The thud of Jason's footsteps echoes the pounding of his heart, and the rasp of his breath through his throat and down to his chilled lungs is painful, even to his enhanced body.

His life is flashing, if not before his eyes, then on a picture screen in the back of his brain.

He's two-his first memory-and waving goodbye to his mother, who in his mind's eye wears net stockings and dark eyeshadow and not much other than that.

He's five, and his sister is scooping him up in her arms, giving him Big Hugs and lots of kisses, squeezing away the hurt of her own passage, whispering pointless apologies in his ear.

And eleven; all knock-knees and too-small clothes, cowering under the glares of the bigger boys as he tries to hide his gangly growth with hunched shoulders and a weak cough that soon becomes too real.

Twelve, moving from the now-comforting children's nursery to the scary ranks of the boys' bunks.

He's fifteen, seventeen, eighteen-getting into fights he can't finish, waiting on the steps of the orphanage for the Good Humor truck to pass, asking pretty Drew Tanaka to dance because every other boy is too skittish to trust her slanted features as they throw slurs at her like marbles on the sidewalk.

He's eighteen and three-quarters, and his knees are shaking as he forces a smile onto his stiff face and promises the recruitment officer that he is, indeed, twenty-one; and his knees are still shaking as they turn him away-once, twice, three times. He wanted so badly to do something good-it's all that he ever wanted.

Now that it's too late, he wonders if it was even worth it. The blood, the heroism, the war and the sacrifices and every dying face? Was that worth going through all of the treatments and experiments and humiliation, and becoming a painted figurehead at the forefront of an organization he's not sure he wants to represent?

Probably not, but he's done it now. As he speeds towards not-quite-certain death, the past blurs into nothing but ghosts spinning fairy tales, and he grips his fancy new shield in one hand and his rosary in the other, and his thoughts become one pulsating, vibrating, staying word that beats a staccato rhythm in time with his feet and his heart.

Nico, Nico, Nico.

That's what this is about. That's what this has always been about.

It he can't rescue Nico, then all of the standing in front of patriotic banners, and singing to little babies while big-bulbed cameras flashed black-and-white pictures, waving at political rallies and elections stateside, all of that supposed morale-boosting is completely bogus. It means nothing. This is what he was built for. This is what he should have been doing all along. Everything else has been nothing but a distraction.

As he breaks out of the narrow, winding tunnel and enters the hollow belly of the mountain, the thump-thump-thumping in his ears is replaced by a more familiar sound; the whirring of rotor blades. Before him, a helicopter sits in the tight space, creating a whirlwind that whips his hair around like a tornado.

The aircraft is already lifting off the ground-Jason draws another burst of speed from his reserves(feels like it might be the last), and hurtles towards the craft, launching himself onto the vertical, flat tail and holding on, slinging his shield over his shoulder for safekeeping.

His feet scrabble for purchase, finding it in a small, auxiliary wing just before the copter's clunky wheels part from the stone ground for good. The aircraft wobbles slightly as the pilot hurries to correct the weight imbalance, and turns in a semi-circle like a confused dog before beelining for the mouth of the cave. It shoots out of the side of the mountain before Jason can do much more than dig the reinforced pads of his gloves into the fabric covering the tail.

The weather hits him first, as they hurtle away from Mt. Kamen and towards the Arctic Sea-their altitude isn't the highest he's ever been at, even unprotected, but the wind that bites at his face is more severe than his days roaming through Siberia, hunting down Hydra bases. Ice chips slice into his skin, whipped around in the vaporous clouds that hang over the Urals like the world's coldest blanket, and the blood freezes in the small cuts before it has a chance to clot. His hearing is nothing but a useless roar, and he can barely keep his eyes open.

Grappling his way into the helicopter is possibly the hardest thing he's ever had to do, and it feels like years before his numb fingers catch on a raised steel panel. He digs the fingerpads of his gloves into the groove, using one hand to hold on to the copter while the other pulls uselessly at the door. He's soaked to the skin, his suit doing little, if anything, to counteract the gale that engulfs him and the chopper in a world of wet, freezing grayness.

The door gives out after an eternity and flies open, immediately yanked from his grip by the winds that slam it against the far side of the helicopter. Jason can't see inside from this angle; but, at this point, it doesn't matter. He has to get inside before his veins ice over and he dies from the thinning oxygen.

He inches along the slick side of the craft, one boot remaining firmly-as firmly as it can be-placed on the navigation wing of the heli until both of his hands have a strong grip on either side of the door. He kicks off from the steel side, legs flying into the air for a stomach-lurching second before he manages to haul himself into the body, thanking God the entire time for super-soldier-serums and the laws of kinetic motion and, of course, good ole' fashioned grit.

After the blinding brightness outside, it takes Jason's eyes some time to get used to the gloomy interior. He braces himself in the doorframe, the wind biting at his back, and blinks rapidly, hoping to accelerate the adjustment. The baby suns in his vision recede slowly, giving him the scene in patches.

There's Nico, seated behind the pilot's chair with his hands tied. A cloth gag is bound tightly around his narrow face, and he's still in his tattered combat uniform, the grayish green fabric nearly bleached of color. His skin is ashen, its healthy olive complexion sickly, with eggplant-purple circles lurking under his nearly black eyes. His eyebrows are raised.

Jason knows that look-hell, he's caused that look before. It's the face that Nico makes just before everything goes to pot; a sort of last-ditch, run-you-chucklewit kind of expression.

Then there's the small matter of the bomb nestled in the very small space between Nico and where Jason is standing precariously at the very threshold of the helipit. There's no mistaking it-he's seen enough of these babies to know, even without the helpfully printed word German word on the side of its casing: BRISANT. Explosive. Jason takes a moment to appreciate the utter uselessness of a labeled bomb. Then he yanks his attention back to the situation.

Nico's jerking his head back and forth, between Jason and the door, eyes widening to the point where he doesn't look human anymore, just like a scared, trapped animal. But what does he expect Jason to do? Jump back out?

Jason, therefore, ignores him and rushes forwards. The pilot, finally aware of his presence, is yelling at him in German, which Jason is too distracted to properly understand. The gist of it is "get out of my helicopter" which, again, isn't an option.

Jason removes the gag from Nico's mouth, and the first thing out of his old friend's lips is a string of Italian curses.

"You're welcome," Jason tells him. "It was nothing, just a short jog through an enemy war base and a ride on the outside of a helicopter in a snowstorm."

"You idiot," Nico hisses in English. "You shouldn't have come after me!"

"Because you're doing so well on your own," Jason deadpans. "C'mon, buddy, I have this one. Just admit it."

Nico scowls, massaging his wrists. "You think you're so smart? This is a trap, chucklewit."

A trap? Jason casts his mind back, tries to remember if the possibility of a trap crossed his mind. His thought process goes: Nico, Hydra base, helicopter, Nico. Nope, no mention of a trap. He supposes it might have been good for him to consider that-but he would have come anyway. He would have come under any circumstance.

"So, what? The bomb's about to blow?" Jason asks. "Or the pilot is the Baron in disguise?" He pauses. "You're not evil, are you?"

"Of course I'm not evil, you idiot," Nico hisses, getting to his feet. "It's-"

His words are cut off by the sudden motion of the pilot, who apparently just decided that he'd had enough of enemies bickering while he was trying to fly. He points a silver-barreled gun at Nico's chest and says, in guttural German, "Both of you sit down. Now."

The helicopter lurches violently.

Jason races forwards and tackles the man, moving too quickly for any ordinary human to react. His hands are around the man's throat; his hands are breaking the man's neck. The body slumps to the floor.

"That solves the problem," Jason says, sliding into the pilot's chair. "Now, Nico, tell me more about this trap. Specifically, when does the 'trap' part come into play?"

He waits for a reply, and gets none.

"Nico-" he begins, twisting around to see what's got his best friend's tongue. He doesn't like the answer.

Behind him, the Skull himself holds Nico close, almost like a lover but horribly not, his clawed red hands at Nico's throat. Next to them, the decoy bomb lies open and empty.

Bad guy hiding inside a bomb. Who would have thought?

Jason is out of his chair in a minute, not caring that the motion once more makes the copter lurch, and spin in graceless circles to lower and lower altitudes, propellers keeping it just aloft enough to still be wrenched around by the wind.

The Skull shoves Nico aside without a second thought as Jason barrels into him, attempting to snap his neck like the pilot's. The technique doesn't work on a being as horribly mutated as the Skull; the German does nothing but laugh maniacally, twisting out of Jason's grip like a snake. He gets in a good punch as he does, and Jason stumbles back, his jaw stinging.

He swings at the Skull, misses, swings again, and connects. He can hear Nico panting behind him; the familiar words of the Hail Mary. The sound distracts him, and the Skull knocks him to the floor. The helicopter lists.

"It's over!" Jason shouts, wrestling with the enemy. "My squad is eliminating the last Hydra base as we speak! The war is over, bastard! There's no reason to fight any longer."

He throws the Skull off him, pinning him to the floor. He grapples for the man's neck-no matter how mangled a body, it still needs oxygen-and hears a thud behind him. He glances over his shoulder to see Nico, pressed flat against the other side of the copter. The expression on his oldest friend's face can't be described as fear-it's terrified. Nico is terrified.

Of Jason.

"You aren't human," Nico says in Italian. "What have they done to you?"

"Ihnen dasselbe," the Skull hisses beneath Jason's hands, syllables distorted to almost beyond Jason's comprehension.

He takes advantage of the captain's distraction and pushes him over, springing up and tackling Nico-Jason's brain translates the words-and Nico's eyes, his dark, dark eyes, fix onto Jason's, locking together like two puzzle pieces created to fit together-and then both of them, the Skull and Nico, have disappeared, out into the whirling, icy whiteness with little more than a whip as their bodies are taken by the raging wind.

Jason's scream isn't words-it's a roar, straight from the bottom of his lungs, infused with every memory and feeling, every thought and realization and "what's eating you, bud?", and when it finally morphs into something close to a word, it sounds like Nico, because, after all, that's what this whole ordeal has been about.

That's what this has always been about. Without Nico, none of it means anything. There's no reason to fight.

Same to you.