WASHINGTON D.C.
2014

"WHEN Sitwell and Stern walk out of there," June said, voice low and careful, passing Sam a scrap of paper, "call this number."

The two sat casually at a small table outside the Occidental Grill where the S.H.I.E.L.D. executive and the Senator were finishing up a business lunch. The afternoon was pleasantly warm, a soft breeze sifting through trees, ruffling June's hair. She sipped idly on an iced tea, the condensation sliding down the glass, slipping over her fingers as she relished in the comforting bustle of busy people hurrying around her, enjoying the domestic thrill of the crowded avenue.

"I tampered with your phone," she continued, "so when you contact Sitwell you'll come up as Pierce, and it guarantees he'll answer." There was quiet pride in her voice, and upon noticing her assuredness, Sam considered her fondly.

"You know," he mused. "I like you, Ivanski. You're resourceful."

With a pleased smile, June tilted her drink to him and winked as she lowered a pair of dark sunglasses over her watchful eyes. Her gaze flitted to the chiseled entrance of the restaurant, just as a dozen suit-clad men flooded from inside and surrounded the approach in a synchronized manner, enclosing within their circle a pair of men squinting against the bright sun, conversing choppily. June immediately singled out the taller of the two, his bald head sticking out like a sore thumb.

"That's him," she hissed. "Is Steve ready?"

"I'm in position," his voice drifted from the earpiece June wore. "Ready whenever you are."

June watched Senator Stern break away from Sitwell, and she nodded towards Sam. "Go on."

Sam punched in the number June had provided and brought the phone to his ear, concealed gaze fixated fervently on the S.H.I.E.L.D. official who stood across the street. A few tense moments passed as the two listened to the dial tone drawl, both glaring fiercely upon Sitwell as he tentatively answered their call, noticeably paling as he realized who he believed it was.

"Yes, sir?" Sitwell answered, pushing boldness into his voice.

"Agent Sitwell," Sam began slowly, sardonically so, "how was lunch? I hear the crab cakes here are delicious."

"Who is this?" Sitwell's mouth drew into a thin line, caution rising in his voice.

"The good-looking duo in the sunglasses, your ten o' clock."

Stupidly, Sitwell turned away from June and Sam, in the opposite direction. "Your other ten o' clock," Sam corrected him promptly.

Sitwell did as told, and this time his narrowed eyes found the two renegades, slitting further as Sam lifted his own drink in greeting and June waved pleasantly.

"What do you want?" The agent asked shortly, alarm hidden in his tone.

"You're gonna go around the corner, to your right. There's a gray car, two spaces down. We're gonna take a ride."

"And why would I do that?" The forbearance was thick in his voice.

"Because that tie looks really expensive," Sam responded coolly, without a falter in his words. "And I'd hate to mess it up."

As he spoke, June pushed a piece of her dark hair behind one ear. It was an idle, casual and almost habitual gesture, yet in that moment it held great meaning: it was Steve's signal. For he was hidden atop a building far from the oblivious eyes of those who shuffled through the streets, aiming a laser pointer at Sitwell's chest. For lack of a better option, considering they had no sniper rifle conveniently on-hand, the three had agreed it was the most reliable way to go—after all, Sitwell wouldn't know he was not being threatened with a bullet to the heart.

It seemed to get the job done, for the moment the S.H.I.E.L.D. agent noticed the wavering red light hovering over his sternum, he became very compliant. So they made their move.

• • •

STEVE sacrificed no time.

They had dragged Sitwell to the topmost floor of the building atop which Steve had concealed himself, and in a spur of anger the captain swiftly thrust the agent through a door that opened out onto the roof. Sitwell yelped in pain as he tumbled across the concrete in a sprawling and undignified heap. Following dutifully behind Steve, June squinted against the inquisitive sun that pressed its sudden warmth through the heavy sleeves of her jacket, verdant eyes alight with the same intent possessed by a predator stalking its prey.

"Tell me about Zola's algorithm," Steve commanded, striding boldly towards Sitwell, who scrambled to his feet and hastily replaced his glasses over the bridge of his nose, expression darkened with fear.

"Never heard of it," he insisted shortly.

"What were you doing on the Lemurian Star?" Steve demanded.

Sitwell regained a shred of gumption. "Throwing up—I get seasick."

Steve had forced him to the edge of the roof, pushing him back so far he nearly tumbled over the edge. He grabbed the front of Sitwell's shirt and jerked him forward, as not to allow him to fall. Steve's glare was inescapable. The corner of Sitwell's mouth twitched upward.

"Is this little display meant to insinuate that you're gonna throw me off the roof?" He asked mockingly. "Because it's really not your style, Rogers."

June saw Steve bristle at Sitwell's remark, and was surprised as he suddenly relaxed and began to smooth the front of the officer's coat.

"You're right," Steve agreed, and his voice took on the same mockery Sitwell had adopted earlier. "It's not," he glanced at June. "Not hers, either." There was a long, uneasy intermission before Cap shook his head in irony. "But she's more adaptable that I am."

There. That was June's cue. An hour beforehand, Steve had made sure she actually was adaptable enough for that.

"Normally, Natasha would handle this side of an interrogation," he had informed her sheepishly. "Captain America can't exactly go around throwing people into moving traffic."

June had understood, and was certainly flexible to new situations. Quite frankly, Steve had been assuming her tactics were much less aggressive than they really were.

And so, with little regret, June kicked Sitwell off the roof. Her boot slammed into his chest with force enough to knock the breath from him, sending him flying over the edge and screaming in terror as he plummeted through the air. Soon his cries died out of earshot, and an oddly easy silence followed.

"Was that over the top?" asked June, her eyebrows furrowing.

Steve shrugged, hands buried in his pockets. "Probably."

Suddenly, a roar like that of an engine rumbled through the quiet, like the whine of jet turbines firing to life. A great shadow passed over them, similar to a bird possessing a wingspan broad enough to block out the sun. June knew that was exactly the case, yet instead of a bird, it was Sam, clad in his extraordinary flight apparatus: a pair of gleaming mechanical wings that unfolded from a jetpack-like device he wore on his back. The wings were silhouetted against the shining sky, spread with awe-inspiring ease that made them seem alive. Sam dropped Sitwell back on the roof unceremoniously, letting him collapse in a pile while he landed lithely, wings collapsing back within the cybernetic harness.

Steve and June advanced again towards Sitwell, just as stoic as before. Perhaps he had found it within himself to cooperate. He was on his hands and knees, breathing hard, eyes wide with shock. At their approach, Sitwell held up a palm in panicked surrender.

"Zola's algorithm is a program!" He shouted despairingly, shaking with trauma. "F-for choosing Insight's targets!"

Steve stepped forward. "What targets?"

"You!" Sitwell cried. "A T.V. anchor in Cairo, the Undersecretary of Defense, a high school valedictorian in Iowa City, Bruce Banner, Stephen Strange—anyone who's a threat to Hydra!" He glared up at the three of them with hatred in his black eyes. "Now . . . or in the future."

"The future?" Steve was incredulous and reeling beyond reason, but June understood. She just couldn't bring herself to say it. "How could it know?"

Sitwell laughed—a cruel and slightly maniacal jeer that perturbed June greatly. "How could it not?" He spat viciously. "The twenty-first century is a digital book. Zola taught Hydra how to read it. Your bank records, medical histories, voting patterns, e-mails, phone calls, your damn SAT scores!" The shock was waning from him, reality beginning to resurface. "Zola's algorithm evaluates peoples' pasts to predict their future."

"And then what?" June snarled, skin crawling with loathing and bubbling anxiety.

"Oh, my God, Pierce is gonna kill me—"

"What then?" Steve demanded, eyes blazing, lips peeled back from his teeth.

Grimacing, Sitwell's gaze flitted between them all, face darkening with the dawning realization that he had been cornered with no way out. He hatefully accepted his defeat. "Then the Insight helicarriers scratch people off the list," a flicker of demented pride crossed his face. "A few million at a time."

• • •

"HYDRA doesn't like leaks," Sitwell informed the three of them anxiously as they sped down a busy highway, Sam at the wheel with Steve in the passenger's seat beside him, leaving June in the back alongside Sitwell. She thought this unfair, but said nothing, for there were bigger problems at hand.

"Then why don't you try stickin' a cork in it?" Sam responded dryly, eyes never wandering from the road.

"If this guy's alibi is trustworthy," June spoke up, leaning forward in her seat to better address Steve and Sam, "Insight is launching in a little less than sixteen hours. We need to hurry."

"I know," Steve agreed steadily. "We'll use him to bypass the DNA scan and access the helicarriers directly."

"What?" Sitwell snapped, in utter disbelief. "Are you crazy? That it a terrible, terrible idea—"

He was interrupted by a low thud shaking the roof of the car. A fraction of a second later, the left window shattered, shards flying as June watched helplessly and in cold shock as a gloved hand reached into the backseat and grabbed Sitwell by the back of his collar, dragging him, screaming, through the destroyed pane and flinging him into the oncoming traffic.

June thought her heart might jump from her throat, it was kicking so quickly. Despite her alarm, her partially trained, and partially manufactured instincts jumped into gear, and she began to listen. And what she heard was the cocking of a handgun. June had no idea who or what was standing atop the vehicle, whether or not they were Hydra or S.H.I.E.L.D. or some other new surprise, but she did know that too much was at stake to take any chances. Frantically, she deducted that the attacker's first move would be to take out those at the front. So with little dignity, she scrambled into the front seats and onto Steve's lap, searching madly for his shield and, upon finding it, swiftly bringing above their heads.

Her predictions came to life. A bullet rang off the vibranium surface.

She could not waste even a second. With one swift motion, she had the shield covering Sam, flinching when a second bullet deflected off of it. Desperately, Steve reached down and punched the emergency brake forward. They skidded choppily to a halt, and their attacker was thrown from the roof, flipping over the hood and smacking onto the highway. They rolled over their shoulder and landed crouched on their feet with catlike agility, but the momentum kept them sliding backwards. In an attempt to slow themselves, the dark figure threw an arm forward against the cement, and June and Steve froze.

Metal plating took the place of flesh. Gleaming silver bulged where a human arm would be thickly muscled, moved with more ease than perhaps a normal limb would. Beneath a black leather glove, the left hand's fingers raked through the concrete road, tearing through it, trailing rubble and sparks in their wake. The figure, now obviously a man, rose slowly to his feet, tresses of dark hair flying over his face. His features were shielded by a dark mask, and goggles covered his eyes so that all one could see was his lithe and sturdy stature clad in a bullet-proof vest, strapped with holsters and sheaths, glittering with various gadgets and weaponry. And for a moment, he stood amid moving vehicles and stared at them, waiting, calculating.

June felt a chill move down her shoulders. The Winter Soldier was among them.

• • •

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OKAY BUT LIKE WHAT IS JUNE AND BUCKY'S SHIP NAME??? JUCKY?? BUNE??