Thread: In Search Of One Man [Defiant x Temptationist]

When I looked for someone, especially an individual of such high profile, they were either in one of two places - within the areastate, or at the complete opposite end of the world. Those were the two options, and they were not usually far in between. Unfortunately, to my dismay, in this particular case, it was the latter. Word of the Winter Soldier had covered every headline, newsfeed, and radio station across the nation. His picture, one from the 1930s of trusty Bucky Barnes, was now plastered across every television screen from New York to Texas. Where had the infamous sidekick of Captain America gone to? How was he alive, and how had he survived? These were the same questions mutually shared by both strangers of the general public, and even Barne's closest friends. James Bucky Barnes . Even I, rolling that name off the tip of my tongue, had longed for the answers to those questions. This was no simple case. With the HYDRA bank accounts drained to the payoff of any witness - I couldn't just willingly obtain my information, I had to forcibly take it. Slipping the man a picture of the Commander from his glory days, I watched as the Russian hawked at it. Never see him. He spat out in a thick, salivating East-Slavic accent. Looking at him unimpressed, I maintained a straight face. No? I said, practically in total sarcasm as I slipped him another photo, snapped at one of the scenes that had unfolded in downtown New York City. This one was up to date. What about him? With the utmost attitude, the fat, bald-headed drug dealer glared at me with the most distaste. Without even looking at the photo, he stared me dead in the face and responded. Nothing . Sighing, I took both photos back. Mr. Petrov... I told you we could do this easy way... His two armed body guards clenched at their guns harder - anticipating the worst. Slipping both pictures back into my coat, I muttered. Or the hard way . Retracting my hand out of my coat, I launched a knife into one of the guards throat. The blade pierced his jugular and within a second of my first attack, his second guard raised his weapon and fired. The bullet missed my head and struck my back. But I didn't fall, nor did I stop moving. The remaining guard continued to fire. I stood silent for a moment, allowing this sad excuse for a protector to get his fire-rage out of his system. And there I was, still standing. Turning around, the Russian looked terrified, as so did his trusted wingman. You done? Over a dozen shells had been shed before his gun clicked he was on empty. They both watched in horror as my body rejected the attack. One by one, in the order they were fired, bullets were pushed out of my skin only to fall on the floor. Clack. Clack. Clack. Within several seconds, all of them had fallen from my body and had fallen flat on the ground. One bullet rolled to the foot of the guard. Looking down, he swallowed roughly. By the time he would raise his head to look back at me, he'd already be dead. Blade in hand, I swung forward and slashed his throat. Blood began to streak out of the slit in his neck before the man fell to his knees and face-planted on the floor. The Russian, slouched back in his chair behind his dingy desk, began to pee himself. Vhat are you? Swinging my body towards him, I grabbed his hand and slammed the blade through his palm. I trapped his hand to the wooden top of the table he was unable to move, and unable to escape. Mr. Petrov squirmed in pain as his hand bled out onto his desk. I see him. I see him! He admits, without me even having to say a single word. Without him even admitting anything, the connection made by touching his hand was enough for me to look into his memories and witness the Winter Soldier paying him for a plane ride somewhere. Where was he trying to fly to? I demanded answers, holding onto the handle of the blade with one hand, and maintaining skin-to-skin contact with Mr. Petrov with my other hand. He flinched, I don't kn- I began to twist the blade in the palm of his hand. He squirmed like a freshly decapitated worm. Hollering in pain, he kicked the table in sheer reaction. Russia! RUSSIA! Seeing further into his memories, I could hear Mr. Petrov saying, ' from there you can take the train '. TRAIN, PETROV, WHERE WAS HE GOING? Pulling the blade from his palm, I swiftly grabbed onto the other unharmed hand. I drove my knife into the palm of that one, also pinning it to the table. His body shook violently as he shrieked and cussed in Russian. ESTONIA! He cried out, He was going to Estonia! Petrov breathed a sigh of relief as I pulled the knife from his other hand. He looked up at me, helpless and broken, holding out both of his crucified hands, bloody and wounded. He had been defeated. Bullets are useless, here. My voice echoed from the enclosed space I was in. The closet? Nope. The bathroom. Of all places I could have put myself, I was confined within the four walls of the tiny room you called a bathroom. Opening the door, I swung it further open with my foot to reveal myself. Staring at the mirror, I held the ready lipstick in my hands and rolled another layer onto my plump lips. Looking over my shoulder briefly, my cat-like amber eyes caught sight of you for the first time. Your arm, though... I looked you up and down, focusing my attention on your gloved hands which serve to shield your bionic identity. ... That might be a challenge . I spoke English fluently, but with a light Indo-European accent. I was known for being a ghost impossible to track, to pin down and to locate. I had been a master of disguise for decades and mostly in part due to my ability to perfectly mimic accents, and cater my appearance to further my goals. Usually, it was easiest to maintain an American accent while mostly situated in New York, but in this moment I felt a sense of relief upon seeing you for the first time. And for whatever reason, as my lips parted to speak, I spoke naturally - with the rightful accent I had acquired as a child, and mostly maintained throughout my life. Because it had faded some over the years, it was difficult to tell if the origin of my tongue was Slavic, or Italic-Latin. Before you could react, I turned around from the mirror and raised my hand as if to gesture you to stop. I'm not here to fight you. I'm not HYDRA. Leaning my back against the sink, I kept a confident and sturdy demeanor as I casually placed the cap on my red liptstick and slipped the cosmetic into the pocket of my black-wool coat . I am simply a woman who has been urged to find you. For my own curiosity, and to prove to myself that I could, I did . Pausing momentarily, I continued, You've really taken to great lengths to disappear... Estonia . Never would have guessed you'd run off to Northern Europe. Smirking lightly, I pushed myself from the sink and walked towards you. Each step I took was followed by the clap of my heeled boots , which were barely appropriate neither for the harsh Estonian winters, nor did they match the current time period. They had a certain vintage flare to them, despite it currently being the 21st century. As I walked towards you, I raised both hands to the walls and dragged my fingers delicately across the short hallway as I moved towards the kitchen. I wasn't purposely being strange and somewhat creepy - I was picking up the memories experienced from within these walls. Dropping my hands from the Gyprock, I can still hear the cries of the newborn from the previous tenants. Closing my eyes, The baby he's hungry, and alone.