fury's body, and they're essentially kicked out of the room, Anna's ready to interrogate him. What does he know about the shooter? How does he know about the-

"Why was Fury in your apartment?" Ryder demands as soon as they're in the hallway. Anna gapes a little, taken aback. Shouldn't this be the other way around?

"I...I don't know?" She hopes it doesn't sound as flimsy a lie as she thinks it sounds.

"Rogers," Anna glances over her shoulder to see Rumlow standing with a group of S.T.R.I.K.E. Agents, glaringly conspicuous in their dark gear and combat boots. "They want you back at S.H.I.E.L.D."

She nods. "Uh, okay. Give me a second."

"They want you now." Rumlow insists. There's something in the man's tone that disagrees with Anna, like touching a raw nerve; sharp and immediately uncomfortable. She flinches.

"...Alright." She tries, and fails, to keep the irritation from her voice. Rumlow senses he's maybe pushed a bit too hard, and wisely decides to go on ahead. And it's starting to hit her, the long day and even longer night; the rooftop chase; Fury; S.H.I.E.L.D...like water down a drain, it's spinning around in her head, making her dizzy. (Or, maybe that's the sleep deprivation talking.)

She looks back at Ryder, ready to give him a better lie—er, answer—but he's leaving too.

"You're a terrible liar, Red," he calls over his shoulder as he retreats down the hall.

"You say that like it's a bad thing!" Anna yells after him, but it sounds more exhausted and confused than angry. She slumps forward and scrubs at her face. She needs a shower, some coffee, and a way out of the meeting at S.H.I.E.L.D.

Okay, I can maaaybe scrounge up some coffee, she thinks bleakly as she makes her way down the hall. She remembers a vending machine, which...

Is not going to have coffee, Anna. She winces. Get it together. Focus. You've gotta be back at S.H.I.E.L.D. in like, twenty minutes, ready to face...whatever is waiting there for you. You gotta be on top of your game! You gotta be prepared! You gotta be-

...Is that a Hershey's bar?

It's not coffee, but as Anna watches the guy restock the vending machine, she has to admit that chocolate—while it won't pack the same amount of punch as say, a nice tall Doubleshot—it will definitely improve her overall mood.

She gropes in her pocket for some change, praying she has some, and her fingers brush against the stupid flashdrive again—

She hisses.

The flashdrive.

She can't go back into S.H.I.E.L.D. with it on her. She needs to hide it somewhere. Maybe...maybe she can swing by her apartment? And—no. No, Rumlow will probably be waiting with a car outside...

The vending machine guy steps away for a moment, leaving it open, half-full, some of the items not yet replaced.

Anna stares at it for a few seconds, turning the flashdrive over in her pocket.

...Would that even work?

She doesn't have time to think it through. Vending Machine Man is already on his way back. She jumps forward and tucks the drive behind some chewing gum—E4, she notes. She's down the hall and nearly out the door by the time he's back at his post, none the wiser as to the secrets now held between the Nacho Cheese and Cool Ranch Doritos.

And as Anna is whisked off to S.H.I.E.L.D., she just hopes that the fine folks at Providence Hospital are not in the mood for Juicy Fruit today.

All in all, it takes about an hour to get from the hospital to S.H.I.E.L.D. Well, technically it only took about thirty minutes. Anna dedicated the other thirty to removing most of the sweat and grime she'd accumulated during her late-night chase. Rumlow's clearly not happy about the delay, scowling as he and the rest of the S.T.R.I.K.E. team escort her through the halls of the Triskelion. But Anna's not about to meet the head of S.H.I.E.L.D. in day-old wrinkled, smelly clothes, so tough toenails, Rumlow.

Eventually, they reach the elevator, at which point Rumlow and S.T.R.I.K.E. bid her adieu, but not before throwing in a meaningful frown or two. Anna just ignores him. She feels infinitely better in her clean uniform; she's awake and aware and she can face just about anything. It's almost as good as coffee. Almost.

"Forty-fifth floor," she says.

"Confirmed," the elevator replies. Anna steps back, settling into a relaxed stance, occasionally glancing behind her at the spectacular view of the river. She allows her mind to wander some, but given the circumstances, her mind can't wander all that far. She finds herself stuck on a number of things. Fury's death. The flashdrive. Her upcoming meeting with the head of S.H.I.E.L.D...

She absently scratches her neck, reflecting on the fact that she's never met the man, actually. And honestly, she'd thought for a long time that Fury ran everything. But apparently this guy—Westergard—runs the show.

Anna's brow furrows. Has she ever seen Westergard? Surely, there's been like...photos, or something, like in the main lobby...? She wracks her brain, but, no. She's certain she's never seen him.

The elevator ride is over all too quickly. The metal doors slide open, and suddenly, she finds herself face to face with her neighbor.

Well, she thinks it's her neighbor. Nani looks like an entirely different person, dressed in slacks and a blazer, her long black hair pulled back, not a single strand out of place.

Anna's fists clench as the subtle twinge of anger flares up, along with the hurt of being lied to for the greater part of a year.

"Er...Captain Rogers," Nani says with a polite nod and uncharacteristic stiffness.

Anna can feel her mouth pulling into a tight frown.

She was just doing her job, Anna reminds herself. Come on, you can be civil. She swallows her negative feelings.

"Neighbor."

Well. Not all of the negative feelings, apparently, as a little bit of malice slips out.

Nani can't meet her eyes after that. Anna tries not to feel too bad about it.

They do an awkward sort of shuffle—Anna trying to step past while Nani simultaneously does the same, and then they both try to get out of each other's way.

"Sorry, I—"

"No, it's—"

Nani is the one who ultimately steps aside, bringing the uncomfortable back-and-forth dance to an end. Anna's begrudgingly grateful, because Westergard's secretary has been watching the whole embarrassing display.

"Thanks," she mumbles, and Nani nods before making her exit. Now it's just Anna and the guy at the end of the hall.

She clears her throat and strides forward.

"I'm...I'm here to see..." Mister? Councilman? Mister Councilman? Sir? Anna has no idea what to call him. "Uh...Secretary Westergard." You can call a former Secretary of Defense Secretary even when they're not really the Secretary anymore, right? Or is that just a President thing?

The young man laughs and runs a hand through his auburn hair.

"Well. I am Secretary Westergard, so."

Anna doesn't have the presence of mind to stop herself from gawking at him in outright shock.

"You're Secretary Westergard...The Secretary Westergard..." the svelte man in front of her can't be any older than thirty...if even that. "But you're so young," she blurts, and immediately regrets it. She waves her hand, like the gesture can somehow blot out her prior statement. "I mean—you're not like, young young, just...just a lot younger than I pictured you and—"

"I could say the same to you, Captain Rogers," Secretary Westergard points out with a polite smile. Now it's Anna's turn to laugh—albeit a little more self-consciously—because, yeah, where does she get off, commenting on how old someone looks, of all things? "Why don't we start over?" Secretary Westergard suggests, and Anna nods eagerly. "I'm Secretary Westergard. A pleasure to finally meet you, Captain Rogers." He extends his hand. Anna grips it and gives it a firm, businesslike shake. Thank goodness she's wearing gloves—he can't feel how clammy her palm is.

"It's an honor, sir."

"The honor's mine, Captain. And please, call me Hans." Anna can't do much else besides nod again, even though she's not entirely sure how she feels about calling the Secretary by his first name. He urges her to follow him inside the office, and as she does so, she takes the opportunity to get a better look at him, while his back is turned.

He's tall and slender, not at all how she imagined him—she's seen some of the other members of the World Security Council. Councilman Rourke is sort of her default mental picture—old, grey, and bearing that 'eroded' look that seems to come from being involved in the government for any extended period of time, like all of your features have drooped and bled together under the weight of bureaucracy.

Secretary Westergard—Hans, she reminds herself—is the exact opposite, vibrant in a way that Rourke and Bonnefamille aren't, with his bright green eyes and still-sharp features. His posture is immaculate, and she notes that his broad shoulders fill out his suit jacket quite nicely and—

She has to stop herself and shake her head. Now is not the time to be drooling over the (admittedly rather handsome) leader of S.H.I.E.L.D.

She pries her gaze away from the man and tries to remember what she can about the Westergard family, but all she can recall is that it's large and...no, that's about it.

Anna's forced to look back at Hans as he casually approaches his desk and takes a seat on the edge of the tidy surface. He grabs the lone file sitting next to his keyboard and flips through the contents, though his attention is clearly not on the documents within.

"I'm sorry about all this," he says with genuine contrition. And it takes Anna a moment to figure out what he's referring to. "Calling you in so soon after...that ordeal."

She's not sure how to respond. "It...hasn't really sunk in yet."

Hans smiles sadly. "I know. I...can't quite believe it either." His eyes leave Anna's face and return to the documents in his hand. His smile fades, and he sighs. "Why don't you take a seat?" He gestures to one of the low couches across from the desk. She does, but not before removing her shield and settling it next to her feet. (Not the most comfortable thing to wear while sitting down, as she's found out.)

Hans comes to join her, and pushes the opened file across the coffee table situated in front of the couch. There's a number of photos mixed in among the more official-looking papers—Anna finds herself staring at a much younger Nick Fury, and the back of someone's head. The shade of auburn looks familiar.

"That photo was taken five years after Nick and my older brother met," Hans explains, and Anna remembers now—Hans is the youngest of thirteen brothers. She wonders which number is pictured in the photograph. "He was at the state department in Bogota. E.L.N. rebels took the embassy. Security got my brother out, but the rebels took hostages."

Hans points to some other photos, but Anna's still focused on the one of Nick. She's never seen pictures of him before the eye patch...it's...unnerving. Like...he had a whole life before S.H.I.E.L.D...and who knows, maybe he even had a life outside of S.H.I.E.L.D.

She shudders and looks away. Imagining Fury in any context outside of his black trench-coat persona makes him a real person, not just a name and a face...and she can't deal with that right now...not after having seen him dead in the hospital mere hours prior.

"Nick was Deputy Chief of the S.H.I.E.L.D. station there, and the way my brother tells it..." now Hans' tone is lighter, almost boyish in its earnestness. Anna glances up to find him smiling wistfully. "He comes up with this plan, see. He wants to storm the building through the sewers. So, of course my brother says, 'No. We'll negotiate, Nick.' But it turned out that the E.L.N. didn't negotiate. They put out a kill order.

"They stormed the basement, and what do they find?" Hans spreads his hands wide. "They find it empty." He laughs and sits back in the chair. "Nick had disobeyed a direct order and carried out an unauthorized military operation on foreign soil—"

"—And saved the lives of those political officers," Anna interjects, not entirely sure what Hans is getting at. Nor is she entirely sure why she feels compelled to defend Fury.

"Yes," Hans agrees, not at all put off by her interruption. "A dozen or so, including my niece."

"So..." Anna tries to piece together the time line. "Your brother...gave him a promotion."

"He never had any cause to regret it," Hans says by way of answer. Anna puts the photo back down on the coffee table, and wishes she could pinch the bridge of her nose without drawing weird looks from Hans. (Though. Maybe she could pass it off as lack of sleep.)

Instead, she drums her fingers on her knee—a lot less noticeable, and it helps her focus. Okay, okay. Hans' older brother met Nick Fury in some indeterminate year, B.E. (Before Eye patch.) Nick Fury proceeded to do what Nick Fury does best—basically whatever the hell he wanted. But he saved a bunch of people so they didn't fire him, instead, Hans' brother made him Director of S.H.I.E.L.D.

(Anna wonders at the logic behind appointing someone who seems to have difficulties following orders to leadership position in what is essentially an international police force...but then. She pretty much did the same thing, back during the war, and she also got a promotion...sort of. And, now that she thinks about it, here she is, working at S.H.I.E.L.D. as well.

Huh. S.H.I.E.L.D. has a type, it seems.)

So then...however many years later, Hans gets his brother's job—Anna hesitates to call 'nepotism' because Hans seems like a capable guy...a very young capable guy, sure, but that doesn't mean anything—and while Hans' brother never felt a need to question Fury, Hans might.

"Anna, why was Nick in your apartment last night?"

She starts, both because she was lost in thought, and because she can't recall if she ever gave Hans permission to call her by her first name. In fact, she's sure she hasn't, but then...he said to call him 'Hans' so maybe he figures first names are just a given, at this point.

"I don't know," she tells him, shaking her head slightly. It's the same line she gave Ryder, and as such, it feels a little less forced the second time around. More practiced. More convincing.

"Did you know it was bugged?" He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. She nods, glad she can answer this one truthfully.

"Yeah...Fury told me."

"Did he tell you he was the one who bugged it?"

Anna fidgets. Well, no, Fury seemed to have left that little detail out, but she's not all that surprised. It strikes her as a 'classic Fury' move. A little underhanded. A little paranoid...yep. Classic Fury.

She doesn't say any of this to Hans...just lets him sort of sit there, russet brows drawn upwards in curiosity. After what feels like a lengthy stretch of awkward silence (not that Hans is probably feeling awkward—Anna's pretty sure that's all her) he turns away and grabs a remote. The large, wall-length monitor behind them flickers, the screen changing over to a live video feed.

"Here, I want you to see something."

Anna watches the screen, eyes widening fractionally as she recognizes the large, muscled individual seated in the interrogation room.

"Shan Yu," she murmurs.

"Yes," Hans puts the remote down. "They picked him up last night in a not-so-safe house in Algiers."

Two men in suits circle Shan Yu. Anna can't hear what they're saying.

"So...he's a suspect?" Why else would Hans be showing her this? "Assassination isn't really Shan Yu's thing..." At least, not this kind of assassination—Shan Yu seems more like the 'DIY' type and a little less 'hire others to do it for you' type.

"No, no. It's...more complicated than that," Hans says, taking a deep breath. "Shan Yu was hired anonymously to attack the Lemurian Star. He was contacted by email, paid by wire transfer, and then the money was run through seventeen fictitious accounts."

"Seventeen?" Anna's no expert on this stuff, but that...seems like an awful lot of trouble to go through. Someone obviously, desperately wanted to cover their tracks.

"The last one went to a holding company that was registered to a 'Jacob Veech.'" Hans sifts through the papers on the coffee table and finds the one he's looking for. He extracts it, and hands it over to Anna. She glances at the lines on the page, not really in the mood for light reading. She feigns interest, allowing her eyes to skim across the information—most of which is blacked out, actually.

"Am I supposed to know who that is?" She hopes not, because the name isn't ringing any bells.

"Not likely." She suppresses a relieved sigh. "Veech died six years ago. His last address was 1435 Elmhurst Drive," Hans emphasizes that last bit. Anna stops fake-reading and looks at him. "When my brother first met Nick, his mother lived at 1437."

And there it is. The implication that Hans has been dancing around this entire time.

"You're saying that Fury hired the pirates," there's no question in her voice, no surprise or confusion. Instead, that comes next, when she asks, "Why?"

Hans' expression is one of profound disappointment—probably in Fury, but Anna can't help irrationally wondering if it's because she didn't do...whatever it was that he was expecting her to do. Break down in tears? Respond with outrage? "The prevailing theory is that the hijacking was a cover for the acquisition of and sale of classified intelligence. The sale went sour and that led to Nick's death." He shrugs, almost in a 'it couldn't be helped' sort of way. Like it was inevitable.

And while there is that annoying, nagging thought at the back of her mind—Fury and his compartmentalizing—she opens her mouth and challenges Hans' accusation.

"If you really knew Nick Fury, you'd know that's not true."

She watches Hans closely, marginally worried she's just offended one of the most powerful men at S.H.I.E.L.D., but his expression never changes. He looks deeply saddened by all that's happened.

"Why do you think we're talking?"

She considers his question.

I don't know anymore.

He stands up and makes his way over to the windows behind his desk, leaning on his forearm against the glass pane. "I'd be lying if I said I didn't want the seat on the Council...when Nick asked me, I jumped at the chance. I think he realized we were both realists."

Huh, Anna thinks, standing up. So. Not nepotism after all.

"My brother wasn't—" Hans starts to say, only to stop abruptly and start again. "He bought into all the diplomacy, the handshaking, the rhetoric. But Nick and I...we both knew that to truly build a better world...it sometimes meant having to tear the old one down."

There's the barest flicker of something behind Hans' eyes—but it's so quick, Anna thinks she might have imagined it. And as soon as he turns back to look at her, his expression is that same, forlorn frown he's been wearing. "And that, unfortunately, makes enemies.

"People that call you dirty, because you have the guts to stick your hands in the mud and try to build something better. And the idea that those people are happy today..." He takes a deep breath in through his nose. "Makes me very, very angry."

She stares at him, at his perfectly styled hair, his immaculate suit, hands tucked casually into his pockets, shoulders slack and eyes slightly downcast—he looks more resigned than angry.

She feels...bad for him.

"You were the last one to see Nick alive," he says, "I don't think that's an accident. And I don't think you do, either." Anna doesn't know what she thinks but...okay, yeah. The fact that Fury came to her and not someone else seems deliberate. He probably came to her because she's a terrible liar and the most clueless person in all of S.H.I.E.L.D. Double agent material she is not.

"So I'm going to ask again," Hans says, stepping forward. "Why was he there?"

His green eyes are boring into her, and...and she wants to tell him, because they're on the same side, right? They both want to figure out who killed Fury. Fury was their friend.

But.

"...He told me not to trust anyone." It's the truth, and it's the reason why she won't give anything else away. As much as she'd like to...she simply can't bring anyone else in on this. No matter how genuine they may appear.

Or how well groomed their sideburns are.

Hans pauses, but ultimately nods and backs off, like he understands. "I wonder if that included him?" he muses.

Anna ducks her head, not trusting her own facial expression—she's totally gonna give herself away if she's not careful. "I'm sorry...those were his last words." Hans doesn't say anything...and really, what more is there to say? They're done here. "Excuse me."

Anna grabs her shield, and makes a show of effortlessly hefting it onto her back. It clicks into place with a satisfying PING.

"Anna," Hans calls from across the office. She stops. "Somebody murdered my friend, and I'm going to find out why."

Anna raises an eyebrow, "...Okay?"

"Anyone who gets in my way is going to regret it," he says. The chilling words contrast sharply with his almost apologetic smile and helpless shrug. "Anyone. Is that understood?"

Um. No?

"Yes sir," she deliberately avoids using his name as she takes her leave. "Understood."

Hans is not having a great week.

Scratch that. Hans is not having a great forty-eight hours. Within the last few days, he's had to dispatch his greatest—if perhaps unwitting—ally, and now he has to get rid of Captain America.

He sighs. Oh, Anna. Adorable, naive, utterly clueless Anna. At least Fury had some depth to him—Anna's about as deep as a puddle.

Which, admittedly, makes his job a little easier this time around. She's already done most of the work for him—all he really needs to do is send a text to Krei. No need for clandestine calls or secure lines this time...though. That would be a delicious irony, if he were to...

No, no. Best to just let S.H.I.E.L.D. handle this. It'll look better that way, to the American public. For whatever reason, they seem to like the young woman, so having her whacked might garner unwanted sympathy...he'll need to be careful with how he frames this.

He pulls out his phone and taps a few random symbols and numbers into the messaging app—Krei will understand.

Once finished, he returns to his place by the window, content to wait patiently for the confirmation.

Besides, he needs some time to work on his 'remorseful' look.

Anna is mentally exhausted when she steps into the elevator once more, hands braced on the rail and forehead pressed against the glass.

"Operations control," she mutters.

"I'm sorry, I didn't catch that," the computerized voice nags her.

"Operations control," she repeats more firmly.

"Confirmed."

Behind her, Anna can hear the doors begin to close, only for the mechanism to stall slightly. Someone's stuck their hand in front of it, presumably to catch a ride down.

"Keep all S.T.R.I.K.E. personnel on site," someone says.

"Understood."

"Yes sir."

Anna turns. It's Rumlow, flanked by two S.T.R.I.K.E. operatives.

"Forensics," he tells the elevator.

"Confirmed."

"Cap," Rumlow says, inclining his head.

"Hey," she greets him with as much energy as she can spare—which isn't all that much. Still, she doesn't want him to think she's rude or anything—her qualms are with Hans and his manhunt, not Rumlow and his team. She straightens up and nods back, forcing herself to grin as she does so.

Of course, Rumlow and his guys proceed to pretty much ignore her. Nice, guys. Real nice.

But then, they've never been all that chummy, her and S.T.R.I.K.E. Still, would it kill them to make some small talk? She's making the effort, the least they could do is make some effort, too.

"Evidence Response found some fibers on the roof they want us to see," Rumlow turns and informs her. It's not exactly small talk, but it's something. "You want me to get the tac team ready?"

"No, let's wait and see what it is first," she decides, a little surprised that Rumlow would be so eager to mobilize without having any details first.

"Okay," Rumlow quickly agrees, and turns back to his guys.

Anna watches the trio closely. They're all pretty...antsy. Shifting their weight, shuffling their feet, gazing out the window.

Admiring the view outside? Or avoiding eye contact with someone inside?

She notes that one of the guys has his hand settled on his holster—is he expecting a shoot out?

Anna curls her toes inside her boots.

Oh, great.

The elevator stops on another floor, and a handful of suits get on, some carrying briefcases.

"Administration level," one of them says.

"Confirmed."

"Excuse me."

"Sure." Anna moves to the center of the elevator to get away from the press of bodies—not that there's anywhere to go, really, but the energy in the small space is suddenly suffocating, and it has very little to do with the lack of elbow room.

She grips her belt buckle, keeping her posture casual.

"I'm sorry about what happened with Fury," Rumlow says casually over his shoulder. "It's messed up, what happened to him."

"Thanks," Anna says, keeping her tone neutral—which is difficult, as she notices visible perspiration on the forehead of the man standing next to her.

Maybe he's just claustrophobic.

Yeah...right.

The elevator stops again. Three more guys board, headed for Records. They are not suits. They're dressed for combat—maybe S.T.R.I.K.E. guys.

The doors close. Anna does a quick count—there are at least ten guys in here, not including herself. This has the potential to get very messy.

She should probably give them a heads up. Just to be fair.

"Before we get started," she clears her throat and then says, a bit louder, "anyone wanna get out?"

There's half a heartbeat of stillness—Anna allows herself the crazy hope that the entire elevator will burst into laughter. Ha ha, what? Getting a little paranoid in your old age, aren't ya, Cap?

But then the guy in front of her snaps out some sort of electric billy club and sigh. It was pipe dream, anyhow.

He whirls and moves to ram the device into her abdomen. She smacks his wrist and it clatters to the floor—but in the meantime, about five guys have jumped her. She can't tell how many sets of arms are now wrapped around her various appendages, and that might have something to do with the one very strong arm currently crushing her windpipe and making it a little difficult to strategize. And breathe.

An alarm blares—someone's hit the 'emergency stop' button. She can't see who—there's a mass of bodies between her and the other side of the elevator—a mass of bodies that swarm in her general direction and pin her to the wall. The guys with the briefcases toss them aside—or, part of them. As Anna grunts and struggles against the headlock she's currently in, she notices that the handles aren't really handles at all, but magnetized cuffs. A nifty feature, if you're in the 'Cap Capturing' business.

She flails madly, foot connecting with one of the guys while the other manages to get the cuff on her right wrist. She can feel it pulling towards the metal wall. She grits her teeth lashes out again, this time making contact with someone's knee—SNAP!

Another guy lurches forward—presumably the owner of said knee, and while several of the others rush to help him out, Anna elbows one of the suits in the nose. The second cuff flies back, landing with a solid THUNK high up against the metal door.

She's shaken off most of the guys pinning her down, save for headlock man—but her arms and legs are free, so it's not a problem. She easily dispatches an oncoming attacker with a quick jab to his face, and then ditches headlock man with a simple headbutt. Backwards headbutt. Is that a thing?

Well, regardless, it works. His considerable girth falls forward and she uses his momentum to throw him over her shoulder. He collides with one of the glass panels with enough force to crack it.

She's bent over now, a bit more vulnerable than she'd like to be. She hurries to straighten up, but someone manages to kick her wrist. Her entire arm jerks backwards, and unfortunately, that puts her close enough to the metal wall for the cuff to stick.

So now she's got one arm almost fully extended above her, her feet are barely touching the ground, and she's got an elevator full of thugs to deal with.

She rolls her eyes. Oh, perfect.

Rumlow's up, and he's got the sparky...club...thing. Taser. He charges forward, and Anna brings up her free forearm to block his downward swing. It connects painfully with her arm, but not enough to keep her from shoving him backwards against the door.

She only hears the hit—it wasn't maybe a good idea, pushing him out of her peripheral vision.

The taser is thrust into her shoulder blade. She cries out as her knees buckle, pain lancing across her back.

Yeah...very bad idea...

Rumlow presses harder, and harder. She braces one hand against the glass, biting her lip hard enough to draw blood.

"Nrrrrg!" she groans, and blindly lashes out with her elbow, praying it hits something, anything that will get Rumlow to stop.

And she must hit something because Rumlow is thrown back with a pained yelp, and the taser clatters away. And Anna would very much like to whoop with joy, but 1.) she can't really spare the breath and 2.) she's not out of the woods yet.

An eager beaver grabs the discarded taser and Anna's not about to let that thing touch her again—once is more than enough. She takes hold of his wrists and redirectss the strike meant for her into the goon who's about to get the drop on her, 'about' being the key word here.

A burst of static is followed by the unattractive jiggling of jowls as Goon Number Whatever succumbs to the taser, and, satisfied that he's down for the count, Anna twists the other guy's wrist and uses him as a sort of human battering ram—she pushes him into another attacker and, once the two of them fall, she jumps up and braces both feet against the glass.

She's gotta get rid of this cuff.

Using her free hand to pull on her trapped wrist, and simultaneously pushing against the wall with her feet, she attempts to pull her hand away from the metal panel. Her bangs cling to her forehead, slick with sweat, and her arm quakes—damn magnets!—and with a final yank, her arm comes free...

And then she's kinda falling backwards, what with having sorta...put her feet up on the wall, and all that.

She somersaults in an effort to get her feet underneath her, as opposed to above her. She does so just in time, as her boots make contact with the floor—and quite possibly someone's face, if the pitiful grunt that follows is anything to go by.

Rumlow and another resilient suit—make that two suits—manage to stand upright. The two suits come at once. She ducks under a right hook and loops her arm around his torso, flipping him upside down and driving him into the second suit. They both hit the wall hard.

Rumlow, though, hangs back. He's got two tasers now, dangit.

"Whoa, whoa," he throws up his hands before she can spring forward and lay into him. "I just...I just want you to know, Cap," his breathing is labored, as is her own, "this isn't persoNAL!" he rushes forward on the last syllable, bringing one taser down in a high arc that Anna easily intercepts—but that was most likely the point, as Rumlow brings the other one up low, catching her in the stomach. She yells, pretty much caught between the two weapons.

Ow, ow, ow. That was so STUPID how did I fall for that? Ow. OW. OW.

She's got one hand braced against her side, but it's not really doing much to stem the pain, so she punches Rumlow in the jaw hard enough for him to drop the taser closest to her head. Which is nice, and all, but he's still got the other one digging into her abs.

He's half bent over now, nursing his busted jaw.

Time to end this.

She grabs him around the middle and throws him up. He hits the ceiling with enough force to dent the overhead grate, and she quickly sidesteps so that his fall to the floor is uninterrupted.

THUNK.

She stands over him (and the other dozen or so guys littering the floor around them) fists clenched and knees bent, just in case he pops up again.

He doesn't.

He stays down, and all Anna can hear is her own panting.

"It kinda feels personal," she wheezes to the unconscious Rumlow, letting her arms and legs relax. Her eyes drift from Rumlow to her shield, resting a few feet away—someone must've pried it off in the fight.

She stamps her foot on the rim, the metal weapon arcing gracefully into the air where she expertly snatches it, mid-flip. She considers stowing it on the harness, but instead slips her arm inside the restraints. She brings it down hard on the metal cuff that's still wrapped around her wrist. The lock gives way, and the cuff falls off, landing on one of the suits' stomach.

Mostly recovered, she reaches over and taps the control panel in the hopes of getting the elevator moving again. When it doesn't budge, she decides to try her luck with the door.

She taps another button, and miracle of miracles, the doors slide open—

—To reveal a large group of heavily armed S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, guns raised and trained on her.

"Drop the shield and put your hands in the air!" one of them shouts.

...Ugh. For real?

She frantically looks around. Can she get out of this? She can't go forward—that would be suicide—she could technically go backwards, but she'd really prefer not to...

Out of the corner of her eye, she can see the exposed elevator cables through the glass panel beside her.

God bless whoever designed the Triskelion's elevator shafts.

She slowly brings up her shield like she's going to take it off—only to spin sharply to the left, smashing the glass panel and severing the cables holding the elevator in place.

The S.H.I.E.L.D. agents shout and some of them open fire—a few bullets ricochet around the interior of the elevator before it drops into a free fall.

She crouches down next to one of the unconscious suits and waits for the emergency brakes to engage—she can hear the squeal long before she feels the effects of the elevator slowing. Once it's come to a complete stop, she jumps up and pulls the doors open.

Fortunately, she's only missed the floor by a few feet. She can easily hop up and out. The hallway looks clear—

But there's the sound of combat boots in the distance, and they're coming closer.

"Wrong floor," she mutters, pulling the doors closed again just as a black helmet turns the corner at the end of the hall. She doesn't have a lot of time.

Or a lot of options, for that matter.

Again, can't go forward, she sighs, stepping away from the doors. She turns to her right—down below is the Atrium.

How many floors is that...?

"Give it up Rogers! Get that door open!" The agents are just outside. "You have nowhere to go!"

She steps back from the window and adjusts the straps on shield.

"Wrong."

She throws herself forward, using her shield to break the glass. It's a move she's pulled a dozen of times before—the only difference this time being the fact that she's not immediately met with the ground once she clears the window. The spray of broken glass thins as she falls towards the Atrium—she curls her body around the shield and leans her left shoulder into it, fervently hoping it'll work.

It...mostly does. Well, in the sense that she's not dead after she slams into one of the glass panels on the roof of the Atrium, and the subsequent landing on the concrete ground below doesn't completely pulverize her. It sends a powerful tremor through her whole body, and for a moment every muscle and bone feels like it's been turned to jelly, but the feeling soon passes—it's gone before all of the glass has had a chance to shower the slight crater she's made.

The full minute it takes for her to stand up is where that 'mostly' part comes into play, though—this is definitely going to leave a mark.

"Uuuugh," she groans, careful to use a closed fist on all the broken glass as she pushes herself to her knees. There's a crowd gathering—she can't really blame them, what she's just done is damn impressive (and probably incredibly stupid, but eh...) which means she needs to get a move on. Crowds are bad news—either they're innocent bystanders getting in harm's way, or a bunch of rogue S.H.I.E.L.D. agents.

She finally gets to her feet, and staggers forward in a rather uncoordinated manner. It takes five or six steps to really get her bearings—and for her ears to stop ringing and for the world to stop tilting to one side—but then she's off, headed for the garage and hopefully a means of escape.

Nobody stops her on the way, which means she has something of a head start (the perks of taking a quick twenty-or-so-story plunge as opposed to the stairs) and mercifully there's a bike available.

When one of the attendants yells at her, she just scowls at him and revs the engine, taking off and leaving nothing but a skid mark in her wake.

That seemed...too easy...which...okay. Is relative, given the fact that she had to leap from an elevator to escape but...still. What with the fiasco she just went through...this is smooth sailing by comparison.

She tugs on her helmet as she pulls the bike out onto the bridge. That's when she spots the closing gates up ahead.

They're locking it down.

You just had to think it, didn't you? She angrily shakes her head as she pushes the bike to as fast as it'll go, clearing the closing gates just in time.

But of course, closed gates are the least of her worries. She can see the menacing tire spikes up ahead and-

There's a roar above her.

"A jet?!" she yells over the din. "Seriously?!"

It's a bit overkill, in her opinion.

The jet wheels around, hovering between her and the end of the bridge.

"Stand down, Captain Rogers. Stand down."The pilot's voice is loud over the engines of the jet, amplified by whatever intercom system they have set up on the thing—Anna wouldn't know, she's never been in a S.H.I.E.L.D. fighter.

So she's both impressed and annoyed to discover that they come equipped with gatling guns. The weapon unfurls beneath the jet, and the pilot repeats the command to stand down.

Anna doesn't once let up on the gas.

So of course the jet opens fire. The stretch of road is suddenly riddled with puffs of gravel and grit as the bullets tear up the pavement. She swerves to avoid becoming Swiss cheese, zigzagging the bike as much as she can, forcing the jet to keep up with her.

Once she's close enough, she reaches behind her and unclips her shield. With fluid ease, she tosses it at the jet like one might toss a Frisbee, the round metal slicing through the air and hitting it's mark dead on—it burrows into the rotating blade of the jet's right engine. Scraps of metal are dislodged and thrown down further into the machinery, effectively grinding the entire thing to a halt. There's a flash of smoke and a burst of flames as the engine is destroyed, and the jet wobbles to one side.

And now...here comes the tricky part.

If her earlier gamble with the leap from the elevator was a long shot...she...doesn't know what to call this one. Nigh impossible? That seems about right.

She brings the bike to a sudden stop—the rear tire pops up, catapulting her towards the jet's canopy. She can just about see the pilot's surprised face as she flips herself over the glass and onto the wing, which reminds her that she doesn't want to completely destroy this thing, just...cripple it. No need to kill the maybe-innocent pilot.

By now, the engine is spewing thick black smoke everywhere. She squints her eyes against the debris and heat, searching for her shield. And there it is, still wedged between the fan blades...the very sharp, very dangerous looking fan blades.

She'd better made this snag and grab quick.

She darts forward and grabs the shield, pulling her hand away as fast as she can (which is quite fast) and jumps clear of the wing as more pieces clatter and collide. The jet tilts to one side, and it occurs to Anna just a fraction too late that it's going to roll.

She's thrown sideways, impacts the metal of the wing, and then she's tumbling through the air, unsure of which was is up. Oh, no, wait. She can tell which way is up, because now she's falling down.

And she's really had enough of that for one day.

She lashes out with her shield, digging it into the wing. It scrapes across the surface before gaining purchase at the very edge.

"Way too close..." she huffs, struggling to hang on. The pilot is obviously trying to right the jet, as it rolls back into a far more...gravitationally advantageous position.

Anna waits it out, dangling from her shield until she deems the vehicle safe enough to clamber on top of—at least, she's pretty sure it won't roll again.

Now situated towards the back of the jet, she easily takes out the twin fins—vertical stabilizers, if you want to get technical.

But Anna doesn't want to get technical so much as she wants to get off this damn thing and back onto solid ground.

So, fin, stabilizer, whatever. She throws her shield and it ricochets between the two, damaging the plating enough to cause problems. (As if the poor jet needed any more.)

And now there's more fire and more smoke and it's time to go. As the jet swings over the bridge in its downward spiral, Anna makes a graceful leap towards land, catching her shield as she does so. This time, she's close enough that she doesn't need it to absorb the impact—she just lands low and hunched on the asphalt, turning to see the jet come to a rather anticlimactic rest on the opposite lanes.

Not that she sticks around to survey the damage—as soon as she's certain she sees movement within the cockpit, she takes off at a dead sprint, running fast down the bridge, intent on putting as much distance between herself and S.H.I.E.L.D. as possible.

Because between the elevator ambush and the killer jet, she gets the distinct impression that she's no longer welcome there.

Not all that far away, in the slightly-frenzied atmosphere of the S.H.I.E.L.D. operations control room, Krei is having a bad day. Because Rumlow and his team screwed up and now Krei has to deal with it.

"Eyes here," he barks, addressing the crowd of S.H.I.E.L.D. operatives. The room does not go quiet, but it goes quieter, which is the best Krei is going to get. "Whatever your op is, bury it. This is Level One. Contact DOT, all traffic lights in the District go red. Shut all runways at BWI, IAD and Reagan." he scans the crowd, making sure that these people are paying attention and doing as he says.

Most are already moving, carrying out his orders—but a young woman he vaguely recognizes is...is she glaring at him?

"All security cameras in the city go through this monitor here," he says, pointing to the large screen behind him. He ignores the dark-haired woman and her steely gaze. He has more pressing matters to attend to. "Scan all open sources, phones, computers, PDAs...whatever." he begins to pace. "If someone so much as tweets about this woman, I want to know about it."

"With all due respect sir," someone pipes up. Krei swivels around, searching for the source. "If S.H.I.E.L.D. is conducting a manhunt for Captain America, I think we deserve to know why."

Krei's eyes fall on the offender—the dark-haired woman—Agent 13, he suddenly remembers. She's still glaring at him. He should have known.

But, rather than get angry, Krei smooths his expression, as well as his suit. He opens his mouth to respond, but he does not provide the answer. Someone else beats him to it.

"Because she lied to us."

The room is utterly silent as Secretary Westergard walks into the fray, followed by armed guards. As he walks to the center of the room, people trip over themselves to get out of his way. For his part, Secretary Westergard doesn't look nearly as upset as Krei—he regards the audience with a kind of world-weariness. He is the picture of a man bearing bad news.

"Captain Rogers has information regarding the death of Director Nick Fury."

No one moves. No one says anything.

"She refused to share it," Secretary Westergard continues. And then, he sighs, reaching out to grip one of the computer terminals and lean his weight against it. "And as withholding this kind of information could potentially result in a threat to national security..." anyone standing close enough to the man would later attest to the tears in his eyes as he spoke, "it is with a heavy heart that I charge Anna Rogers—Captain America—with treason."

A/N: By my count, we're about...a little under halfway through the film. XD My new goal is to get this thing finished before Civil War comes out. We'll see how that goes. As always, thanks for reading, and feel free to leave a review! :)