Sharon Carter (
from_the_outside) wrote2023-05-06 08:21 pm
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[ WWII AU ] a ghost story
It's been almost two years since she's been home, and little by little, the grief has gotten easier to live with.
It hasn't gone away. But she's able to focus on her job, watch movies, chat with friends, sleep most nights. She still dreams about him, but the dreams are tinged with wistful longing and only sometimes does she wake up with tears on her cheeks. She can't have his picture out in this apartment, Kate's apartment, but it's safe in the mountain house, along with his last letter to her, and she has a scan on her phone to look at when the long day is over and she's in bed, the stars from the lamp he'd given her filling her dark room.
Steve has helped, more than she could ever explain, and she hopes she's helped him in return. Aside from a few deeply classified missions here and there, they haven't worked together all that much, but she still sees him almost every day. In the halls, she's undercover as his mild-mannered neighbor, Kate, but in her secure apartment they can talk over anything, everything.
And it works. Every day is a little easier. They lean on each other when they need to, and they spend hours remembering and reminiscing about Bucky, talking shop, chatting about how Steve's fitting into the future. It's nice. She still misses Bucky, an ache that never really goes away, but they can both breathe through it, work through it, live through it.
She's on her way up from the basement laundry machines when she hears a familiar step in the hall, and has to smile to herself – first her own, then Kate's sweeter, more open one. "Hey, neighbor."
It hasn't gone away. But she's able to focus on her job, watch movies, chat with friends, sleep most nights. She still dreams about him, but the dreams are tinged with wistful longing and only sometimes does she wake up with tears on her cheeks. She can't have his picture out in this apartment, Kate's apartment, but it's safe in the mountain house, along with his last letter to her, and she has a scan on her phone to look at when the long day is over and she's in bed, the stars from the lamp he'd given her filling her dark room.
Steve has helped, more than she could ever explain, and she hopes she's helped him in return. Aside from a few deeply classified missions here and there, they haven't worked together all that much, but she still sees him almost every day. In the halls, she's undercover as his mild-mannered neighbor, Kate, but in her secure apartment they can talk over anything, everything.
And it works. Every day is a little easier. They lean on each other when they need to, and they spend hours remembering and reminiscing about Bucky, talking shop, chatting about how Steve's fitting into the future. It's nice. She still misses Bucky, an ache that never really goes away, but they can both breathe through it, work through it, live through it.
She's on her way up from the basement laundry machines when she hears a familiar step in the hall, and has to smile to herself – first her own, then Kate's sweeter, more open one. "Hey, neighbor."
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Sitwell sneers at them. "You two are crazy, do you know that?"
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"We might be. But you're a fucking traitor, and that's worse."
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They're backing him slowly towards the edge of the roof, which he doesn't like, but it's not like either of them are murderers. Maybe he can stall long enough to break for the door.
"But it's not too late for you to do the right thing."
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And, god, she wants to punch him. His shoes scuffle against the edge of the roof, and she reaches out to grab his shirt. "Careful there, Jasper. It's a long fall."
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"Do you really think this little game of yours is going to work? Your threat's empty."
Not if she actually wants information from him; not that he's going to give her any.
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There's a beat, and then she adds: "But hers isn't."
Nat strikes like a snake, kicking Sitwell square in the chest and sending him plummeting over the edge of the roof. As he screams, Sharon glances over at her friend. "I feel like this whole 'bad cop/worse cop' thing is really working for us."
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The pitch of Sitwell's scream changes, and Nat shades her eyes to look up as Sam soars from below into the air above them, his hand firmly wrapped in Sitwell's shirt collar. "Think he'd let us try the wings?" she asks Sharon, as Sam dumps the other man back on the roof and comes in for a landing. "They look fun, too."
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She comes to squat down by Sitwell, hands dangling between her knees. "So. Let's try this again. Tell us what you know, or next time maybe our friend here won't be quite so quick on the draw."
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"The asset's effective, but he can only target a few people at once. Insight can do more."
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Cold fury lands like a rock in her gut. "What do you know about him?"
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"How do they control him?"
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"They wipe his mind between missions, using electrical shock. It keeps his focus clear."
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Still a nightmare. Still torture and pain. But maybe, maybe, fixable. "This algorithm. How is it selecting targets?"
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"Your bank records, medical histories, voting patterns, e-mails, phone calls, your damn SAT scores! Anything and everything. Zola's algorithm evaluates people's past to predict their future."
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She's horribly afraid she already knows the answer, but she asks anyway. "And then?"
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Sitwell licks his lips, his glance shuttling back and forth between her and Romanoff. "You wanted to know what happens after the algorithm chooses the targets? The Insight helicarriers scratch them off the list. A few million at a time. And HYDRA takes over. Everything."
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