Chapter Text
Yelena closed her eyes, taking in a trailing breath and exhaling as she grappled from the side of a building.
She’d been in Tangier the past week, her instructors receiving intel that there would be a handoff for some kind of chemical weapon, though the rest was classified above her clearance. They were given one high-value target, guarded by a few grunts.
She landed in the cobblestone alleyway with a soft thud, clinging to the wall as she peaked into the bustling market under the midday sun. “Yelena, status report.” Ingrid mumbled in her ear, a hint of frustration slipping through her usual serious expression. This mission has taken their toll on all of them, the days dragging as more dead ends came than leads.
“Waiting for target to isolate, converge on the eastern alleyway to the market center.” Yelena moved through the crowd, dressed in earth-toned linens and a light scarf over her blond hair. Light hair colors weren’t all uncommon in this area, but she couldn’t risk standing out on any front. The man she was following was scrawny, holding a black briefcase and surrounded by three larger men.
She was twenty paces away from the meeting point when a crack echoed across the aged buildings, citizens ducking down as more shots were heard nearby. Chaos bloomed quickly, Yelena quickening her pace as the target ran through the panic, dodging scrambling civilians.
“What the hell was that?” She spat in the comms. She was met with nothing but empty static, urgency swelling in her chest. She handled the gun hidden in her holster, taking cover behind a fruit cart as another shot rang out. She peaked her head into the street, the target now lying on the ground, a pool of fresh blood under dull eyes. The briefcase was gone.
“Mission compromised, return to base.” An operator supplied, the robotic voice a stark contrast to the now emptying atmosphere as the citizens cleared out.
The widow cursed under her breath, securing her gun as she ran through the narrow streets. A widow bite comes flying as she turns a corner, instinctively ducking and beckoning to take cover. Footsteps approach as she waits for her victim, the buckle of a briefcase heard as it’s opened and discarded. She flexes her hands, riling for a fight.
Yelena grabs her attacker as she turns the corner, the familiar sight of Oksana coming into view. She locked her in a straining headlock, survival overriding any means of confusion over the sudden appearance of the deserting widow. “What the fuck are you doing?” Yelena demanded, voice tightening.
Oksana slams her hard into the wall behind them, causing Yelena to momentarily loosen her grip and allow the former to throw her on her back, her comms falling out of her ear and crushed under the attacker’s heel. Just as she approaches, Yelena quickly grapples her gun, shooting the girl in the stomach.
The older widow keens forward as blood streams from the wound, lacing through her fingers and finding the ground below. Yelena reels forward, grabbing the girl by the shoulders and shoving her into a wall, breathing heavy. Before she can say anything, Oksana reaches up, releasing a red mist. She falls as Yelena’s grip loosens, gasping pained breaths as the later’s mind is cleared from the thick fog of chemical subjugation.
She blinks as the mist clears, her actions becoming more and more apparent as consciousness makes its way back to her. “Oksana, what have I done?” Her voice shakes as she kneels next to the fallen widow, pressing her hands to the wound in vain.
The girl gasps between words, “It’s the Winter Soldier, he’s here.. Yelena, you need to free them,” she’s rambling desperately. “-you need to get them out, he got the others.” She slumps as she hands Yelena a bundle of red vials, determination across each of her strong features as life drains from them.
There’d been rumors that the infamous Winter Soldier’s handlers had a sort of ‘falling out’ with Dreykov, and therefore the Red Room in its entirety. Though Yelena had never seen him, she’s heard of his brutality, living the through horror stories of girls in the Red Room.
With a new edge, Yelena takes a short knife from her holster and stabs it into her thigh, tensing as she digs into the flesh and pulls out a tracker with a wet squelch, throwing it to the ground.
She straightens as she navigated through the streets of Tangier, hoping to find somewhere to hideout with the new threat of the Russian’s prized weapon at large, no doubt the Red Room themselves would be sending assets after her as well.
/////Two days later/////
Bucky woke with a harsh breath, sitting up from the floor his safe house with dizzying speed. Light blonde hair and green eyes bled from his memory, no matter how desperately he held on. The realm of sleep consistently taunted him with the false security of someone he once knew, leaving him longing for the warmth of a faceless soul. A hollow emptiness weighed next to him.
Two days after his mission to eliminate the handful of widows in Tangier, he still caught his mind drifting to those green eyes. Devastatingly beautiful and painfully familiar.
He caught a glimpse of her through his sniper rifle, the afternoon light making the few stray strands of blonde visible from her disguise. His finger twitched on the trigger, hesitation lacing his movements. He had done it hundreds of times before, killing with little bounds. He had just done it to the three widows he had managed to spot, so why couldn’t he just apply those few extra grams of pressure?
Before he could further weigh his predicament, a foreign shot rang across the old city. A small man in a neat suit collapsed as the grip on his case faltered, only to be quickly swept up by a dark haired woman.
“External disturbances detected. Return to safe house and continue mission once disturbance has passed…”— Bucky snapped back to to present, having noticed he had gone back to that day.
It had been too long since his last reboot, he supposed, fully standing from his shoulder-cramping position on the floor. Distant traces of memories were slipping through his conditioning, though never enough to hold onto, never enough to form an identity.
The morning light was beginning to lace through the dusty curtains of the worn building. Bucky fully extended, stretching last night’s tension away before dragging through the nearly empty space, packing his few belongings (consisting mostly of tactical gear and weaponry) in a black duffel bag. He dressed in civilian clothing, a black long sleeve, light fitting jacket, and leather gloves with a cap was enough to blend in. His burner phone chimed as he slung the bag on his shoulder.
He stepped out of the apartment, making his way to the extraction point when his enhanced hearing picked up rapid footsteps approaching nearby. He turned his head just in time to see the back of a blond haired woman as she looked back to her pursuer, not turning back fast enough to comprehend Bucky right in her path.