2012-09-06 Serious Problems

Being tied to a bed in Medbay with an arrow-wound in one's leg and one's arm missing might just be worse than being locked down in a spare room on the helicarrier. Winter Soldier has certainly had time to try and figure that out since he woke up in that very position. He tried fighting his bindings, but with the one arm being the flesh-and-blood arm, the dizziness from his concussion, and everything, he's stuck. At the mercy of SHIELD.
Some people believe in using smelling-salts. Others believe in letting people rest. Nick Fury believes in waking people up in the middle of the night in a darkened room by smoking a foul old briar until their nose can't take the fumes any more. Sure, there's technically no smoking anywhere in the Helicarrier, and doubly so in a medbay where oxygen tanks are present, but...
The end of Fury's cigar glows in the darkness like the Eye of Sauron, and when he moves it a glowing orange afterglow remains in the air afterwards.
"Son, you have yourself some serious problems."
His eyes fly open at the smell of the cigar and the Soldier pulls at his restraints, but he's still trapped. Taking in a breath and subsequently coughing from the cigar smoke, he turns to peer through the darkness and ember-glow to try and see who spoke. "Are you going to kill me in the night then?" All trace of his former Russian accent is gone and he doesn't seem to be aware of it. "Overdose me with morphine? So it'll look like an accident?"
 
"Son, I could launch you off the flight deck's catapults with an observer from Amnesty International watching, and the United Nations would still send me a fruitbasket," Fury answers plainly. "Let's not go about getting any delusions of you being too important to off openly. You're not. What you are is really, really unpopular, and you're running out of time to make friends."
"I failed in my mission. You have every right to do away with me." His brows crease then, "I think. Things are fuzzy. They said I had a concussion. I remember being shot in the leg...because I shot one of your Agents." Turning to look at the other, James then asks, "Are you going to sell me to the highest bidder I remember...I know...a lot of people want to get their hands on me." He tugs at the restraints again before he gives another sigh of frustration. "I was following orders." Not that it's really an excuse, nor acceptable.
"Son, 'I was only following orders' didn't cut the mustard at Nuremberg. And don't try claiming you were on ice for Nuremberg: 'I was only following orders' hasn't cut the mustard since von Hagenbach was killed in 1474 for atrocities he and his knights committed. Let the little kids nowadays believe World War Two taught us about atrocities. We're older. We know better. Now, if you don't shut up about how you were only following orders, I'm gonna auction off the Pay-Per-View rights to your being launched off the catapult and send the proceeds to all the orphans you've created."
Now he really looks confused, "What's 'Nuremberg'?" Either the kick to his head rattled his brains even more or he really doesn't remember. "World War Two..." He'd lift his hand to scrub at his brow, but it's tied up and his other arm has gone AWOL. "I don't know what you want me to say. If I'm to say anything. Are you going to interrogate me then?"
"I was actually planning on letting you go." Now, there's a bombshell for you. "Don't know about getting you a spare arm, that's kind of Stark's gig, and he don't like you much about now. But yeah. Letting you go. It just makes sense, right?"
"Why?" It seems to be quite the confusing night, "You mean, letting me go by dropping me off the edge of this...place." He's not even too sure what to call it. He's trying to pull out memories but he's drawing blanks. "I remember coming here. I don't remember what I was doing before."
 
"No, I mean taking you down to Central Park, giving you a hundred bucks and wishing you well," Fury says plainly. "Listen, kid. Run down the numbers on this one. You weren't expected to be taken alive. Whoever it was that's behind this did a good job Swiss-cheesing your memory, but how do they know they were successful at that? They've got somebody watching the Helicarrier. Maybe it's AIM or HYDRA and they've got a mole inside. I don't know. What I do know is, I don't have to do a damn thing to kill you. If I want you dead I'll just get out of the way and let the inside mole assassinate you. But then, you see, it'll get blamed on us... and really, I want the guys above you in the food chain."
He's quiet for a moment. The end of the cigar glows fierce orange as he takes a few draws, as he blows smoke rings skywards. "But the only reason we'd ever let you go, you see, is if we knew you were innocent. And the only way we could know, right now, you were innocent is if you gave us some absolute, rock-solid evidence someone else was involved. So we let you go in Central Park and by the time you make it to the edge of Manhattan whoever's behind all this will be going crazy, wondering what you told us about them. And they'll go after you. And they'll kidnap you, and they'll ask you what you told us. And you'll tell them nothing. They won't believe you. They'll take your other arm, just to persuade you to tell the truth. Maybe by the time you're down to one leg they'll finally believe you. Sorry, kid. But... you know, them's the breaks."
A pause, before -- "Or, you could cooperate with us. Get implanted with a tracker. When the bad guys move to clean up loose ends, we're around to swoop in and close the deal. Maybe we cut a deal with you afterwards for your cooperation. Maybe Stark gets you a new arm. Sounds like a better deal than you'll get from them, right?"
James blinks a couple of times, "You implant a tracker in me and then let me go...and follow and get there before they kill me?" If they'd even do that. He thinks a moment, trying to work through the muzziness and headache, "Natasha knows. If you need proof. Natasha knows. She knew a name to call me when I didn't remember it myself." If that lends any veracity. His hand clenches and unclenches beneath the retraints and he tries to shift position in the bed. He's going to take a long moment to consider his options. "Maybe you can cut a deal. What happens if you can't?"
 
"I'm Nick Fury, son. Maybe you don't understand what that means, because you're not Nick Fury. So let me spell this out for you in small words of one syllable each, exactly what it means. It. Means. I'm. Nick. Fury."
He leans back in his chair, watching the Winter Soldier with an almost casual disregard. "I have a very simple policy on cutting deals. I succeed. If I fail, then I uphold the deal anyway and $&(! whatever bureaucrat got in my way. Ask around, son. I have a reputation for doing exactly that."
"Talk to Natasha. Ask her what she knows about me and about who sent me on my mission. She might know more than I do." She might have been his other target if he couldn't find Captain America, after all. He lets out a heavy breath, "I don't have much choice, do I?" Not if he wants to live, most likely. "Will I at least be given a gun to defend myself?"
 
"Son, I plan on putting you down in Central Park. If you can't find a gun in Central Park then you just ain't /trying/," Fury says as he rises to his feet. "I'm outta here. I'll be making some rounds and talking to some people. You'll be dropped off in Central Park soon as I'm satisfied you can walk."
Wake up!
James gives another sigh, "All right. I'll be here until then, I'm sure." He's fairly certain that he won't be let out of anyone's sight...not even behind any doors or curtains. He knows there's probably something else he could say, but the words just aren't forming. He won't be getting to sleep for the rest of the night, however. Not with wondering if he's actually going to have time to be tracked before someone else takes him out.
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