The Shadow [a marvel fanfiction]

The Winter Soldier: Chapter Four

The doctors desperately scrambled to save Fury. Machines beeped, metal tools clattered, and commands were shouted left and right.

Marie didn't question how they were allowed in the viewing room. She couldn't remember leaving the apartment or driving to the hospital. Agent Hill met them there. She made Marie sit down in a chair. Steve stood at the window and watched. He didn't catch the man.

Marie couldn't move her gaze away from her hands. Dry blood cracked and flaked off her skin and buried under her nails. Her fingers trembled.

Natasha burst into the room. She was completely unraveled, breathless and panicked. She stared at Fury on the operating table. "Is he gonna make it?"

Steve was quiet. "I don't know."

"Tell me about the shooter."

"He's fast and strong. Had a metal arm."

Marie flinched. She could still see it; the sadistic gleam of metal in the streetlight.

Nat's voice was tight. "Ballistics?"

"Three slugs, no rifling. Completely untraceable," Agent Hill answered, despondent.

"Soviet-made," Natasha breathed. Hill barely had time to respond before the operating room erupted into pure chaos. Marie never looked up.

"He's in V-tach—"

"—crash cart coming in—"

"—Nurse, help me with the drape—"

"BP is dropping!"

"Defibrillator! I want you to charge to one-hundred."

Natasha inhaled sharply. "Don't do this to me, Nick."

"Stand back! Three, two, one. Clear! Pulse?"

"No pulse."

"Okay. Two-hundred, please. Three, two, one. Clear! Give me epinephrine! Pulse?"

"Negative."

"Don't do this to me, Nick," Natasha begged. "Don't do this to me."

"What's the time?"

"1:03, Doctor."

"Time of death, 1:03 a.m."

Marie closed her eyes. She could still feel the thick blood sliding between her fingers; see the scarlet red staining her skin; smell the disinfectant; hear the gunshots and the flatline of the heart monitor.

She shot out of her seat.

"Marie—" Agent Hill said.

"I need-I need to go to the-go to the-the bathroom," she mumbled. "I've got to get it off. I've got to get it off."

No one stopped her. Marie fled the room and walked numbly down the hall. She fumbled with the lock on the door. Blood caught in the grooves. Water gushed from the faucet. She scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed at her hands until they were bright red and burned.

She couldn't breathe; nausea rolled through her stomach and suffocated her.

Marie gripped the edge of the sink. Pink water swirled down the drain. She choked.

She remembered the metal arm.

++++++++++

Eight-year-old Marie pressed her ear against her bedroom door. She could hear her father talking to another man. Their voices were low and muffled.