Disclaimer: Fair use and transformative work.

A/N: AU of "The Avengers," starting all the way back with "Captain America: The First Avenger." Other subsequent movies in here as well. Set between Episodes 7 and 8 of Marvel's "Daredevil" on Netflix, which is AU'd in that I've moved it back by two-plus years so Season 1 now begins prior to the Battle of New York.

Summary: In the world where SHIELD caught up with Steve Rogers in Times Square, there were four years of victories bracketed by Loki and Zemo.

This is not that world.

In this world, SHIELD lost Steve Rogers to the streets of New York. Now, any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. (Terms are subject to change without notice.)

ACTION FIGURES SOLD SEPARATELY

"Pearson pitches a curveball, high and outside, for ball one."

Steve blinked.

Whiteness blurred before him, something that hadn't happened since before the procedure; not without snow driving hard into his face –

"Grab my hand!"

Dark lashes swept down once more.

Over a quiet rush of wind words came again. "So, the Dodgers are tied four-to-four."

The voice rang hollow in his ears, eerily familiar.

"And the crowd well knows that with one swing of his bat, this fellow's capable of making it a brand new game again."

Brakes squealed, faint but not distant.

Softness, beneath his head; buoying him up. Smooth cotton against his skin, air moving slowly, prickling the fine hairs on his arms. This isn't my uniform.

When had that happened?

. . . Something's not right. Something beyond the strangeness of reconciling waking warm with his last memory of pointing the plane's nose down, through white clouds, towards pale ice. Impact was a gaping maw of blackness and pain, lingering just within reach of the rest of the memory.

Quietly, a car honked.

Wrong.

"Just an absolutely gorgeous day here at Ebbet's Field."

The sun, bright and beaming down into the bandbox; packed tight up against the rail, leaning out to peer at the scoreboard –

"The Phillies have managed to tie it up at four-to-four."

Pale blades circled lazily above him. He turned his head against the pillow, green and white resolving into a clean bedroom unlike any hospital he'd ever seen. Too empty, for one. Too big, for just one man.

"But the Dodgers have three men on."

Springs creaked with the shift of his weight. Steve pushed up, muscles quietly aching with each motion, leaving him sitting straight with a crinkle between blond brows.

Someone knew he liked baseball; though that wasn't much of a secret. Who would be thoughtful enough to play it for him? Peggy?

"Pearson beaned Reiser in Philadelphia last month.Wouldn't the youngster like a hit here to return the favor?"

The light streaming in through the window was not warm. He could hear a breeze, but couldn't feel it.

"Pete leans in. Here's the pitch."

Metal grated on metal, whining high on the edge of his hearing. It's not baseball season. Or it shouldn't be.

"Swung on. A line to the right."

Honking horns and the persistent squeal of brakes nearly drowned out the next words.

"And it gets past Rizzo."

Cheering, faint behind the announcer's rapid-fire narration. Shock bloomed hotly in Steve's chest, his knuckles pressing white for a bare moment against the wool blanket beneath his fingers.

"Three runs will score."

Breath rushed in his lungs. I know this.

"Reiser heads to third."

He could almost see the white uniform, splashed with blue, rounding the bases under a gorgeous sun – for all that it had been years ago.

"Durocher's gonna wave him in."

A room too clean, too large, too bright, too new. Not enough smog in the air breezing through the open window; the buildings outside matte and flat.

"Here comes the relay but they won't get him."

The door opened, with a rattle in the jamb more suited to a light screen on loose hinges.
"Pete Reiser with an inside the park grand slam!"

Dark curls, red lips, skirt, tie, blouse. The cut of the fabric ever-so-slightly off, enough that the effect was nothing like regulation. She looks like Peggy.

Steve's heart settled with the chill coursing through his veins, mind clear and battle-ready even as she smiled.

"Good morning. Or should I say afternoon?"

She knows who I am. And didn't introduce herself.

"Oh, my goodness -"

"Where am I?"

"- the crowd is going absolutely wild, here -"

"You're in a recovery room in New York City."

Which lined up with where they wanted him to think he was. And she's not a nurse.

"The Dodgers take the lead, eight to four. Oh-ho, Dodgers!" Steve's attention jerked toward the radio, head turning; he could feel her gaze still following him. Trained. Anyone else would have looked where he did, trying to see what he saw. Something is very wrong.

And there really was only one likely answer.

"Everyone is on their feet. What a game we have here today, folks. What a game indeed."
Blue eyes flicked back, meeting hers. He didn't bother to keep the hostility out of his voice. No soldiers; one unarmed woman. What happens when I call the bluff? "Where am I really?"

Red lips smiled half-heartedly, her expression gone before it was really there. "I'm afraid I don't understand."

"The game. It's from May, 1941. I know, 'cause I was there." And isn't that a coincidence?

Her face blanked, something like alarm taking the place of amiable control. Fear widened her eyes the barest fraction.

Springs creaked, and Steve stood, feet settling into the feel of new boots. Nothing hurts. Though God only knew what they'd done to him while he was out. Just out. Not dead. How am I not dead? "Now I'm gonna ask you again. Where am I?"
At the very edge of his hearing, something clicked.

…Why am I not dead?

"Captain Rogers..." she whispered.

"Who are you?!"

The door opened again, familiar black-clad bodies spilling in, and Steve fell back, body finding the defensive stance that had seen him through countless Brooklyn alleys and then been refined on dozens of European battlefields. Two. Only two.

For now.

They didn't waste time trying to flank him; neither went for the weapons hanging across their chests. They want me alive and aware or I'd never have woken up. But it was whatever else they wanted that had them trying to trick him into passive acquiescence.

He moved, a ducking twist that spun him away from them, managing to grab each one by the thick vest padding their torsos, and aiming for the wall.

Plaster tore and thin metal clanged against concrete as the wall collapsed back on itself, revealing a room beyond.

Better than the door.

Steve vaulted through the gaping hole, sound echoing oddly in the barren space. Lord Almighty. He twisted, turning to take in the entirety of the farce. It was a stage; the room, the sight through its windows, the sounds of the street – How did they have the time to make this?

How long had he been out?

Get away. Get out now!

"Captain Rogers, wait!"

More boots reverberated against the concrete. Reinforcements. Steve slammed through a set of double doors, feeling something that had been barred give way, and stumbled out into a corridor overflowing with a mix of black-clad soldiers and black-suited civilians. The hallway was high and open and like nothing he'd ever seen.

Behind him, he could hear her voice calling for help. "All agents, code thirteen! I repeat, all agents, code thirteen!"

Men and women had already started to turn, attention attracted by the noise of metal doors bursting apart. Surprise on some faces, others carefully blank –

Steve ran.

A dark shadow loomed over Phil's shoulder. "Well?"

"This month's surprise drill is going smoothly. If you don't count Administrative Sub-Level 3. I tend not to." A few of the newer agents had faltered, setting the response time back a bit, but only in odd areas such as the cafeteria and two sub-level administrative floors. Typically low-alert areas, that would now be receiving more attention rather than less. Shouldn't impact the retrieval. Except for the hiccup in the garage. That would need to be addressed in the weekly, monthly, and quarterly reviews.

Fury was far too professional to let any hint of his real feelings show without reason; but even so the next breath was lighter against the dim glow of multiple screens clustered throughout the room. "Not what I was asking."

To Phil's left, agents swarmed through the hallways in an orderly scramble caught from every angle by security camera lenses strong enough to pick up fraying thread at hemlines circling moving ankles and wrists. To his right, a series of GPS trackers clustered together, alternately pinging every other minute against one of SHIELD's secure satellites to generate a near-constant bzzz of activity. "He's headed north on 7th Ave." Phil squinted, checked the tracker monitors against a camera-view of the street, and glanced at his watch. "He's outrunning the traffic."

"That's not hard in this city."

"The GPS is moving at twenty-two miles an hour, Sir." And the fastest human ever clocked didn't quite hit twenty-eight.

The cameras outside SHIELD's New York headquarters had lost Rogers within moments; four techs clustered off to the side were tracking him through various security cameras perched on other buildings and traffic lights lining the street. The feeds flipped almost as quickly as the average channel surfer, so quickly did he move.

Nick blinked, which was as much of a reaction as anyone could expect. "Well, we knew he was fast, Coulson."

"Sir." It wasn't – quite – agreement.

We didn't know this.

The surviving paper records from Project Rebirth were scant, to say the least. What wasn't written in shorthand. In Yiddish. The last of Rogers' blood samples had been lost, not long after the end of the war. They had nothing, aside from rumors and unreliable reports almost seventy years old, and bio-stats gathered during the defrosting and recovery process.

No SHIELD agent liked running blind.

Speaking of running . . .

Somehow, even as he was pushing through crowds and leaping concrete barriers, Rogers wasn't leaving an open trail of trampled pedestrians behind him. Lithe despite his speed, he slipped sideways between people, weaving past without doing more than ruffling a few feathers, keeping to the far edge of the sidewalk almost in the street itself.

If he had moved without a care for what he was leaving in his wake . . . He could go faster.

"This was a bad idea, Sir." Phil's stomach was a heavy weight, stress clenching tight fingers around his insides in a way that he'd long since learned to ignore. But this isn't a standard op.

"You think I don't know that?" There was a moment's pause. "There's only so much even I can do when the World Security Council decides to stick its nose in, Coulson."

"Yes, sir." They'd barely been able to block the attempts to secure various biological samples from Rogers while the man was unconscious; only Phil's constant presence had deterred several of the more surreptitious attempts at hair clippings, cheek-swabs or blood draws, to say nothing of the initial tries at collecting bone marrow and cerebrospinal fluid that had tipped him off in the first place. All attempts had been backed up by orders originating higher than either of them. Useful as that information might be, essential as it could be to recreating Erskine's genius . . . There are lines.

Fewer than he'd once thought. But lines nonetheless. Ones that couldn't be crossed without leaving his core integrity – hidden, protected – behind.

Although why this set-up, why the mock-up of a hospital room – and why the research had been left to a new recruit, detail-oriented but so green Phil could practically smell cut grass . . .

On the screen, the clustered dots tracking Captain America swiveled hard to the right – but only so far as to cross the street and continue in their previous direction on the opposite sidewalk.

"If he keeps headed that way, he'll end up in Times Square."

"Good." Fury's fingers flexed, easing into softly ebon leather. Backlit by the corridor lights, he paused just inside the door. "I'm going to wrap this up personally. Keep me apprised." His eyepatch tipped towards the row of screens. "And get me eyes in the sky."

"Yes, Sir."

With a whisper of dark cloth, the Director was gone.

Blinking green raced down the street at speeds most people could never contemplate matching. On the street-cameras, Phil could see the target – Captain America – weaving deftly through the crowds. At SHIELD's garage, three STRIKE teams piled into a convoy of black SUV's.

Something sour curdled in his belly. Mission accomplished.

"Watch it!"

Hoooooooonnnnnk!

"Hey!"

"What the f-"

Noise swirled around him in a cacophonous mass, the chill air a thick wetness against his bare arms. Steve raced through the intersection, sliding across the too-low hood of a car that screeecked to a halt almost on his toes.

Honk-honk-hoooonnnnk!

"Asshole!"

"- gonna get somebody killed!"

The street had funneled him in a straight line from the building he'd escaped from, a combination of traffic, lights, and the speed he needed keeping him from veering off. They're going to find me in minutes –

Amber switched to red on his left, barely visible through a momentary gap in the bustle of people. It was enough to redirect the crowds even before a white-lit figure blinked into existence across the street, the signal light markedly belated compared to tenacious New Yorkers already swarming onto the asphalt.

Steve dodged, veering west at a speed that left two more pedestrians and a taxi-driver swearing at him. Ducking past a group of old women brandishing brightly-colored umbrellas, he jumped over a startled delivery-man's handcart, thudding down on damp pavement –

His foot went out from beneath him.

Twisting mid-fall, concrete slammed against the sides of his legs even as his palms skinned against wet sidewalk. The impact jarred him just enough for a moment of startled stillness, lungs gulping at damp smog. What –

His left ankle was a little twisted, the boot heel just a lump of black rubber a few inches from his hand. The joint twinged as he pulled in both legs from the ungainly sprawl in which he'd landed. The crowds are bad enough, but now this –

"Serves you right, douchebag." The delivery-man was laughing, a vindictive sound that followed Steve back to his feet.

Beep-beep-beep-beep-beep…

High, piercing, almost a screech along the upper range of his hearing. It turned him around, so close it set his teeth on edge.

His ankle wasn't more than lightly strained, but the boot was broken enough to throw his gait off. Couldn't leave the shoes. I've run barefoot through Brooklyn before. Don't want to do it again.

Beep-beep-beep-beep-beep…

This wasn't Brooklyn, but from the American English all around him and the familiar street signs, he was at least in New York. Maybe. He couldn't look too much closer, knowing the bizarrely different cars and clothes and the smell of the air itself meant something he couldn't examine just yet, not if he wanted to stay free from –

Beep-beep-beep-beep-beep…

Metal glinted, pinprick-small, from a lump of black rubber.

Steve scooped up the bootheel, trying not to limp obviously as he strode away from the still-muttering deliveryman. Not enough distance, but I'm attracting too much attention. If anyone following him asked which direction he'd gone, the deliveryman would certainly remember and probably be more than willing to share.

Especially for a man in short sleeves and no coat when it looks like it's going to rain . . . Whoever had dressed him – God what a horrible thought – had paid attention; shoot-me white and pale khaki in what was almost certainly late fall or early spring. The crowds wore blacks and navys with a few bold colors scattered in the dark-clad masses. I stick out more than if I was wearing my uniform.

Hunching a little against the cold, Steve kept his feet moving quickly through the crowds, turning over the filthy boot heel. Treads on one side, the other – well. Half of it looked cleanly sliced, sticky adhesive tacking along his fingertips; the other half had torn raggedly away from the rest of the sole.

And something was embedded within it. Strong fingers pressed at thick rubber, folding it until the tiny hole opened along two pre-sliced seams, revealing a dull metal disc no bigger than a dime.

BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP…

No longer shielded by rubber, the tiny disc emitted a constant whine loud enough to make him cringe – though every darting glance from beneath lowered eyelashes told him he was the only one who could hear it.

He ducked around an olive-skinned woman pushing a three-wheeled … something, glancing over just long enough to see a child sleeping beneath a clear curtain inside it. It looked like no pram he'd ever seen before in his life. Don't. Later.

Steve turned mangled rubber over in his hands. Someone had carefully cut the heel away from the sole, peeling it open just enough to insert the device inside. Did they know enough to know that the rubber would muffle the noise? Or were they just lucky?

Another thought chilled him further, breaking into goosebumps along his arms. What do you want to bet there's a second in the other shoe? Or another, somewhere else?

Or more.

He didn't know what it could do, but it was transmitting. Worst-case scenario: modified huff-duff. The memory slammed into him out of nowhere, blanking out the street in front of him for the space of a blink. "This is your transponder. Activate it when you're ready, and the signal will lead us straight to you."

Stark's device had been the size of a pack of cigarettes. HYDRA had been using new technology, sleek streamlined silver not that different from this. But something so small was like nothing he'd seen before. How long was I out?

He could guarantee that the answer wasn't good.

Up ahead, a waiting crowd surged against slow-moving cars, forcing them to a stop even as the crossing sign's white-lit figure was traded for a flashing orange hand. Steve sped up, mingling with a group of late-goers pushing into the crosswalk even as the hand stopped flashing, glowing a persistent stop.

He couldn't hold on to the disc; likely it would allow them to triangulate his position. Why even bother otherwise?

Not when escaping them had been a matter of subduing two armed guards and running through a set of doors, the hallway beyond clearly lit by the real outside light. Too easy.

Who were they?

Steve clenched the disc in one fist, binning the two useless halves of rubber in a trashcan on the corner. He paced a woman with an overlarge bag, enough of a gap between them to let people through, and for the first time let his eyes settle on the people around him. The open mouth of the bag gaped temptingly.

Maybe –

Only the possibility of a second in the other shoe stayed his hand. Find cover. Check. Until then he had to hold onto it; but if they were using this to track him, the streets were packed with decoys. Steve scanned the crowd. Yawning bags, boots and coat pockets; prams; shopping bags; hoods hanging down shoulders . . .

The clothes were little like what he knew, closer to the form of the bodies underneath than he was used to; and it wasn't just one or two people. It was everyone, even women – there was barely a skirt or dress in sight. Most people had umbrellas – though smaller and flimsier than anything he'd ever seen – or slickers, and a good portion had shoes that might have been Wellingtons, though he'd never seen those boots in any other color than army green. Unease settled deep in his belly.

Not far enough away. Not hidden in the crowds. They're tracking me.

The cars were so, so different; low and wide and sleek. A truck blared past, reeking of diesel and something worse, rickety and white with a blue phrase he didn't recognize emblazoned ahead of an almost-star of yellow lines. Panic sped up his heartbeat, breath wheezing in and out of his lungs in a way it hadn't since – since –

Stop.

Steve's protective crowd of pedestrians split, part turning south onto 10th Ave and the rest continuing west. Can't go much further. At the last moment, he turned with the group headed south.

If this was Manhattan, or anything like the Manhattan he'd vaguely known, the Hudson was two long blocks to his right, and his best opportunity to get lost in the mess of the city was behind him. Through a maze of rigid grids made by streets and unbroken walls of buildings that hemmed people in between solid concrete and moving traffic. Maybe he could make them divide their forces by planting the tracker on a person or vehicle; or maybe he'd just let them know that he'd discovered the trackers, and put an innocent bystander in harm's way.

He needed – to blend in, to check for more trackers, to get out of the main streets, to find out what was going on, to discover who was after him and why – time.

Which was exactly what they weren't going to give him.

Above, still hidden in the low-hanging fog, beat a familiar sound. Distant, but speeding closer.

Thwock-thwock-thwock-thwock-thwock-thwock -

Up ahead, two things caught his attention and blue eyes narrowed; the wisps of a plan began to twine together.

"Damn it, Coulson, where is he?"

"Changed direction again, sir – he's headed south now down 10th Ave. Looks like he's giving Times Square a miss."

Rogers hadn't even really made much distance on them, but with this traffic it might as well have been miles.

Fury slammed a fist against the dashboard, the glovebox popping open from the force and spilling some idiot's barely-begun post-mission report all over the passenger footwell. He slapped his palm back on the wheel, knuckles blanching. Sonuva – "What the hell is this?"

Sheepish silence emanated from the backseat.

The city around him couldn't have cared less. The SUV had been swallowed whole by a crowd of New Yorkers who were crossing the street regardless of traffic signals or right-of-way. He leaned on the horn – and got a slew of raised fingers and curses but not an inch of space.

I hate New York. The WSC's plan had, as anticipated, gone straight to hell nevermind the handbasket. At least it couldn't get much –

"Be advised – target is now in possession of a black sweatshirt."

"How did that happen?"

Coulson was smiling. He knew that bastard was smiling. "He lifted it off a street vendor, sir. A few blocks southeast of the Intrepid Museum."

Red blinked to green, and Fury shoved his way through the intersection, narrowly missing a lime-green VW beetle that looked older than him, and a bicycler who ended up skidding along the sidewalk to avoid being run down.

Horn blaring, he skated around a corner, only to pull up bare inches from the bumper of a battered box-truck. The console's GPS flashed a warning signal at him: Traffic. Fifteen minutes have been added to your route.

Fury swore, slamming the vehicle into reverse and ignoring the way the bodies of the agents in the seat behind him jerked against their seatbelts with the movement. "We're close to being locked in here. What about the birds?"

"Fog's too thick, sir. They can't descend far enough to get a good visual without attracting too much attention."

"Oh really?" The SUV skreeked back through the intersection, and this time the pedestrians were keeping to the sidewalks, warned by the wail of skidding tires as he pulled a tight 180.

"We've already redirected two 9-1-1's and three calls to the FAA about low-flying aircraft."

Nothing less than what he expected in a post 9/11 New York, unless – "Tell me they were in stealth mode." Finally a hole opened up between two cars, and Fury's boot slammed the gas.

"It was the rotor noise, sir."

Patience gone, he wove around three taxis and a slew of cars, riding up onto empty pavement and clearing three blocks in as many minutes. "Coulson, where am I headed?"

"South on 10th at 25th."

A snarl of traffic blocked the nearest intersection, and he yanked the wheel hard. Motor revving loudly, the SUV jumped forward, headed the wrong way down an empty one-way and crunching panels along the driver's side as Fury scraped along a line of parked cars. From the console a computerized woman's voice chimed, "Recalculating."

"He's ducked into a parking garage."

"Where?" Pulling a wide turn at the end of the road, Fury stamped the brakes long enough for a woman with a double-wide stroller to pull up short in the crosswalk, screeching, then gunned it, slipping through the narrow space between a battered taxi and pampered Porsche.

"10th and 21st."

Out of the corner of his eye, Fury caught sight of the Porsche's driver flashing him the finger. "Did they have parking garages in the '40's?"

"Yes, sir."

Huh. "Is it enclosed or open-air?" Which wouldn't be the norm for Manhattan, but stranger things had happened.

"Enclosed, sir."

"Why would he corner himself like that?" Fury muttered, leaning on the horn at the sight of a line of green lights blocked only by a particularly slow Oldsmobile. "Do you have visual?" The Oldsmobile turned a corner, removing itself from the equation.

"Looks like Lennie's Park'n'Go installed dummies to save cost. None of their security cameras are live. He's out of the nearest streetcam coverage. I have no eyes on the target."

"Damn it. We're more than five minutes out. Trackers?"

"They're clustered in the ground level of the parking deck. Haven't moved for the last thirty seconds." Coulson quieted, and when it came back his voice was studiously calm. "I've lost one of the trackers."

"Technical failure, or deliberate destruction?"

The pause that followed had Fury biting back a curse.

"No way to know, sir. As of now, we've only lost one."

Fury sped through an amber light, changing lanes a hairsbreadth from the bumper of yet another taxi. In seconds they were enclosed by a slew of yellow sedans, with nowhere to go but forward and no way to get there if there had been. "How many did you put on him?"

"Eighteen, sir. Seventeen still live."

One of the agents in the back took that moment to blurt out, "Eighteen?!" and saved Fury the embarrassment of doing so.

"Huh," he managed after a moment. "Where did you even find the space?" Short nails tapped impatiently against the steering wheel, waiting for the light to change.

"Boots, pockets, sewn into the cuffs and waistband of his pants, glued to metal buttons. The opportunities are comprehensive, sir."

"Let no one ever accuse you of not being thorough, Agent."

"Yes, sir."

The light finally changed, and Fury leaned on the horn again, shoving taxis out of the way through sheer obnoxiousness. "Two minutes, Coulson. Where is he?"

No answer.

When the silence on the line hit ninety seconds, Fury bit out, "Coulson?"

"We have a complication, sir."

"Do not tell me he destroyed the trackers, Coulson."

"They are still live, sir."

"Then what's the problem?"

"They're going in different directions, sir."

That son of a bitch. "All seventeen of them?"

"Yes, sir."

But he had to have come out of the parking garage the same way he came in, if the trackers were on the move. "Streetcams?"

"I may have him."

Fury's knuckles tightened on the wheel, his whole body shifting forward as he ran a red and caught sight of four vertical letters marching down brown bricks: PARK.

"Presuming he's wearing the sweatshirt he lifted, sir, I have five potential marks along four of the tracker routes. I'm pretty sure two more trackers are in taxis."

"And the other ten?"

"No obvious marks, sir, but the visual on some routes is unreliable at the moment. There's no way of knowing."

"Deploy agents along each of the routes, Coulson, and withdraw the STRIKE teams." They would have to do this the hard way.

"And you, sir?"

Turning sharply, Fury bumped over a grate in the sidewalk and slid to a halt in front of a filthy kiosk. "I'm going to park the car."

"That'll be $12.50."

Thunk!

"Stand down!"

"Hey, Mister, $12.50."

Tha-thump. Thump. Thump. Tha-thump. Tha-thump. Thump-thump. Thump.

Eight men, by the sounds of their boots. Against one man, his steps an uneven thump-thump, as if he couldn't trust his feet. Or his shoes. Matt focused, blocking out the rough mutter of traffic three feet away –

Whump!

Flesh met Kevlar with a muted thunk – two bodies hit the ground in a clatter of protective gear that Matt couldn't quite make out. The material probably boasted more sabins as a side-effect of close weave tightly layered.

"Stand down, Captain!"

"I don't think so."

For so many men, they moved extraordinarily quietly. Even their victim was light-footed, though there were hints in the noise distribution that they were heavier than average.

Zzzzzzt!

"Aaaahhh!" Agony painted every decibel of the yell that burst past clenched teeth.

Bodies collided with metal in a muted clash! Trash cans, rather than a dumpster. Coupled with the direction, they were deep in the Kitchen –

"HEY!"

Sound exploded over him, and Matt startled.

"What are you, man, blind and deaf? You want these dogs or not, Helen Keller?" Irritation tanged against the inside of Matt's nose, exhaustion and Marlboros carrying to him on layers of stale and fresh sweat, overwhelming the mash of meat-oil-mustard-relish he could almost taste swirling in the air around the stand.

He swallowed, mouth closed to cut the strength of the scent. "Sorry. I thought I heard something."

Irritation intensified. "Yeah, me too. I heard a lot of somethings. It's New York, pal. $12.50, or let the next guy through."

Matt felt out a ten and three ones. "Keep the change."

The vendor snorted, shoving two paper cartons against Matt's fingers as he fumbled over the narrow ledge substituting as counter space. "Yeah, whatever, next!"

CRASH!

Matt's next step faltered at the sudden cacophony of metal, lost to everyone around him in the crush of noise clogging the fourteen blocks between him and the fight.

His cane scraped out along the pavement, sweeping the sidewalk clear of unwary pedestrians more than anything else. The wave of sound that floated up sharpened details enough to let him make out near-soundless motions that would otherwise be invisible – one young woman bending her fingers in the universal call me; a grandfather's toothless grin; a small child's finger pointing at a sign on a passing bus.

Three yards and a moment to stoop near the ground divested him of the hot dogs, surprising a nattering homeless man into a momentary bubble of silence as he passed. Sorry about lunch, Foggy.

Most of the Kitchen's dirty work took place at night, but not all. And this wasn't a back-alley brawl, or a gang clash. It was –

Quiet. Too quiet.

Frown creasing his brow over tinted lenses, Matt slipped into an alley only two blocks from the hot dog stand. Nimble fingers collapsed his stick while he angled his head, carefully filtering out unnecessary sound to focus his hearing.

"Mff."

Cloth swishing and the creak of leather as they started to pull themselves to their feet. Eight heartbeats, muffled by Kevlar. The men were a mix of unconscious, and coming down from the exertion of a fight; but not a single one was in serious distress. Plastic banged roughly off brick, followed by a metal rattle –

"Get up. Get out of there, now."

"What happened?"

A breath loaded with incredulous frustration. "He's gone. Report in."

Further out – the odd noise of that uneven gait, imperfectly balanced, one leg just slightly shorter than the other. Moving quickly – enough that he almost lost it for a moment, except –

His heartbeat is too slow for a pace that fast.

Matt slipped back out into the passing crowds. He dodged a father-son pair hissing back and forth in Spanish about rent, and sidled into a deserted side-street rife with fire escapes. Two minutes had him on the roof, delayed by smooth-soled business shoes slipping in the wetness misted across every surface by the morning's persistent fog.

"- sir."

The same voice as before, conversing with someone even more distant, over a phone that clicked every so often.

Focused on the conversation, Matt swerved around the bulk of an HVAC unit, keeping an ear on that ever-more distant uneven gait, paired with an interestingly low heartrate.

"We're down to half-strength. Injuries only, no casualties, but three of my men are still unconscious."

Matt vaulted a low ledge into crunching gravel, and jogged the distance to the next gap between buildings.

"Clean up and head out. Report back for debrief."

"And the target?"

He wasn't imagining the chill frosting over the next words he heard.

"Wipe the site."

"Yes, sir."

Even as he listened, a short jump brought him closer, shaving two blocks off the street-level route. His shoes skidded briefly across slick asphalt, and he barked some skin off one hand grabbing the concrete ledge for stability.

"Transport en route. ETA two minutes to extraction."

"Copy. Over."

Still roughly half a mile away, Matt abruptly veered east, re-focused on the odd stride matching that slow and steady heartbeat. Can't get there in time. Not in a business suit, even moving as the crow flew; three buildings over was an avenue-wide span that would force him back down to street level to cross. From there he would lose time either re-gaining the rooftops or continuing on the pavement at a sufficient clip without attracting attention.

The "target," though, would be similarly constrained. A man, moving at street level - with all the delays for car and foot traffic that mode of travel brought with it.

Pinpointing the probable location of the fight on his mental map of the Kitchen, Matt darted away over buildings toward that distinctive tread. Back for that later.

Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump.

The sound got louder as he got closer, managing to halve the distance between them before he lost the gait to the first traffic stop.

Still moving, Matt threw his hearing wider, searching -

Fzzzzzzzzzzzzzz!

Ah! Lips peeled back in a grimace, Matt carefully lowered the palms he'd slapped over his ears at the high-pitched electrical buzz shrieking along his nerves. Not a continuous sound despite what it felt like; instead, a series of individual pings so rapidly produced that they were layered almost atop one another, and so far into the highest registers of his hearing that the noise was more felt than heard. What the hell?

It moved.

Not a power line. And given the intensity and pitch paired with how oddly faint the noise was . . . Not a cell phone either.

That uneven tread was back as well. Moving away from Matt in the same direction, at the same rate.

Coldness gripped Matt's insides, icy fingers curling through his gut. Why are they tracking him?

Definitely not for any good reason.

If he's dangerous enough to take out a para-military group deployed on US soil to retrieve him without alerting law enforcement . . .

Which was a completely different, though not unrelated, problem.

A short slew of rooftops interspersed with narrow jumps brought him to a fire escape at the back of a building half a block from the "target." Taking advantage of the slipperiness lingering from the morning fog, Matt slid down the ladder. A few stray pieces of trash crunched underfoot on his landing.

Stick rattling out in a familiar sequence of clicks, Matt stepped over three massive trash bags and emerged onto the street between two stores, one that smelled like a deli and the other which sounded like a barbershop. Head tilting, he pushed past the hair-raising fzzzz to match up gait and heartbeat.

There.

A man. Taller than Matt had estimated based on the time between his footfalls. He was moving faster than I thought . . . Staying close to the sides of the buildings, avoiding contact with people though the crowds were starting to thin. Must be edging towards two o'clock. Wearing - hooded top, baggy - Probably a sweatshirt. Pants, close around the waist but excess material at the legs . . . lots of pockets? Cargo pants? Too thin for the day's cold weather. And - oh.

His left boot was missing the heel, throwing his stride off and into the odd gait that Matt had followed across a good chunk of Hell's Kitchen. The other heel wasn't completely attached, either; if it hadn't been made of such durable rubber, it would have been flopping away from the rest of the sole. But the soles themselves sounded too thick to be old shoes prone to that kind of breakage.

Curiouser and curiouser.

The man darted between parked cars and across an empty street, but continued in the same direction. Matt waited until the end of the block before crossing, keeping the stick as unobtrusive as possible.

The heartbeat didn't increase, but fight-or-flight colored the man's wake, almost lost to the sugar-tinged wave of air following three women's exit from Giacomo's Bread & Butter. He knows he's being followed.

Matt fell back, letting two teenagers holding hands cut in front of him. The buzzing lessened in intensity, dampened by brick and concrete. He turned after the bakery. As soon as Matt breached the alley's mouth, the fzzzz bounced back to him, reverberating off metal. No more footsteps; the heartbeat crouched slow and steady behind a dumpster.

This is probably not a good idea.

Matt swept his stick out, striding forward until it hit the dumpster's edge. He tapped along it more than necessary, turning himself into the corner while his ears stayed locked on that unmoving beat. Lost and blind, oops, nothing to worry about here -

Strong hands planted on his shoulders, a quick twist bumping Matt back against solid brick. His stick's handle fell into a puddle with a splash. Breath escaped him in a solid whoosh, leaving him gasping in surprise. Heat loomed, pressing his spine into the wall. Too fast!

"Who are you!"

Curiosity killed the cat, Matthew.

He could almost hear Foggy's voice countering Sister Anne's. But dude, satisfaction brought it back.

"Matt," he managed after a moment. "Matt Murdock."

For some reason, that brought his assailant up short.

This close, Matt could make out regular features, straight nose, strong jawline. Ruffled hair, longer than he would have expected for active-duty military and swept to the side in a style that made him think of Cary Grant.

"My name is Matt Murdock." Mind scrambling, Matt sucked in a quick breath. Maybe . . . "Look, if you want my wallet-"

"You were following me." Absolute surety, in that voice.

Okay, maybe not. "Yes," he admitted after a moment.

Hands fisted at his lapels, bringing Matt up to his toes and knocking him roughly back against the wall one more time. His feet scrabbled against the wall, but he couldn't find purchase.

"Why!"

Strong enough to lift and hold almost two hundred pounds with no effort.

But the man's core was open, leaving him vulnerable to strikes from Matt's knees or elbows - if he could pull his legs or arms in enough to get any power behind the hit, given how close the man was looming. For all he was off-balance, pinned, and cornered, Matt was still conscious and not hurt. Eight men down in under three minutes, but no casualties.

The bulb went off. He's trying to scare me.

Not exactly the act of a ruthless killer. He'd dealt with enough of those in the Kitchen to know a regular blind businessman would probably need an ambulance – or a coroner – by now.

"They're tracking you," Matt tried.

Stillness. Sudden, and absolute - except the heartbeat that had jumped at his words. This close, Matt could see calmness sweep over the other man's face. Danger; sending his own adrenaline spiking, saturating the thin space between their bodies with Matt's own fight-or-flight. Muscles tensed, even as he tried to smother the reaction.

The man noticed.

Oh, shit.

"How do you know that?" the man hissed, hiking him a little higher against the brick.

Matt swallowed, shoving down the urge to rip himself away, get some distance. "It's obvious you're worried about someone following you -"

Seams creaked as fingers tightened on Matt's clothes. "Try again."

"I can hear it."

Matt's feet settled back on the ground a moment later, fists releasing from his shirt.

"What?"

"I can hear it. Whatever bug they've got planted on you. It's really high, and really faint, but it's pretty distinctive."

"Bug?"

"Tracker. You know."

Silence. He - didn't, actually, Matt could discern the thinnest thread of confusion flashing over his face, but the man apparently decided that didn't matter. "What are you?"

Suspicion was a difficult to define. It tasted a little like fear and a little like anger; some people accompanied that taste with looming violence and some, like this man, didn't. Matt usually classified it by the category of silence - of voice, of body - that accompanied the fear/anger.

"I'm a lawyer."

That was a silence Matt was more familiar with.

"Really," Matt fumbled for one pocket, pulling out sharp-edged paper. "Nelson & Murdock. Here." he extended the card between two fingers, and waited.

And waited.

Matt almost missed the man turning away, so quiet was the move. But his first two steps toward the street had Matt dropping the card, reaching out to grab for the hooded sweatshirt and missing. Shit, no - "Hold on - wait - wait!"

Not even a flicker of interest.

Inspiration struck and he almost stumbled over the words in his haste to get them out. "Just - did you see where my stick fell? Please?"

"Eight inches to your three o'clock." He didn't even turn.

Matt scuffed his feet, kicking the stick with a loud clatter. "Oh, damn -"

The man paused, and glanced back.

Matt made a show of reaching out, holding back a grimace as he fumbled with bare hands over filthy cement. He couldn't hide the way his nose wrinkled as he splatted one palm into a puddle of sludge. It took a minute or so of turning himself deliberately away from the stick that hadn't shifted more than four inches from his kick, before he heard steps coming back.

A minute later one broad palm curved around his elbow, pressing upwards until they were both standing. Cloth shushed against faux-leather for a moment. What's he -

The handle of his stick, when it nudged against his open palm, was dry if not clean. Oh. "Thanks," Matt sighed.

The man hesitated. "You're blind?"

"Legally. And totally. No light perception." He tilted his head, and waved one hand toward his face. "Thought the glasses and stick gave it away."

The man took a step back.

Now or never. Matt swept his stick out, stepping forward. "Let me help you."

"You can't." More of that absolute surety. The man moved toward the street, his uneven gait strong in Matt's ears under the persistent fzzzzzz that refused to diminish.

"Give me a chance," Matt implored. He followed closely, even as the man exited the alley for populated sidewalk. The sky hung heavy overhead; the scent of rain wafted down.

"This isn't your fight," the man said.

He means it. Huh. Of all the things Matt had expected to hear, sincerity hadn't even made the list. Giving me an out. I'm almost there. "I don't need to be asked to do the right thing," Matt responded. He pulled level with the man, sure to give the impression they were walking together. "And it doesn't cost anything to talk."

"It could cost your life," the man retorted grimly, and sped up.

"I'm tougher than you think," Matt responded, matching him step for step.

The man paused as they caught up to a slow-moving older couple, before dropping behind Matt and steering him around them with a hand on his bicep. Though inexpert, even that motion was gentle, rather than the proprietary or pushy hands that had guided Matt in the past. He didn't have Foggy's familiarity with the role of acting as Matt's eyes, but Matt wasn't going to come away from the contact with bruises to his arm, shins, or dignity. "How do you know they're not looking for me for a reason?"

Gotcha. "They are. They have to be," Matt asserted. "But I know your first instinct wasn't to hurt me, even though you had me dead to rights with more than enough reason to suspect anyone following you. I know that you were going to let me walk away, thinking that I had seen your face. That tells me that whoever's after you isn't after a killer."

"You don't know that."

Para-military force on US soil. Captain. It wasn't a gamble. "There's a very significant difference between soldiers and murderers."

The quiet now was one of surprise, and it stretched out for longer than Matt had hoped. "If they sent troops after you, on American soil, that's not just illegal but unconstitutional. There are procedures that exist. No matter what you did, you're entitled to due process - whether that's in a court of law or a military tribunal I don't know, but I can make sure it happens - properly."

His pause this time was longer, considering. The unceasing fzzzz sent out a wave of sound that threw the details around the man into sharp relief to Matt's senses, but whatever thoughts passed through his mind weren't reflected on his face.

Matt kept up for another block in silence, before he couldn't take it anymore. "They're still tracking you. If they came for you before, they won't stop. You need help. Not the least, to get rid of that bug before they find you again."

That stopped him, abruptly, in the middle of the sidewalk. Luckily, it was more empty than full at this point. Matt was able to avoid slamming into the other man's back, though he did let his stick whack against one booted ankle.

When the man turned, Matt sensed his stare, aimed squarely at unseeing eyes as if Matt's blindness meant nothing. An eternity passed before he spoke. "You have no idea what you're getting yourself into."

Yes! "I usually don't," Matt grinned. He ignored the suppressed sigh that got him, focusing instead on the small smile and shake of the head. He held out his hand, though it was still filthy from pressing over the ground minutes earlier. "Matt Murdock, of Nelson & Murdock. Nice to meet you ….?"

The man's hand met his, regularly calloused in no pattern Matt could recognize, grip strong and unhesitating. "Steve."

"It's good to meet you, Steve."

I'm gonna kill him. Justifiable homicide. No jury in the world would convict.

Foggy rubbed burning eyes, re-focusing on the haze of tight print and citations making up the pile of caselaw in front of him.

"Hey, Foggy." Karen shut the door with a clatter, heels clicking across the floor.

"Hi." He looked up.

In the dim light of the few lamps they could afford, long blonde hair glowed golden. "I got those papers filed with the clerk at the Supreme Court. And managed to pick up the opposition's motion for summary judgment in Mrs. Cardenas's case, while I was at it. You know, the one the firm said failed to send?"

"Yeah." Oh, right - Foggy stood up, stretching, and moved to lean against his doorjamb. "Did the repair guy say what was wrong with the fax machines?"

Karen shot him a tight smile. She leant over the front of her desk, long fingers sorting through the stack of mail that had toppled in her absence. "The fax machine was never broken. And no, we didn't lose phone service either." She held up an envelope, one of the few not ominously stamped with FINAL NOTICE.

"Gamesmanship," Foggy sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Gotta love it. But thanks for that, we probably won't get the mailed copy for a few more days. Having it earlier will save some stress."

"Yeah, well, I skimmed it over on the subway back. You're not going to like it." She shifted around her desk, shrugging free of her raincoat. A few lone droplets spattered the floor, but the plastic wasn't drenched.

"Oh, I can guarantee I won't like it. But that's Matt's problem. Is it raining?"

"Just started. It's not that heavy yet." Finished hanging the coat on their wobbly rack, she turned with pursed lips. "Speaking of Matt," Karen tossed a thumb at the empty office across the lobby from where Foggy rested against chipped molding. "Where is he?"

The sixty-four thousand dollar question. "He left to grab lunch. Wanted to stretch his legs." Foggy stepped further into the lobby, stretching his own. Owww, I was definitely hunched over those papers for too long.

Karen blinked, settling into her chair. "It's almost four. That's a pretty late lunch."

"Yeah," Foggy grunted, rolling his shoulders back and straightening his spine. Okay, that feels better. It was just a few steps to Karen's desk, but he felt refreshed for taking them.

She held out a few envelopes, and he accepted, checking over each return address. Junk. ABA, probably want dues. Junk. Office bill we probably can't pay. Student loans I definitely can't pay. More junk.

"Do you know when he's going to be back? There's a few things here with his name on them."

"I have no idea," he couldn't stop the growl, tearing into one of the envelopes. Yep, dues. Nope. The papers tore easily and landed in the trash with an unsatisfying sshhhh against thin plastic.

"Well, when did he leave?"

"About . . ." Foggy twisted one wrist to check his watch. "Three hours and forty minutes ago." The second envelope flapped open easily, offering to provide economic assessment for clients injured in an accident. Why won't they stop sending these! Going into personal injury would be a financial step up, at this rate - despite the steep initial investment costs. He didn't even bother tearing it apart, just dropped it in the trash.

"What?" Karen focused on her computer screen even as pale brows arched in surprise. "Where was he going?"

Aaaand the rent payment that we - nope, can't pay in full. Great. Foggy set that one down on Karen's desk. "Stan the Man's."

"The hot dog guy by the subway?" She glared at the bill.

"Yep." Foggy didn't bother to open the last piece of junk mail, tucking the student loan notice into his back pocket and dropping the offer for a credit card into the trash.

"That's five minutes from here."

"Yep."

Karen folded her hands on her desk, looking up at him with worry dawning in blue eyes. "Have you tried calling him?"

Foggy pulled his phone from his pocket, unlocked it and hit speed dial. Seconds later a mechanized voice drifted from Matt's empty office. Foggy! Foggy! Foggy! Foggy! "He left his phone at his desk. Because he was only going to be gone ten minutes."

Her shoulders lifted in a deep breath. "Do you think something happened?"

"Something better have," he muttered, steadfastly refusing the creeping unease tickling the back of his mind.

Their office door clattered open. "Something did."

"Matt!" Relief painted itself across her features in a broad smile, even as she straightened to peer around him.

Foggy turned, and perched on the two inches of free space comprising the corner of Karen's desk. "The prodigal son returns. Sans hotdogs, I see." His stomach had long-since stopped growling, but he couldn't keep the crankiness at bay.

The door closed again with its familiar loud rattle.

"But not empty-handed." Matt held up a finger, two steps into the lobby.

Eyes aimed at the ceiling, Foggy took a deep breath. Chill out. Don't kill him. Karen doesn't want to deal with another murder. "I don't see any hotdogs, Matt. And if I did I wouldn't want one anyway, because it would probably be stone cold. Because you've been gone for -" Foggy checked his watch again, doing a little easy math, and felt his patience slip away entirely. "Three hours, forty-nine minutes, and eight seconds!"

"Which, by the way, I can't believe you guys voluntarily eat those things," Karen interjected, settled down in her chair and back to sorting through bills with a wrinkle between her brows.

"Hey, Stan's is a fine establishment," Matt protested, stepping closer to her desk.

"If you're looking for a heart attack by the time you're thirty-five," she muttered.

"That's if my partner doesn't drive me to one first. By disappearing for hours on end!" Foggy threw up his hands.

"I don't have lunch," Matt admitted, one hand up and open in a blatant calm down.

"No shit, Matt."

"But I did find a client."

"One that can pay?" Karen asked, holding up three pieces of paper with disturbing slashes of red ink.

Matt's wince told the whole story. So much for that.

"I don't see a client," Foggy riposted, not about to get distracted. "Are they invisible now?"

"He should be arriving right about -"

Knock, knock.

"- now." Smugness painted itself across Matt's mouth in a broad smirk.

I hate it when he does that. "Careful, or your face will stick that way," Foggy muttered.

He heard the smile in Karen's voice even as he stepped past Matt to open the door. "Saved by the bell."

"Hi," Foggy opened the door, and blinked. Holy shit. "Matt, this better not be an Abercrombie & Fitch job elimination case."

"What?" asked the man on the other side of the door. Creases pulled the skin of his brow and around his eyes, but he was still model-handsome and ridiculously drenched.

"Nevermind," Foggy pulled the door wider, grabbing at professionalism like a drowning man for a lifejacket. "Come in. Karen, do we have any towels?"

She came around the side of her desk, smiling a little. "I'll see what I can find. In the meantime," she waved a hand to the sidebar where a battered Keurig sat. "You must be freezing. There's coffee."

The man's glance to the coffee machine turned into a stare, but he managed a quiet "Thank you." He didn't move from his spot two steps into the room.

"Steve," Matt came forward as Karen slipped away to the conference room off Foggy's office. He shut the door; Foggy heard the latch sliding into place. What the hell, Matt? "This is my partner, Foggy Nelson. Foggy," Matt swept one arm towards the guy. "Steve Rogers."

Foggy extended a hand, pulling on a polite smile. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Rogers."

Blue eyes dragged away from the sidebar and met his gaze directly. "Just Steve is fine."

The grip around his palm started off startlingly strong, and then immediately lessened to a bearable pressure. Ow – only, not. "Okay, Steve. Why don't you and Matt come into my office and bring me up to speed on what you hope Nelson & Murdock can do for you."

A few squelching steps across the office had Rogers glancing back at his wet footprints with a wince. "Sorry -"

"Don't worry about it," Karen cut in from just inside Foggy's office. In her arms was the – absolutely hideous – blue-green quilt Mr. Ramirez's wife had paid them for clearing up his bench warrant from a backlog of parking tickets. "We don't have any towels, but this should help."

Rogers frowned, and Karen had to practically push the quilt on him to get him to dry his hair. A few moments later she'd gotten him installed by the radiator, which despite the partially-paid bills was still somehow pumping out enough heat for Rogers' clothes to steam faintly in the closed conference room. He was staring at a corner of the quilt, rubbing the stitching between his fingers.

Seated across the table from him, Foggy glanced at Matt. His partner was thin-lipped, head tilted slightly in Rogers' direction. Come on, Matt. A little help, please? "I want you to know that everything you tell us will remain confidential, Steve. Whatever the problem is, we're bound by lawyer-client confidentiality, and that protects anything you have to say." Unless you tell us you're going to go out and murder someone.

But for all he was big and could probably bench press Foggy, there was something lost in his eyes, and something small about the way he curled next to the radiator. Appearances can be deceiving. Still. This guy didn't really look the type.

Rogers gave him a tight-lipped nod, and nothing else; blue eyes were a little distant, and his breath was ever-so-slightly beginning to speed up.

"Matt?" Foggy kept his voice even, projecting a calm he wasn't quite feeling. Is he having a panic attack?

His partner's first question was nothing Foggy had even thought to anticipate. "Why were they tracking you, Steve?"

Foggy's teeth clamped shut, and he caught Karen's alarmed glance. Tracking? "They"? What are you dragging us into now, Matt! A quieter, cynical thought bubbled in the back of his mind. That would explain the anxiety.

"I don't know." Rogers had raised his head, eyes fixed on Matt's glasses. But the question at least had shaken him out of what might have been the beginnings of a panic.

Matt nodded, but without the edge he got when he smelled a lie. "Can you guess?"

"Nothing good," Rogers said tightly.

"What happened?" Matt pressed, leaning forward in his chair.

"Classified," Rogers shot back, and then he faltered. "I think. I don't -" he shook his head, dropping the quilt to pass one hand over his face.

This time, Foggy let the silence work for him, shaking his head at Karen when she took a breath to speak. Classified? Ten bucks says this is way, way out of our jurisdiction.

After a few minutes, Rogers spoke. "I don't even know what day it is."

"Wednesday," Foggy said automatically.

The smile that got him was only a twist of lips. "Thank you. But - that doesn't help."

"April 11th," Karen said.

He just looked at her.

For a moment, they sat in silence.

"It's 2012," Matt offered.

Rogers' face washed white so quickly that Foggy reached out a hand. "Are you okay?"

"No," he breathed, hands wrapped around the edge of the table. Something creaked; his knuckles jutted white. "I don't think so."

Foggy had seen a lot of devastation in the Kitchen; people who'd lost homes, lost loved ones, lost themselves. This look was all of that, and more.

"Steve?" Karen tried.

Rogers was staring out, blindly. A fine shiver worked through his frame, there-and-gone in a flash before he pulled the quilt a little tighter over broad shoulders. Foggy watched his throat move in a hard swallow. "I had a date."