Had I known what was going to happen to me that night after clinicals, I would have stayed in bed. I would have slept in, enjoyed a black coffee and mentally prepared myself for the chewing out I was bound to get for missing work. At the very least, I would have popped an extra Xanax. But as bad luck would have it, I forced myself awake, made myself reasonably presentable, and took the twenty minute drive from my apartment on 31st Street to SHIELD headquarters.

Months later, while sitting in a drafty room of an old-fort-turned-HYDRA-base, I would count that as my first mistake.

I ran the ID badge over the scanner in the parking garage and the door to the headquarters clicked as it unlocked. I made my way to the elevator and pressed the button for the medical bay.

I tended to avoid telling people that I was employed at SHIELD, because that kind of information was usually met with grand assumptions. People always wanted to know what it was like working at a counter terrorism and intelligence agency. When I replied that it was a lot of paperwork, they were left disappointed. They all expected the same thing; offices on the highest floor with windows overlooking the Potomac River, top of the line weaponry and training facilities, intensely dangerous but highly rewarding hours spend encrypting codes and tracking terrorists. The reality was rather…underwhelming. I worked in a white, windowless medical bay, clicking away at a computer to file medical reports. I was only a lab technician, which meant I handled blood samples and DNA tests and sometimes the doctors would let me set a broken bone if they were in a good mood that day.

Compared to other occupations at SHIELD, my job was not that thrilling, but I wasn't complaining. Working in the medical bay had its perks. Like sticking superhumans with needles. That shit never got old.

The elevator doors dinged as they slid opened and I entered the medical bay. The main level was suspiciously quiet and I made my way to the laboratory in back.

"Morning Faye," one of our interns said as I entered the lab. She handed me a hot cup of coffee and if I remembered her name, I would have thanked her. I dropped my car keys onto my desk and pulled on my white coat. Brushing aside a few scattered papers, I found my keyboard and opened my email.

I couldn't decide which was the bigger mess; my desk or my mind.

I took a sip of coffee and pulled up a message from Doctor Cho.

Hunt—

We are neck deep in the new project and I've just received word that Agents of Strike are inbound from a hostage negotiation. They'll be sent to the med bay as soon as they are debriefed. I'm leaving you in charge of their post mission exams. Expect Agent Romanoff and Captain Rodgers as well.

Doctor Helen Cho

I raised my eyebrows. Even though I had an MD and a bachelors in genetics, it was a rare occasion Doctor Cho and the other doctors let me, or any of the lad techs for that matter, near the Avengers. If there was even the slightest chance one of the supers was badly injured, I doubt Doctor Cho would trust me with her precious Band of Merry Misfits. And if she was sending me this info via email, then any injuries sustained from the mission were mild. A few cuts and bruises. Maybe a broken nose if I was lucky. When there was a real medical emergency, the lab was contacted through telecommunication, rather than good old fashioned email.

I clicked off my computer. Doctor Cho's visits to the States were becoming more frequent now that she and the rest of the med team were working on a top-secret project from Director Fury. Whenever she arrived, the rest of the doctors at SHIELD tended to disappear for a few days. Given that I was only a lad tech, I wasn't technically supposed to know what the project was, but I may or may not have skimmed a file on new regenerative human tissue technology.

I entered back though the main level, which resembled a state of the art hospital. The lab was spacious and clean, but cramped with mixers, stainless steel tables, computers, cryogenic chambers, microscopes, and a flat screen that took up the east wall. The main level had a larger floor plan that made it not as suffocating as the lab. There were parts of the med bay sectioned off for operating rooms, an infirmary, plus a surplus of medical supplies and offices for Doctor Cho and her team. It was another perk of working for SHIELD—all the fun, advanced medical toys I had at my disposal.

I began pulling supplies from the glass cupboard in the clinical room: needles, lidocaine, gauze and surgical scissors. I noticed my hands shaking as pulled on my gloves, and I told myself it was from coffee. I really needed to cut back.

I tried to keep busy while I waited for the team to filter in. I knew if I stayed immobile for too long, in a quiet infirmary where my thoughts could roam, then the anxiety would settle in. I had only met the Avengers in passing, really. A few times I had seen them in the medical bay. I had issued Agent Barton some morphine a few missions back, and I once stitched up Mr. Stark after a gash around his thumb became infected. Other than a few brief encounters, I had never properly introduced myself.

There was a reason for that. I hated introductions. The thought of having to make small talk with the Strike team and two Avengers while I cleaned them up, made me sick and frustrated. My leg began to bounce on the foot rest of my stool. I told myself that it was only a few words, people said them every day, and it didn't need to be that hard. Then again, this was Agent Romanoff and Captain Rodgers I was talking about, not Widower Harvey who lived in the apartment across the hall from me and enjoyed chatting (in grave detail) about his window garden.

The door opened and of course Steve Rodgers was the first to come see me. He stood politely in the doorway, taking up half the room with just his well-muscled chest. The blonde haired, blue eyed golden boy glanced at me, then around the room uncertainly.

"Oh, hi, h-have a seat," I said hastily and indicated to the table.

He moved across the bright room and I noticed the way he favored his right side, which meant he must have been hit on the left. He was in civilian clothes, a brown leather jacket that he pulled off when I rolled my stool across the room. He lifted his shirt and a yellow bruise was blooming across his ribs. There was something very amusing about the fact that even superheroes had to take a beating every once in a while. I placed my fingers on the intercostal muscles between his ribs, ignoring the fact that his incredible physique was making me featherbrained. I scrambled for something to say.

"You're not one of the usual doctors," he commented.

"No," I said, "They were all otherwise preoccupied, so Doctor Cho asked me to step in."

I pulled my hands away. No broken ribs. I knew the Captain would have to take a hard hit in order to snap one of his super solider bones, but the doctor in me still had to check to make sure.

He dropped the corner of his shirt and I half attempted to hide my disappointment.

He held out a hand.

"Steve Rodgers," he greeted, like I didn't already know.

"Faye Hunt," I replied and shook his hand.

"How long have you been at SHIELD?" he asked.

I shrugged. "I've been here a long time but I've only been working about six months. I was doing my residency here before then."

"You're awfully young to be a doctor."

"I-I know," I replied lamely, because I wasn't sure how to answer his question.

I pushed myself across the room the grab his file, the wheels of my stool thumping over the white tile. I tapped the tablet screen, curtesy of Stark Industries, and glanced over his recent paperwork. Everything was up to date.

If I was being honest, these routine post mission clinicals seemed like a waste of time. I felt like a child playing doctor and Steve Rodgers was the doting parent willing to play along and keep me happy. The Avengers were super humans after all. Highly trained assassins. Gods, even. Brilliant scientists and brilliant billionaires. There was essentially no need for medical check ups because they were essentially invincible. I had a theory that Director Fury used the clinicals as a way to ensure that his superhumans stayed just that—super. Every so often they underwent tests: bloodwork, respiratory tests, x-rays and the likes, hoping to catch any abnormalities before they caused trouble. But that was it, there never were any.

I thought that most of the team realized that these exams were bordering on unnecessary. Mr. Stark voiced his displeasure at the mandatory medical visits every chance he could, and at a surprisingly loud volume. It was during these tantrums that Director Fury often reminded him that after a particularly nasty self stich that resulted in a bad infection in his hand, I had to reopen the wound, clean and repair the damaged tissue and sew him back up the proper way so he wouldn't lose his thumb. That usually kept him quiet.

For about thirty seconds.

Banner, Agent Romanoff and Agent Barton dutifully did as they were told with little complaint, to which she was grateful. I had never met Thor and since he wasn't actually human, he was excused. Captain Rodgers seemed none the wiser and I wasn't sure if he was unaware of how needless testing his super solider abilities was, or if he politely ignored the fact like the others.

"Doc?" Steve asked, pulling me from my thoughts. Barley ten minutes and I already had a nickname from the Captain; the thought made me stupid with glee.

"Hmm?" I hummed, trying to keep my cool. I swiveled to face him.

"Do the words Project Insight mean anything to you?"

"Should they?"

"No, I suppose not," he replied.

I pushed my chair over to the exam table. Steve was staring at the body weight scale in the corner of the infirmary, troubled. He shifted and the sanitary paper under him crinkled.

"Is everything okay?" I asked slowly.

Another reason why I hated interacting with people. Asking if Steve was okay was the decent thing to do, but I didn't want to know. He would tell me something sad, maybe about his past life, and in an attempt to comfort him I would say something stupid and insensitive on accident. I didn't handle emotions well, mine or anyone else's for that matter. Steve obviously had something one his mind and probably wanted to talk about, but I wasn't sure I was the right person to do it with.

Steve looked at me and I glanced away, not meeting his gaze.

"It's just…a little bit of everything," Steve started. "I don't know. It just seems that whenever I start making progress, something jumps up and knocks me over," Steve continued, tossing his hand out to emphasize his point. "Like something is keeping me from moving forward. I start catching up on the times, but then I realize I've forgotten something from my past. I think I've made a right decision, then come to find out someone's been playing Judas with me."

My brows furrowed. "Judas?" I asked. I wasn't sure what Steve was getting at, but he seemed to relax the more he talked.

"Fury," Steve clarified. "I suppose 'betrayed' is a bit overdramatic. He just hasn't been completely honest with me. It makes me wonder what else he's been hiding."

I wasn't sure what to say to him, because I only had half the story. There were plenty of operations happening within SHIELD that only a select few knew about, I wasn't sure why Project Insight was any different, or why it concerned Steve in the first place.

"Sorry?" I replied. Steve looked at me and I cleared my throat, changing the subject. "Well you've definitely got a cracked rib. A few minor lacerations but nothing to be concerned about. Ice your side on and off for a few hours and take some pain medication if you need it."

Steve shook his head. "It's sore, but doesn't hurt that bad."

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. Of course the super solider brushed off a cracked rib like a broken fingernail.

"Even so," I said, "Be sure to get some rest. Even with your advanced healing, it could take a few days before you're back to normal. Don't overdo it, okay?"

Steve nodded, still looking unsure. I closed out of Steve's files and peeled off my gloves. I glanced at him, waiting for him to get off the table and leave, but he didn't budge. He rubbed his hands together and the movement made the muscles in his arms ripple. I made an ungodly noise between a sigh and a groan and he looked at me. So much for acting professional.

"And, uh, don't worry about Director Fury," I said quickly, trying to hide my embarrassed blush. "He knows what he's doing."

"I just feel like there is a gaping hole in my memory and the more I try to close it, the wider it gets," he said. "Things are changing and I don't understand it."

Everyone knew the story of Steve Rodgers, especially here at SHIELD, and for some reason his comment irked me.

"That's because there is a gaping hole in your memory, Captain Rodgers. You were frozen for seventy years," I said. I tried to let my voice be understanding, but it came out snarkier than I intended. Steve wasn't the only one who couldn't piece together his life, and I suddenly did not feel like being his shrink anymore. "You're Captain America. There are books written about you and documentaries about your battles. Do some research about yourself because if you can't remember then at least you can relearn," I snapped. Steve's face remained passive, if not slightly confused. I matched his unsure gaze, raising an eyebrow. "You do know you have an exhibit in the World War Two wing of the Smithsonian?" I asked and my voice returned to its normal pitch.

He shrugged.

"If you want my advice, do some digging. Maybe learning more about your past will help you figure out your future," I said. A rock could give better advice, but it was the best I had. Steve seemed grateful regardless. He offered a lopsided smile and I returned it.

He slid off the table and pulled is jacket back on. I drummed my fingers against my cheek as my chin rested in the palm of my hand, watching him.

"Thanks, Doc," Steve said, hand on the door handle.

He puled open the door but before he could leave, I blurted out, "Does it ever come back to you?" He looked at me and I stuttered out, "Y-y-your memories. Bits and pieces maybe?"

Steve considered my question for a moment and I swallowed, figuring that if Steve Rodgers could regain memories that were over seventy years old, then maybe mine would find some way to come back to me too.

"Sometimes certain smells or sounds remind me of things I've forgotten," Steve said and his smile turned wistful. "I was in a coffee shop a few days ago, the one on Maine Avenue, and they were playing Benny Goodman. It reminded me of laying on the floor as a boy and listening to the radio until my mother made me turn it off."

It wasn't the answer I was looking for, but it still gave me hope.

"Benny who?" I asked and Steve just laughed.

"Thanks," he said and left the exam room.

The medical bay seemed strangely quiet once he left and I waited for more agents to filter in. I could see why people admired Steve Rodgers; calm, collected and cordial, even when he had things troubling him. I wish I could say the same for me, but the slightest hiccup in my life was usually received with overreactive meltdowns. I reached up and fingered the short fringe on my forehead, the repercussions of my last breakdown. For some reason I thought cutting my own bangs would magically fix everything, but it only made me look like I was twelve again. Mercifully, they had grown since then, and now they were only slightly crooked.

Steve Rodgers' quiet, grounding presence was something I needed more of in my life.

Strike agents filtered in through out the rest of the day. One agent came in with a nasty gash along his temple that almost took his ear off. Six stitches, a finger splint and countless butterfly bandages later, I was finally able to leave the infirmary for the lab. Agent Romanoff never showed, which I couldn't say I was disappointed about. The fact that the woman could punched me through the next life without batting an eyelash scared the bejesus out of me, so I wasn't exactly jumping at the chance to tell her to take it easy.

Clinicals took up a significant chunk of time, so when I finally finished up paperwork in the lab, I was the only one left in the medical bay. Thank God I didn't have a social life. A job working for SHIELD, even one as uninspired as mine, didn't allow time to indulge in a foreign concept like friendship. Not that I ever cared, but I tried not to make working late a habit. By the time I shut down my computer and turned off the lights and locked up the lab, I was leaving work well past nine o'clock.

That was my second mistake, I would later figure.

I took the elevator to the underground parking garage. Usually full, the garage looked especially naked with only a few dozen cars left. I noticed Director Fury's black SUV was still there, and I wouldn't be surprised if the man had a futon in his office. We, the doctors, lab techs and nurses in the med bay, jokingly refereed to Director Fury's vehicle as The Black Beast. It was parked in the same spot every morning, and was usually there every night when I headed home. I made my way to the northeast corner lot where I had parked that morning, fishing in my scrub pocket for my keys. The florescent lights overhead buzzed and winked.

I paused at the drivers side of my car, trying to fit the key in the lock. There was movement out of the corner of my eye and I turned to see who was approaching. Before I could, a hand, cold and frighteningly strong, grabbed my hair and shoved my face into my car window. My nose collided with the glass, spider webbed cracks fanning out from the point of impact. There was a crunch, and I felt the bones in my nose shift. Pain exploded between my eyes and blood gushed from my nose, painting the window red. Stars blossomed in my vision, my head rang, and my knees buckled underneath me. I crumpled onto the hard concrete, blood spewing from my nose. I blinked slowly trying to refocus enough to keep the world from tilting so I could get back on my feet.

The stars cleared enough for me to see a pair of black combat boots planted next to my hand. Panic shot through my body like lightning and with a speed I didn't know I possessed, I scrambled to my feet. Using a hand on the car to steady me, rounded the front and started running for the doors. Adrenaline fought the dizziness that closed in around me.

I wasn't sure if he was behind me or not, but I didn't dare stop to look around. I threw myself against the doors and yanked hard.

Locked.

I screamed and banged my fists against the metal.

"No!"

My keys and badge were back at my car, laying on the ground where I had dropped them. I smacked my palms against the doors, willing someone to be in the stairwell on the other side and hear me. There was a noise behind me. A click then a muffled step. A crack, a pop and suddenly and florescent lights overhead shattered. Sparks rained down and I covered my head as I was showered. I screamed again, so loud and frightened that it hurt. The lights went out and I was plunged into darkness.

My eyesight failing, I strained my ears listening for my attacker, but I could only hear the ringing in my head and my shallow breathing. I swallowed, panting, and put my hands out in front of me, blindingly stumbling forwards. I couldn't sit there and wait for him to get to me.

I moved cautiously, discombobulated since I could no longer reply on my sight or hearing. My hands came into contact with something sleek and cold and I flinched, only to realize I was standing by a Chevy truck. Out of ideas, and the fight in me rapidly failing, I crammed myself under the vehicle to hide. With any luck, my attacker was just as blind as I was in the dark, but I wasn't so sure. I waited, eyes straining against the blackness to try and make out anything familiar.

Footsteps. They were slow and calculating and coming from my left. I turned and saw those same back boots moving towards my hiding place. My hands trembled as I pressed them to my mouth to try and stifle my heaving breathing. I held still, begging my body not to give away my position. The boots rounded the front of the truck and I dug my fingernails into my cheeks to keep myself quiet. The boots moved on, disappearing behind the massive tires. I swallowed back frightened tears, squeezing my eyes shut and trying not to panic.

He's gone. He's gone. Gone. Gone. Gone.

I repeated the words over in my head, wanting them to be true. I didn't dare shift my position. The fabric of my scrubs would make too much noise if I moved and I'd be done for.

I waited for what felt like hours.

I didn't hear anything. I turned to my left and the reflective headlights of my car winked at me. It was only five or six empty parking spaces away. If I could make it to the car, I could get my keys and maybe have a chance to escape.

And maybe have a chance to run over the bastard that broke my nose.

I held my breath, placed my palms on the ground and pulled myself. The loose gravel on the concrete bit into my hands and brushed against my pant legs. I waited another few seconds before moving again.

There was the unmistakable crunch of metal on metal, a cannon blast of noise against the silence, and I jumped, my head snapping around to look over my shoulder at the rear bumper of the truck. A silver hand was clamped around it, metal fingers digging to the vehicle and crinkling it like a piece of paper. The hand lifted the back of the truck and flipped it over. I screamed, curling into a tight ball as the Chevy cartwheeled over itself. Glass shot off the windows and the truck groaned as it bent and snapped. It crashed onto its topside, leaving me exposed.

I brought my arms down, twisted onto my back and propped myself up with my elbows. I scooched back as my attacker marched towards me. He was tall, much taller than I was, with slumped shoulders and clad in a black military looking uniform. His face was completely masked and even in my current life threatening predicament, I couldn't help but think how cruel it was that I couldn't see the face of my killer before I died. His left arm shot out and his hand wrapped around my throat, shoving me flat on my back and pinning me to the ground. It was then that the fact that he had a metal, bionic arm sunk in. It was cold against my throat, firm, but not choking.

I grit my teeth, suddenly wanting to hurt the man on top of me. If I was going to die, then I wanted to make him suffer as much as I could before I was gone. I wrestled with the arm around my throat, but his grip was vice like. I kicked my legs, but he was quicker, straddling my body and laying his weight on my thighs. I screamed, reached up, and slapped his face as hard as I could.

It didn't do much but make him angrier. His grip on my neck tightened and breathing suddenly became difficult. He produced a needle filled with a clear liquid. With his metal arm, her force my head to the side, exposing the skin below my jaw. There was a pinch in my neck. I was seeing stars again and my fingers began to tingle. I wasn't sure if the reaction was from the very potent sedative he had just injected me with, or the hand that was steadily crushing my windpipes. My body was failing me. My hits became vapid. My vision was going quickly. My eyes rolled up and I blacked out.