A/N: Thought I'd try my hand at this :)

Just a short note: This story is an alternative take on the ending to the film. No new characters are added, however the circumstances of each existing character have been slightly altered. What would have happened if the bad guys won? Well, see for yourself :)

Constructive criticism is welcome! I own nothing.

***Update (15/07/2014)***: Unfortunately, due to personal and professional commitments, I can't continue this story. My last chapter, however, is an epilogue of sorts that rounds off the events of the previous chapters in the best possible way. Thank you for taking the time to read and review :)

Prologue

The sky was ablaze with the light of a thousand explosions, a sheet of thick grey smoke resting upon the horizon. If it weren't for the dark, imposing shadows of the Helicarriers suspended high above, one would mistake the scene for a day of fireworks; a day of celebration. In a way, today was a day worth celebrating. Of course, that depended on where you were standing.

Alexander Pierce turned to look at the show above him from the confines of his office. The room, located on a higher level of the Treskelion, was enclosed in bullet-proof glass, double glazed. On a normal day, it would look like any ordinary office space; egg-shell white covering the walls, framed pictures of smiles and joy on his desk, the fake potted plant to his right, the loaded glock secured under the desk notwithstanding.

Today was not a normal day.

Today, Pierce had the pleasure of special company.

The Black Widow stood before him, her eyes stung with anticipation, her brows furrowed in an underlying rage. Besides her stood Director Fury, stoic and unmoving, starring straight through Pierce. He's concealing his fear, Pierce noted. Let's see how long he can hold.

Behind the pair stood Brock Rumlow, a raised M4A1 trained on the backs of the SHIELD agents. His once soulful brown eyes were now a shade darker, sharper. His focus was not spared and if they tried any tricks, they would be regretting it soon after. He'd let them have it; no one would miss them. It was pure luck, really, how he ended up where he was. He'd been meaning to apprehend the Widow a lot earlier, but got side-tracked by the kid. Sam Wilson? It didn't matter now. Having knocked out the kid, he had made his way upstairs only to find Pierce at the receiving end of the barrel of a gun, courtesy of the Widow, of course. They'd almost won. Almost.

Sometimes the bad guys win, Rumlow smirked at the thought and continued to hold his stance. Although the Helicarriers failed, HYDRA was still in business. He'd apprehended the Widow, the butt of his rifle pressing hard against her head; just in time to stop her from dumping all of Shield's and Hydra's files on the net. Every secret, every mission, every covert dealing would have been unmasked, free for critique and subject to shame. Yet this bitch here thought she could play whistleblower, despite being privy to half of Shield's operations, despite playing assassin girl herself. Morality. He never understood the appeal.

"What a waste", Pierce said, shifting his gaze from above to the agents in front of him. "Still, an optimist sees opportunity in every difficulty".

He motioned for Rumlow to open the door to an exit. The elevator would take him to a jet on the rooftop to relative safety. The loss of the Helicarriers was, whilst substantial, a mere scratch on the face of Hydra's extensive base of operations. They had people in high places, politicians, royalty, moles in the White House to ensure their survival. Like a parasite, evil thriving within good.

Rumlow nodded, soon after aiming his gun at the Widow and her companion, preparing to play Grim Reaper. They were lucky. They would die quickly.

"No!" Pierce interrupted, "Leave them here. This room will be secured after I leave. Of course, that won't help much", he smirked. Fury looked to the destruction above, slowly realising his implication. The Helicarriers were deteriorating, chunks of steel and cement plunging into the waters below. Soon, the one directly above them would be torn apart and its remnants would come crashing down directly upon them.

They'd likely die, painfully. Crushed by the shattered dreams of Hydra. He'd laugh at the thought if his life wasn't on the line.

With his rifle still trained on them, Rumlow backed away slowly towards the exit. Pierce was already making his way to the elevator. Rumlow sealed the door then entered the security code. Upon its activation, a series of metal bars crept over the security glass, enclosing the office. Reinforced steel over bullet-proof glass bore an uncanny resemblance to a maximum security prison. Soon it would be a concrete coffin. With the code in place, no one could come in, no one could leave. Not unless you were an Asgaurdian God, Rumlow smirked.

"Rest in peace", he muttered bitterly under his breath, then made his way to the elevator to join Pierce. Sometimes the bad guys win.

Fury looked to the Widow. Her gaze was set upon Rumlow as he made his way to Pierce, intensity locked in her eyes yet an underlying fear creeping within. She was already contemplating a plan, he knew, yet a hint of uncertainty marked her face.

She'd considered the feeling of imminent death before; still, her expectations contradicted the stark reality she now faced. She had always imagined death coming to her in the form of an opponent getting the upper hand. She would lose her life whilst fighting, and amidst that last breath of life leaving her body, she'd smile knowing that death came as a gift, courtesy of the throes of combat. The possibility of death never unnerved the Widow; nevertheless, the idea of being crushed under a thousand tons of metal seemed far from desirable.

"We need a plan. I may be able to over-ride the security system. We have 7, maybe 8 minutes before the fall of the last Helicarrier", she said firmly. "I'm not dying here, Nick".

"You don't have to, Natasha. Neither do I", replied Fury, reaching a hand into his jacket pocket. "You need to keep both eyes open".

Washington D.C.

The smell of burnt metal hung in the air like a dead man cherishing his final breath. It lingered pungently amidst the debris and the destruction—a fowl testament to the events that occurred not long ago.

It had been six days since the fall of the Helicarriers. Six days since the fall of Shield. The onslaught of reporters at the Department of Homeland Security was at an all time high. The public wanted answers. The media had chalked up the mess to a training drill gone very wrong.

The Helicarriers were said to have been linked with one another, when a technical glitch surfaced, turning each of the ships on autopilot. Their objective—to destroy any imminent threat. And what was more threatening than the foreboding presence of a war ship? Hundreds of agents stationed on the armed ships had died as a result; heroic deaths for the good of their country. For national security and for American patriotism. If only they knew.

The death of Captain America was a story that ran every few hours on most news channels. The shock of seeing the Captain, a hero from way back when, in the present day, was overtaken by the shock of his death. Several eye witnesses reported the good Captain lying to waste on the banks of a river, unmoving and heavily injured. The arrival of two inconspicuous black SUVs reeled him away. To be stitched up? To be buried? No one knew.

Idaho

1900 hours

In the countryside, a man and his dog lay sprawled upon the porch of an old heritage home. Beside the man, lay an ashtray and a half-empty bottle of ale. On the right side of the house, was an open barn, seemingly filled with a week's worth of haul. The sun had broken free from the sky and was replaced by stars, now chained to an almost black backdrop. The man had his eyes closed, resting peacefully under the solace of a pleasant dusk, stretching his arm out to caress the dog every now and then. An outsider passing through would have disregarded the mediocrity of the whole scene. Rural America at its finest.

The front door suddenly opened startling the man. A figure emerged from the dark of the house standing against the door frame, a mere silhouette visible.

"You're wanted inside". Then, the figure disappeared within the darkness.

The man, annoyed at this disturbance, got up and started to make his way inside the house. Before this however, he carefully surveyed the land before him, taking in the vast field with its acres of produce, the two high strung scarecrows swaying slightly in the wind...and the possibility of any unwanted, watchful eyes lingering around.

Turning off the porch light, he gave one final look around then made his way inside, locking the door behind him.

Inside, it was a different story.

Whilst the exterior of the house boasted a classically vintage appearance, the inside was cold and alienating, the juxtaposition almost alarming. Stripped of all furnishings and with the walls covered in a tasteless grey, it only housed the bare essentials; these being, about four laptops, a mini satellite, a fridge, a microwave and a television set. A few remote controlled radios were strewn carelessly across the kitchen counter, along with 3 assault rifles, disassembled and unloaded.

Two men rested against the counter, carefully surveying the rifles. Cleaning them meticulously. They had removed most of their armour but still preferred the safety of Kevlar over their chests.

Another man, older, sat at a table not far away from the counter, his gaze focused intently on the computer screen in front of him. His eyes, framed behind a pair of glasses, looked tired and weary; yet he sat still, hypnotized by the images before him. He made no attempt to look up when the man from the porch stood in front of him, opting to continue his work instead.

"What is it?" the man from the porch asked, an underlying irritation to his tone.

"It's Pierce. He wants an update", replied the older man, still not breaking his gaze.

"I'll phone in within the hour. Besides, I'm not gettin' anything from that asshole in the next room. He won't talk, he won't eat. He's a goddamn zombie".

"Then try harder", the older man said abruptly, finally looking up. "Take this", he continued, handing over a glock, "It may help". His emphasis on the 'may' caused the younger man to raise an eyebrow.

"How long has he been fresh for, now?"

"More than 72 hours", called one of the men from the counter, briefly looking up in between cleaning his rifle. "No chance of going back to black any time soon. A few technical difficulties with the machine have arisen. You'd think they would have kept a spare", the man laughed bitterly.

"I'm going in", the man from the porch said, securing the glock on his waist. "Start setting up the connection for Pierce". Then the man gingerly made his way down the hallway, towards the last room on his left.

He slowed down his step slightly, approaching the room under a veil of caution despite the relative knowledge of the situation. He knew who...what was inside. He just didn't know the kind of response to expect. The man stopped just short of the door handle, removing the glock from his waist and holding it securely in his palm. Reluctantly, he knocked.

Silence.

Except for the faint sound of a television set inside the room, there was no answer.

The man knocked again, this time, with more urgency.

Again, he was met with silence.

He breathed out, a cocktail of frustration and fear tightening in his abdomen and rising to his chest. Tilting his head against the door, he tried to decipher any sound coming from the other side of the door. He heard a woman's voice, monotone and bland...it was a news report, he gathered, yes, they were talking about the incident that had occurred days ago with the helicarriers. Jesus, that shitfest had blown up all over town within the past few days, he thought. Those vultures never get tired of fresh meat.

A mention of Captain America caught him off-guard; he'd heard about the guy, the super-soldier with the super-serum, the temporary coffin of ice; a frozen purgatory. They said he'd died saving the lives of thousands. Was he really dead? Who knew anymore?

The man from the porch breathed in sharply and rolled his fist into a ball. He pounded on the door again, much harder this time. He was getting impatient and Pierce would be on his ass soon. The sound of the television switching off sent a jolt to his stomach. Breathing heavily and with a climbing heart rate, he reached for the knob of the door, twisting it and pushing it open. The creak of the door was sharp and eerie; it cut through the darkness of the room which was somehow colder than the rest of the house.

His eyes first wandered haphazardly around the room, trying to adjust to the inky black void. Slowly, he started settling in, making out the outline of the walls, a simple bed to one side, a small table following the line of sight in front of him, a chair behind that table. The chair...

Abruptly, he stopped; his eyes, wide and frozen. His gaze rested on the chair, or rather, the figure occupying the chair.

The man from the porch controlled his breathing and extended his already broad shoulders.

"We leave for the base in an hour. Before that, Pierce wants to talk to you. The satellite is being connected as we speak. It's taking a while, but it's also untraceable so get..."

"Ostavlyat".

The sudden interruption by the figure seated on the chair made the man stop in his tracks. A mixture of agitation and anxiety gripped him as he continued to look on.

"What?" he began, "What the fuck does that mean?"

"Ostavlyat", the figure repeated. Leave.

The man from the porch starred ahead, narrowing his eyes and furrowing his brow. The moon shone at its highest point now, its light wafting eerily across the room. The figure was seated still, yet there was an underlying menace brewing silently amidst the cold room. He was shrouded in a veil of darkness; black velvet enveloped his form creating a brooding silhouette. A glint of metal briefly reflected off of the moonlight, eliciting a pang of curiosity from the man. The figure was stoic, as calm as the night, yet the man knew of his capabilities. The thought made him shudder.

A thin ray of moonlight stretched towards the room, briefly landing across the figure's face, illuminating only his eyes. They looked gray and cold; like this room, the man thought. Any hint of colour, any hint of emotion was saturated...washed away, no, drowned in a sea of pale gray; only the cold survived within.

Jolting from his daze, the man called out again this time, readying a finger on the trigger of his glock.

"Listen, asshole, I'm not your friend, I'm just the messenger. We leave in an hour. Get your shit ready for Pierce. If you stall, you might get some lead in you".

"Ostavlyat", once again, except more pronounced this time. That and the addition of a laser beam pointed straight at the Man's chest, the other end of it, attached to a rifle held firmly by the figure.

"Whatever", the man from the porch said, "Just be ready. We leave in an hour".

Turning around, he headed back towards the kitchen but not before closing the door. Let the monster in the basement be.

The room was engulfed in darkness once more.

The figure seated on the chair reached over and flicked off the laser pointer on the scope of his rifle, setting it down beside him. He stared straight ahead, his eyes expressionless and devoid of desire. Without shifting his gaze, he reached for the remote and turned the television back on. The reporter had moved on from Captain America and was covering a story on a new diet trend.

Even heroes have a shelf-life, he thought bitterly, switching the television off.

Getting up from the chair, he made his way across the room to the large window facing north. The field was engulfed in darkness, he noticed as he peered out, except for the lights attached to each of the scarecrows. Those scarecrows...dummies hoisted in the air to terrify the birds.

How much they had in common with him, he thought bitterly.

Until three days ago, he was a dummy. A mere instrument conditioned for terror, for destruction, acting not of his own accord but upon the orders of men with power. Every need, every indulgence, every carnal desire was numbed with ice; subdued to the core and down to the bone for the purpose of complete control.

How things have changed.

The Winter Soldier was no longer an instrument for destruction; an unwitting grim reaper.

He was now a man with a past.

The turn of events still surprised him. After pulling the man they called Captain America out of the river in D.C., they had picked him up soon after. He had been wandering aimlessly, unaware of the chaos around him. Of people running away from the impending destruction, of screams, of children crying, no, it was all surreal. He was a man without a mission. He had no purpose.

His tracker betrayed him, and they, Hydra, took him in. If he wasn't so listless, he may have fought back, yet the experience of fighting Captain America, a man who had called him his friend, was too much of a burden to bear—the emotional type which surpassed any physical kind.

You know me. Those words—they were uttered by that man. Now that man was dead, taking with him any chance of some reconciliation with a past life that the soldier may or may not have had. He still tried to understand the reason for his most recent decision. After the helicarriers, Pierce had asked to see him. Although, Pierce did not need permission and their meeting was one involving him, strapped to a chair with metal clamps and about a dozen loaded rifles trained on him.

Pierce had laid it bare; the helicarrier incident was bad, real bad for Hydra. If that wasn't enough, they were experiencing difficulties with the machine they often used to dissolve his memories. A few Shield agents had found out about the vault housing the machine, and although they were taken out, they had managed to cause some damage; one of the casualties being the machine.

No more memory wipes. For now.

The Winter Soldier wasn't sure that was entirely a good thing. Having his memory wiped was traumatic but it gave him a certain degree of efficiency. He was a clean slate, ready to be moulded into an object of their desire with an artificially installed purpose. What was his purpose now? How would he ever come to terms with his past when the man who offered to show him the way, had died?

Which is why he had said 'yes'. For the time being, at least.

Pierce had offered him an ultimatum; continue to work for Hydra as an assassin whilst regaining his past, or venture alone into the desolation of the unknown outside world, risking formidable death. He had made a lot of enemies after all; unintentionally, but still.In return, Pierce had promised him this; access to his operational file and a psychiatrist on hand to assist with his inevitable memory gain. Access to his own quarters, a clean bed and food were also offered. The Winter Soldier had looked at the older man, trying to decipher any sign of deception, any false promise.

"It's being prepared as we speak" Pierce had said, "All of your past, every incident spanning from your World War Two days to the present; every mission, every covert dealing, all the training you've ever received, every deal gone sour" Pierce grinned. "Hell, you'll even know the colour underwear you wore when Hydra first found you".

The Winter Soldier did not smile. He just stared, unconvinced at Pierce.

So Pierce pulled out his trump card.

Smirking, he had closed in on the younger man, looking him straight in the eye.

"What do you have? You have nothing. You are nothing. Everything you've ever known, everyone you've ever loved is gone. You are a man out of time, soldier. How will you survive in the world?" Pierce had asked, a malicious tone in his voice. "With Hydra, you can be something. You will never have to look over your shoulder anymore, soldier. Your past, your future will be an open book. Look around you; Shield has dissolved, Captain America is dead. You, on the other hand, are still alive. Surely that is not coincidental?".

Pierce had gotten up from his chair, and started to encircle the soldier eying him like a hunter upon his prey.

He continued, "With light, comes the darkness and perhaps you thrive best amidst the darkness". He paused and smiled, knowing where this was going.

Looking the damaged man in the eye, he pressed on.

"Accept your fate, soldier".

Without another word, Pierce had turned to leave the room leaving the soldier to contemplate upon his offer. Well, not exactly 'contemplate'. There was no choice. If he refused, they'd kill him on the spot. Pierce could not risk the presence of a former assassin...Hydra's former assassin, roaming around in the free world, especially one so emotionally damaged. Still, the offer presented an existence of choice; a temporary shift in power, however fickle it may have been.

The illusion of choice.

"Yes".

Through strands of thick, dark hair, the soldier had looked up straight, his steel blue eyes burning through Pierce. If looks could kill...

The soldier's gaze was intense and unflinching, his jaw was clenched tight and his nostrils were flared. Pierce thought he saw a hint of rebellion in the soldier's eyes; like the younger man was being deceptive, trying to earn their trust; then he'd kill them all.

Pierce had continued to look, narrowing his eyes.

No. That wasn't rebellion. His eyes were just...dead.

"Yes", the soldier had repeated, louder this time.

Alexander Pierce just smiled content in the answer. He wouldn't have to put a bullet in another prized possession after all.

"Hydra will escort you to a safe house. Stay inside, do not engage with the outside world. We're making arrangements at another base. You'll get word of the when and the where. Do not speak to your handlers; they'll only confuse you."

Then, he had left.

The Winter Soldier left his position at the window, and made his way to the chair, picking up the rifle and hoisting it over his shoulders. He walked out of the room, closing the door behind him.

Slowly, he made his way to the kitchen area, eliciting curious looks from the other men. He could feel one of Hydra's agents tightening the grip on his rifle whilst watching the soldier make his way to the older man in the glasses.

Fool. I could kill him before he even reached for the trigger.

"Ahh! Frankenstein's monster lives!" the older man quipped sarcastically, aiming to lighten the atmosphere.

He was met with a hard glare from the soldier, and quivered down in his seat as a result.

"Pierce wants to speak to you" the older man said, pointing to a laptop.

The soldier looked at the screen in front of him. An image of Alexander Pierce filled the screen, slightly blurry, yet the soldier could still decipher the outline of a face, still make out the snarl of his lips; that conniving smirk, wholly deceptive and entirely untrustworthy. It was at that moment that the Winter Soldier decided he hated the man known as Alexander Pierce.

It was also in that moment where he realised his fate did not involve treading the dark waters of Hydra's ocean forever.

Pierce's voice brought him back to reality.

"How are you feeling, soldier? Any bad dreams?" The question was matter-of-factly and not genuine, merely procedural.

The soldier slightly shifted and turned his head from side-to-side. No. No bad dreams.

The truth couldn't be farther away.

"Good" Pierce replied. The base is almost ready. Departure is at 0600 hours on the dot. Get some rest soldier, you're going to need it".

With that, the screen promptly went blank.

Walking away from the laptop, the Winter Soldier made his way to the hallway of the house, resting against the wall. He closed his eyes, his mind reverting back to that powerful surge of emotion he felt whilst speaking to Pierce. It washed over his entire being, lighting every nerve-ending, tightening every muscle. He had felt alive...charged up.

What was it? Hate? Rage? He hadn't felt anything like it during his missions, his emotions always having been suppressed through conditioning. Yet here and now, without any surge of electricity invading his brain, his mind had evidently started its healing process; his emotions, desires, needs...all rushing to the surface at once, fighting for air...fighting for his attention.

He suddenly realised why he'd said 'yes' to Pierce.

Accept your fate. The older man had said.

He had agreed reluctantly. It meant survival for a little while longer. Plus, the promise of unearthing his past was tough to pass up following his confrontation with the man on the hellicarrier. Still, his fate was ever-changing, much like the life he'd lived thus far. It was anything but sealed.

He thought back to Hydra's operation of infiltrating Shield, so meticulous and thoroughly executed. Like a parasite, thriving, growing.

He thought about his own situation. He was fully self-aware now and with the machine out of business, he would likely be able to think for himself. At least, for the time being.

Although his venture into freedom was marred by the continued rule of Hydra, he would lay low, head down, eyes open; do their bidding, earn their trust and use them to achieve his own endgame. He had nowhere else to turn to after the fall of Shield and beggars couldn't be choosers. Under Hydra, he would attempt to piece together every last aspect of his life they stole from him, starting with the man from the helicarrier. Captain America. He would recuperate in the shadows, waiting for his time.

Then, he would make them pay.

He was no longer an instrument, but a vessel waiting to be filled with the memoirs of a tragic life.

Curiosity raked at his core.

Washington D.C.

A couple of hundred miles away, Alexander Pierce sat at a desk going over the specifics of the new base. It was much smaller, only enough to house the minimum requirements yet the loss at D.C. caused a substantial void in Hydra's available resources. For the time being, this was going to have to do.

His office was smaller this time; white walls replaced by a gloomy dark grey, his desk, devoid of photo frames, the room, devoid of fake plants. The glock under this desk remained.

He still had his nose pressed in a file, when a man in combat gear approached him. One of Hydra's many grunts.

"Sir, the specifics of Sitwell's death are in. Would you like them now".

Pierce looked up and nodded absentmindedly, before reverting his gaze back to the sheet of paper before him. Before the grunt could leave the office, Pierce called for him abruptly.

"Put the Sitwell report on the back-burner for now. Get me the Winter Soldier's file", the older man said.

"But Sir, the file has already been prepared just as you specified'.

"Then scratch it off the books. Bring me his file, soldier. I'll prepare a copy for him myself" Pierce replied, irritated by the conversation.

The soldier tilted his head, vaguely guessing Pierce's implications.

Then without another word, he saluted the older man and made his way out of the office.

Idaho

2100 hours

The Winter Soldier still had his back against the wall of the hallway, when the man from the porch approached him, a slight quiver in his step.

They're afraid of me, all of them, he thought, turning to face the man before him.

"We leave at 0500 hours, soldier. You have about 4 hours left to sleep, eat, watch television...jerk off. Whatever. Make it count" the man said, handing the soldier a walkie-talkie. "The room on the left down the hallway is all yours".

The man didn't wait for a reply, promptly turning on his back and making his way to the kitchen area. The rest of the men, including the older gentleman with the glasses, had laid out sleeping cots all across the lounge area. Their distrust of the soldier was obvious.

He waited for them to settle in, still standing with his back against the wall. Their nervous chatter flowed into the hallway as they made comfort their home and began to drift off. Despite the cots, they still kept their armour on, still had their glocks secured tightly around their waistbands. The newly cleaned rifles were fully loaded, he knew, and they rested against the table, their butts meeting the hard wooden floor. Perfect positioning, close enough to use quickly in the event of uninvited guests.

Did they really think they were fooling him?

Those rifles were obviously meant for him.

He waited for the last of their whispers before the onset of sleep, backing away from the wall to return to the empty room they had left him. On his way down the hallway however, something caught his eye. It was a photo...or rather, a poster framed in wood and hung up on the wall beside him. How had he not noticed it before? It was the only thing that made this house, a home.

Despite the relative darkness of his surroundings, the Winter Soldier could make out the picture within the frame. It was brightly coloured, a haughty red catching his eye. The poster showed a woman posing with a blue vintage looking car, her back on the hood, her breasts pushed up. The words 'Git R' Done' was superimposed above the woman in a gaudy yellow. His eyes scanned the poster, enamoured by the splash of colour...and the woman. She had worn little, leaving little to the imagination. He took in the deep red lipstick she seemed to sport and the tilt of her hips, his mind processing every voluptuous curve of her beautiful form. His eyes settled on her breasts, larger than normal and pushed together in a very small...top? He had no idea what she was wearing. Her attire was vulgar and outlandish, yet her gaze was alluringly seductive. His eyes scanned her form again...slowly this time...his focus coming to rest upon her full breasts. The top she wore was slightly transparent and he could make out a hint of her erect right nipple.

He felt a tingle...a stir in his groin like a surge of hot current shocking every nerve ending. What was that feeling? Hunger? Desire? He felt his cock twitch slightly, a natural response to the sight before him whilst his body tried to command his attention.

Sighing heavily, he turned his head, looking away; then he looked back again at the splash of red that had initially caught his eye. His eyes shifted towards the colour, a remarkable shade that crowned the woman's head. Her hair was long and flowing, resting slightly along the hood of the car. His eyes were now fixed intensely on the red of her hair. He had seen this woman before;

The woman with the red hair.

No, no, not her...someone else...another woman, sporting that exact same shock of hair.

The red hair, that striking red hair evoked a hint of a memory...a sudden flash of nostalgia. One, of a woman running away from him, her body tilted in a forwards position. Her arms were sharp and tense, cutting through the air with each step, thrusting her ahead. Her stride was strong and swift, an inherent power guiding her legs...carrying her far away. She never looked back.

His brows furrowed.

Why was she running?

The same shade of red crowned her head, except hers was more vibrant, more real...more personal.

Why was she running away from him?

Did he kill her? Was she a target for a mission?

The memory flash was fickle and unproductive, yet the image of that woman with the deep red hair stayed with him for a few moments.

"Everything good?" a voice suddenly erupted, a few steps afar. It was the man from the porch who had woken up to bring the dog in.

The Winter Soldier nodded, still staring at the poster. At the splash of red on the poster.

"Don't worry, I'd fuck her too" the man smirked, oblivious to the soldier's interest as he made his way outside.

The Winter Soldier retreated to his room, closing the door. He hated going to sleep. Sleep brought with it, dreams. Yet he didn't have dreams. Only the regression of his memories had plagued him since the helicarrier incident. They came in flashes, often broken and hard to decipher. The only constant was the pain they inflicted upon him. He thought back to the machine that wiped him after every mission and the cryogenic coffin that awaited his return. Even those dire thoughts presented more comfort than the inevitable nightmare he would soon experience. He braced himself.

His last thought was of the splash of red adorning the running woman.

He closed his eyes.

Washington D.C.

2200 hours

A hundred or so miles away in a private hospital on the outskirts of the city, a young woman slowly stared awake, her eyes steadily adjusting to the dimly lit room. Her body was sore, still reeling from the injuries she had sustained in the recent past. An IV was connected to her right hand and a few stiches ran along the side of her right arm. Her left wrist was in a caste, the result of a moderate fracture. The woman slowly tiled her head upwards, trying to get a better reading on her bearings. It was dark outside, the harsh patter of rain hitting the windows of the room she was in.

With her head still raised, she examined her surroundings. It was a hospital, she knew that; yet she could not recollect the events *just* prior to that. It wasn't memory loss, she reminded herself. She still knew her name, was still privy to her occupation...the people she worked for. Still, the specifics of the situation made her head ache, blurring her vision in the process. With a painful sigh, she propped back down on her pillow as her eyes met the ceiling. They had undoubtedly injected her with morphine, the drug numbing her mind, diminishing her ability to think clearly. She slowly closed her eyes in acceptance and her mind drifted off into a dreamless sleep.

A few moments later, a nurse entered the room holding the woman. After making a few checks on the equipment used to sustain the woman, she approached her bedside starring curiously at the sight before her. The woman on the bed was resting peacefully under the care of professionals; eyes closed, evoking a neutral expression. She wore no makeup and the fair skin of her face washed out her otherwise delicate features. Only the radiance of her deep red hair stood out—splayed across the pillow, burning against the bruising on her cheeks.