WARNING: This story will involve violence, language and past rape. Not all warnings or tags will apply to this story until later chapters. If you've read my other fics, then yep I do like trains and hotels ;-D They can be quite useful!

Please Read & Review, I like to see things from different angles. Crit of all kinds welcome.

The Captain & The Train
by WhalesForSale

1400 HOURS
Gwangju, South Korea

Steve Rogers sat on a train speeding towards Gimhae, South Korea, final destination: Seoul. He had been spellbound for the last hour, watching the landscape zip past them. Tucked into in a little 4-seater alcove, he was the only occupant and preferred it that way. Not that he didn't enjoy company, but ever since the takedown of S.H.I.E.L.D. he'd had a bit too much "company" to suit him. Women threw themselves at him so often and shamelessly that it was a turnoff, men hushed in awe when he walked into a room, fanboys would nervously seek him out to sign plastic replicas of his shield, and not a few ex-HYDRA/S.H.I.E.L.D agents (or whatever they were calling themselves these days) had tried to kill him and Sam.

Steve was tired of it all.

In his pocket was a burner phone with the information to get to Stark Industries satellite office in Seoul where the entire team would assemble. The Avengers. If Steve was honest, he was excited for the change in pace. He and Sam had been tracking Bucky with the breadcrumbs that Natasha had given them over 7 months ago, and they both needed a break. Sam had gone back to take care of things at home and visit his family. He wasn't a member of the Avengers, but had agreed to be "on-call" should the need arise.

Steve was excited, though admittedly he didn't care much for trains.

1800 HOURS
Gimhae, South Korea

Cold water trickled down Steve's face and he reached for a paper towel. He made sure to keep his head down away from the mirror. He was more relaxed than he'd been while tracking Bucky, but he would be a fool to assume that everyone who recognized him would be friendly. He wasn't sure that any of them had fully considered the implications that outing HYDRA/S.H.I.E.L.D would have. A lot of unassuming people had been publically declared as traitors, many had died in the battle, and those who were left had lost their jobs. That meant a lot of people were feeling anywhere from mildly annoyed to murderous towards him.

After drying his hands he settled his NY Yankees cap back on his head. It might scream American! but since he towered over 98% of the population anyway, he guessed it didn't make much of a difference. He wore a loose windbreaker over dark blue khakis and though he usually favored tan, he needed to be more low-key than usual. He checked his watch and then his fly before heading out of the men's room. 1807 hours where the hell is Natasha?

Natasha was supposed to have gotten on the train 30 minutes ago when it stopped in Gimhae, meet up with him and continue to Daejeon where Stark kept an apartment. As instructed, they would spend the next day and night in Daejeon before taking another train to Seoul to meet the team. They'd both flown into separate airports to reduce the chance of an enemy discovering that the world's superheroes were gathering en masse. Of course that meant that he had to take a longer and more circuitous route to Seoul than he'd prefer, but when safety was involved, he'd do whatever it took. Everything had seemed so much easier when they had access to Quintjets.

Steve glanced again at his watch. He knew Natasha could take care of herself, but deep in his gut he was starting to get worried.

1630 HOURS
Gimhae International Airport
Gimhae, South Korea

Natasha knew she was being tracked as soon as she got through Customs. There were only two agents—she assumed NIS—which surprised the hell out of her. She was getting old for a spy, but not that old. She didn't know what their game was—security was tight as shit at that airport.

Natasha followed her own protocol when being followed and walked at a normal pace through the international baggage claim. She could see the woman with the short hair in her periphery weaving slowly through the crowds, taking care not to move with her in parallel tandem. Natasha readjusted her black bugout bag on her shoulder and casually looked to her right. There was a stocky, nondescript man dressed in street clothes slowly pacing back and forth in front of the exit doors, trying to look aloof. Even if his military grade combat boots hadn't screamed non-civilian,the way his eyes kept scanning the crowd in grids was a dead giveaway.

"Get it together Korea," Natasha chided underneath her breath, and smoothly pivoted towards the women's restroom.

If they were going to engage her—which she couldn't imagine they'd be stupid enough to do in the middle of an airport—then she'd need a weapon. Preferably weapons. The shitty fact about flying as a civilian is that walking through security with a weapon is very tricky and dangerous. One day Natasha wanted to pack a Glock 32 just to see what TSA would do, but in the meantime she needed to get low and do it fast.

The women's restroom had a long corridor of stalls, at least 15 deep on each side. There were women occupying several of the stalls and at least another five freshening themselves at the sinks. Natasha eyed them all quickly before ducking into one of the stalls furthest from the door. She worked with an unconscious speed that spoke of years of practice, and had her bag hanging unzipped in seconds.

She pulled out two titanium reinforcement ribs from the middle compartment and set to work. Just because it's tricky to fly with a weapon, doesn't mean that it's impossible. The ribs were chemically treated with a fingerprint resistant finish and had identical shapes punched into them—a blade and a handle. She popped out two pieces and fitted them together, forming a push dagger. The weapons were made in the shape of a T. The handle fit snuggly in her balled fist, while the thin neck of the blade protruded up between her middle fingers. The base of the blade was smooth and formed to the curve of her knuckles. The blade itself was in the shape of a short, wide triangle, meant to be used with a punch. But Natasha's blade was altered. Instead of the being double edged and tapering to a sharp point, her edges were dull and came to an abrupt end, as if the tip had been snapped off. Though this design could be used to kill, its main purpose was to immobilize an opponent by narrowing the impact surface area. A deft punch to a single area such as the temple, for instance, could render an opponent unconscious with minimal effort.

Natasha was all about deft, minimal effort. She was in a foreign country in an international airport, and if she spilled blood or killed anybody, there was going to be a problem. She slipped a blade up each of her jacket sleeves and shouldered her bag. With a hand pressed to the stall door she listened cautiously before opening it.

A toilet flushed and a woman noisily blew her nose, but the rest of the women's voices were already fading as they left the restroom. Natasha opened the door and stepped out. Only three women were left in the restroom, including a cleaning lady—but no sign of her shadow.

Natasha rinsed her hands in the sink, surreptitiously watching the other women in the mirror. The two young women tossed their paper towels in the waste bin and bobbed their heads respectfully to the cleaning lady who returned the gesture. The cleaning lady, a woman several years older than Natasha, with hair pulled into a tight bun, continued to clean and keep a polite distance from Natasha's side of the restroom.

Surprised that the woman from baggage claim hadn't followed her in, Natasha began to make her way back out. The cleaning lady's supply cart was parked just inside the restroom door and as the two young women pushed the door open, she saw a floor sign outside written in Korean and English that read: Restroom Closed for Cleaning.

That was when the hairs on the back of her neck stood up. Before having a conscious thought, Natasha was already spinning to the right, both daggers dropping soundless into her palms. She didn't see the gun swinging into play, because she was still turning back towards the cleaning lady—even as her right arm moved in an upwards arc to drive the blade home into her collarbone.

The woman blocked the blade deftly the same instant that she pulled the trigger, and the gun went off with a soft thwap. Blinding pain ricocheted up the side of Natasha's neck and instantly numbed her left arm from the shoulder down. Fingers numbed, her second dagger clattered uselessly to the floor.

Natasha staggered back and quickly glanced down at her limp arm. Instead of finding a ragged bullet hole, she saw a black dart protruding from her shoulder. A dart only meant one thing: someone wanted her alive. Suddenly the woman was on her again. She leapt at Natasha with a spinning hook kick, aimed at her head.

Natasha dodged the kick clumsily and it landed on her shoulder instead, snapping the dart off at the base and driving the needle deep into her bone. The pain was excruciating and it was all she could do not to cry out. The woman backhanded her hard across the jaw and drove a hammer fist into her side. All of Natasha's air left her with a soft whoosh and she doubled up, dropping to one knee. Something was wrong. She'd fought one-handed before and though it was ungainly and awkward, she shouldn't be this slow. Her mind was still predicting the woman's moves, but her body was not responding at normal speed.

Got-dammit pull it together!

Natasha realized with a sinking feeling that if she didn't find a way to end this fight quickly, then she would not be leave the restroom on her own will. Natasha blinked slowly as if trying to clear her vision. Her breathing began to slow as she sank down heavily onto both knees, swaying back and forth. The woman approached her cautiously.

"The fuck did you do, Korea?" she growled hoarsely. The woman smiled and came a little closer.

"Just a sedative. Don't look so worried, you're in good hands…for now." Her voice was soft and she spoke with a flawless American accent. But something was a little off. Each word was a little too clipped, a little too precise, almost guttural. A shiver ran up her spine. It sounded almost...Russian.

"Who—" Natasha fell on her side with a grunt. Her eyelids were heavy and she struggled to sit up.

"Old friends," she answered indulgently. Still several feet back, the woman slowly began to drop her guard, but it was all the opening Natasha needed. Natasha came up on one knee and with all the strength she had to bear, drove her push dagger into the woman's kneecap. The patella crunched and shattered. The woman was already stepping back even before Natasha's blow was complete, before even the strangled shriek was past her lips. That was a mistake.

She was swinging her weight back onto her ruined knee, which couldn't support it. Instead of locking to hold her weight, it hyperextended. Natasha heard both ligaments go pop-pop in quick succession before the woman fell backwards, her face a contortion of agony—

—What's wrong with the floor? Natasha wondered. She felt something soft giving underneath her and looked down. Her eyes widened in shock—she was kneeling on the woman's throat. When the fuck did that happen?

She didn't at all remember crossing the distance between them and beginning the slow business of suffocating her. Kneeling on the throat with gradual, increasing pressure was a quiet and effective way to suffocate someone without crushing their windpipe. Natasha removed her knee and in that moment she nearly panicked. The goal was not to kill. Had she done it? The woman drew a ragged, pitiful breath, and Natasha relaxed—marginally.

She left the woman sitting propped up on a toilet in a locked stall. It took more time and energy than she really had to spare to drag and lift her bodily with only one working arm, but she couldn't be left sprawled on the floor for someone to find. Before crawling out of the stall Natasha leaned in close and whispered, "Tell my friends I said hey."

After double checking that she had all of her belongings, Natasha swung her bag back onto her shoulder and walked out of the restroom as steadily as could be managed—

—"Miss? Miss, I take?" the driver asked reaching for her black bag. The sun stood high in the clear sky. The air was unseasonably warm and thick with exhaust fumes. Taxis, shuttles, cars and buses honked and swarmed through the area. The sight and sounds hit her like a cattle prod and she flinched. Natasha gaped at him.

"Miss? I take?" he asked again, looking a little irritated. She was standing on the curb at international arrivals. She gaped at it all. Oh my God. I'm losing time.