Words: 2K

Warnings: Violence and fight-scene-sort-of-stuff

"A sword?!"

You shoot a raised-eyebrow glare to the one they call Hawkeye. He's flanked on either side by the ginger in the tight leather getup and the fellow with metal wings.

"You've brought a sword to the fight?" the man repeats.

You scoff, sheathing your weapon for now. "Says the guy who brought a bow and arrow." You quickly check the knives at your belt. Deciding they're up to par, you smirk. "I can hold my own, Robin Hood, how about you?"

Hawkeye hums. "Good point." He gestures to you when Captain America marches closer—the Winter Soldier at his heel. "I like this new girl."

The Captain, blue eyed and smooth skinned, nods. "Good. Keep it that way." He snatches his shield from the winged fellow who's been holding it. "Because she's a part of the team now, and she's certainly not someone you'd want on your bad side."

You nod in agreement.

"Are we about ready to get this show on the road, fuckers?"

It's still strange to hear someone's voice in your ear. These stupid microphone things are unlike anything you've worked with ever before. But then again, you've really only ever worked alone. There's not much need for communication when there's no one to talk to.

"We're ready on your cue, Stark," The Captain responds to the voice in your ears. He's got a thick, velvety tone that just screams authority. The man on the line, however, talks with cockiness and oozing charisma.

You walk a bit closer to the ledge of the building. Peering down over you see the busy streets below. Your hands bundle into leather-gloved fists. "There're too many civilians." You look over your shoulder to where Captain America stands. "We can't expect them to file out peacefully, let alone efficiently."

The blonde man joins you at the ledge. You don't miss how he sort of tries to push you away from the edge—like he's nervous that you'll fall. You almost want to roll your eyes. "That's why we brought Wanda," he explains.

"The witch?"

"She'll get them out," The Captain goes on with a nod. "Don't worry."

"I'm not that worried," You respond with a lame shrug. You look back down at the people below. "Just wondering." You can't admit aloud that you're not as heartless and cold as you appear to be- not so soon into meeting him, anyway.

"We got another hard ass over here," the winged one, Falcon, laughs. "I'm surprised you don't get along better with Barnes! But I guess he'd have to actually talk for that to happen." The long haired soldier grunts a bit at the acknowledgement of himself.

"Let's get this shit show on the road, losers." There's that damn voice in your ear again telling you what to do. But you've signed a contract, so you kinda have to go along with it.

"Alright team," the Captain tries to bring everyone together like a damn football coach. "You know the plan?" His blue eyes scour over everyone before ultimately landing on you. "Any questions?"

"No." You push some of the hair from your eyes without breaking his intense, questioning stare. You can't decide if he doesn't trust you yet, or if it's your own distrust of the entire team that's making him nervous.

"Okay, good. Now let's get out there."

Getting off the roof is easier than it was to get up on. You scale about three quarters of the way down before jumping the rest—landing perfectly square on your feet like a cat. You're dressed in all black like one so you may as well act like it.

"Y/N?"

"I'm moving in," you respond to the Captain's request in your ear. That's when you walk straight across the street, not caring about the shocked gasps and squeals the people make at the threatening sight of you, and head straight for the warehouse. You've hardly broken the threshold when you first draw your swords—one for each hand. Then you feel a presence at your back, two of them actually, and know that the Black Widow and Captain have arrived.

The first guard who comes running up to you is an idiot. You're probably doing him a favor by slitting his throat—he doesn't seem to have any brain cells. His body slumps to the floor and then you're moving on to the next. Corpse after corpse your swords leave a trail of blood behind. Gummy red crimson streams down your blades and both arms; it splatters in pretty patterns on your cheeks and neck.

The Captain said this wasn't to be a capture and interrogate mission. This mission is for the kill, which is probably why you were picked to lead the march. Despite his strength, the Captain's a bit soft. His righteousness keeps him from doing what needs to be done. His honor gets in the way of taking lives.

You? Well, you have no problem.

At the very last of the fight you're finally met with a worthy foe. He's a big, brutish type who meets your sword with a crowbar at every strike. He grunts and groans every time he takes a swing, which would normally make you laugh if you weren't one sword down and starting to feel a bit tired. Sweat mixes with the blood on your face and you can smell carnage already curdling in the dry Middle Eastern air.

You have no idea where the rest of your team has gone. The warehouse has different levels; you know this, so they must be fighting forces somewhere else. Oh—over the sounds of your grunting assailant you can vaguely make out the clashing of bodies to cement. There's gunfire, too. Obviously the Black Widow and Captain are still alive: not that you expected any differently.

"You guys holding up in there? We're getting control of the block. The roof's ours now, too." Iron Man's voice is slightly grainy—meaning he's farther away.

"We're good here, Stark," Black Widow's response is fast and calculated.

"You sure you all don't need help in there?"

The Captain takes his turn at a reply, "Just keep an eye on the streets. We can't let any of them get away."

All while your team is conversing on the com, you've been holding your own against this giant of a black market arm's dealer. He's seven feet tall and determined to see you bleed. But while he's big, you're fast. And you know you're not beating him here—where he obviously knows the layout of the dark room where you're battling him in. So you hurry to try and find somewhere with more light and maybe some sort of leverage.

"Y/N? You alright?"

You grunt firstly. How does the Captain really think you have time to talk right now? He's always trying to talk to you—whether it's when he sees you in the kitchen at the compound, or in the gym, and now while you're trying not to get your head whacked off as your enemy's discovered your second sword lying on the ground.

"Yeah. Just peachy," you splutter out breathlessly. You narrowly miss being sliced across the chest by ducking down out of the blade's reach. Your opponent whirs with newfound anger at your speed.

A gunshot rings loud beside your ear. Eyes wide, you look to where a bullet is plastered in the cement wall not four inches from your face.

"Ah, fuck."

You've got company.

More shots ring out as your first enemy's gained backup. You hurry to hide yourself behind a halfway fallen table as you snatch out your handgun.

"Y/N? Y/N, what's going on?" Captain America clearly sounds worried, and you feel sort of bad, but you just don't have the time to respond. You're kinda walking on a thin line between life and death here. You can't spare the energy to fill him in on the details.

Peeking up over the table, you spot the shooter. You gasp and duck down just in time to narrowly avoid being shot. Then blindly you aim over the side, hand steady as a thousand year old oak, and pull the trigger. One bullet flies and somehow miraculously hits the target. The gunman goes down—brains splattering on the oil stained floors.

Cautiously you stand. Emerging from your hiding place, you start blinking the dried bits of blood from your eyes. The room is empty besides you and the piles of bodies on the floor—all of them sliced or stabbed from one of your many knives. You still hold your favorite rapier at your side, waiting for the moment someone else will appear.

Wait a second... where the hell did the crowbar brute go?

As if answering your silent question, you feel a hard force slam into you from behind. Down onto the dirty ground you fall. Your belly and cheek onto the cement, blade clutched tightly in your fist, you try and roll over. But your attacker steps down onto your wrist and you hear something crunch. A little whine leaves your mouth at the immense amount of pain. Yeah, he's just near broken every bone in this hand.

The sword clatters from your grasp. With the pressure still on your back, the attacker slides his crowbar to the front of your throat—lifting you up by the neck while you still lay belly-down. Your windpipe bruises and starts to collapse at the force. You hardly have the ability to struggle.

Just when you're starting to see stars, a loud crack shakes your skull. Then the force against your throat falls, and the body hovering above crumbles atop of you like a fallen building. You gasp for air, finally being able to breathe once more, and someone's frantically pulling the body off from on top of you.

"Y/N! Are you okay?"

It's Captain fucking America to the rescue. He seems to have snapped the brute's neck by throwing his shield from across the room. You gotta applaud his expert aim.

"I'm—" before you can finish, you're coughing and gagging on the words. You fold over on yourself at the too early attempts to speak. A hand, warm and soothing, presses softly into your sore back.

"It's okay, just breathe. Deep breaths, Y/N."

You have to admit, his voice can be rather relaxing when he's not bossing you around.

Following his suggestion, you focus solely on breathing. The Captain is knelt next to you in all his red and blue spandex glory. He's got a new cut along his cheek and a bruise on his upper lip. He smiles at you nonetheless. "It's over. We've got the whole place, and the block is ours. There's not a single civilian casualty and everyone made it out alive," he fills you in.

Cringing a bit at how it hurts to swallow, you finally try to speak. "I'm only alive because of you," you say.

The Captain smiles softly. "That's what a team does, Y/N. We take care of each other."

Before you can respond, the rest of the team is piling in through different doors.

"Damn! I take back what I said about the swords, pirate girl." Hawkeye is gaping at the mess you've made all around the ground floor. You must've killed at least fifteen terrorists, none of which will be missed.

The blond man beside you with the kind face looks to you for permission before helping you to your feet. You nod weakly, letting him wrap an arm around your waist and steady your feet on the ground next to his. He lets you lean on him while your head stops spinning, but for some reason, the closer you get to him the dizzier you become.

"Come on, team. Let's go home," the Captain says to the group. Then everyone's breaking for the door—him and you being the slowest and taking up the rear. Before you can join everyone outside, you pause in the doorway.

"Thank you, Steve."

A smile tugs at Steve's lips upon hearing his name from yours. "Anytime, Y/N... anytime." He gives you a little nod, "Welcome to the team."