CHAPTER ONE
PLACEBO

IN GENERAL, Annika Van Kirk likes to take care of things herself. One of the only tangible exceptions to this self-imposed rule is her laundry: twice a week she sends out her wardrobe and twice a week it returns, just before nine in the morning, commercially cleaned, dried, and pressed. Privilege affords convenience which creates order—and order is one thing Annika Van Kirk cannot live without. For a woman like her, air, water, warmth and shelter is secondary.

Everything is secondary.

With the backs of her fingers she sifts through the blouse section of her walk-in wardrobe. Then, after exactly one second of deliberation, she selects a paper-white silk shirt with billowy sleeves like the petals of a lily. To go with it, black cigarette pants and Manolos. Annika gets changed without ceremony, then joins her boyfriend in the living room. He's as much of a stickler for order as she is; whether he sleeps at her apartment or she at his, every morning without fail he rises before her, goes for his run (one of two set routes, depending on where he spends the night) and returns in time to make coffee.

Dr. Elliott Piecyk is reliable in that sense; one of many. Most notably, he is reliably good-looking, striking with that boyish charm you know will go down well with the parents when you take him home for Thanksgiving dinner. Annika likes this about him, this personableness. She also likes his eyes which, in the morning light, are the colour of a still lake, grey-green and endless. When he looks up at her from where he sits at the kitchen counter—where he always sits—he smiles, and so does she.

          "Captain America's on the news again," Elliott says, sliding Annika's mug across the counter with one hand. The other gestures vaguely in the direction of the television, which is broadcasting the same segment from yesterday, and the day before, and the day before: CAPTAIN AMERICA: FUGITIVE. "Am I allowed to ask you about that?"

Annika shakes her head, then takes a sip of her coffee. "I don't know anything about it. But if I did, then no, you are not allowed to ask."

           "Damn," Elliott says, kissing his teeth as if his personal happiness rested directly on the shoulders of the First Avenger. He leans back in his kitchen stool, still dressed in the old Johns Hopkins shirt he wore when running. He'd spent a lot more time at Annika's apartment the past week; Annika lived in the "historic" Watergate South building, overlooking the Potomac River, only a handful of blocks from the George Washington University Hospital where Elliott was a fellow in trauma surgery. The last few days had seen an influx of patients requiring emergency trauma surgery and intensive care, with all the attending medical personnel in Washington sworn to secrecy.

Elliott, of course, had discreetly told his girlfriend what he knew about the patients he'd taken on: all were employed by some kind of secret service, half had been beaten to death, and the other half had been shot. Meanwhile, the extra-government agency S.H.I.E.L.D., notoriously headquartered in Washington, D.C., had turned on their poster boy Steve Rogers and were desperately seeking his capture.

          "It's a conspiracy!" Elliott had joked the night before, but Annika wouldn't have been surprised if it was. She had two phones, and at the start of the week she'd taken out the second one, the one that had no contacts, only nameless, saved numbers, and waited for a call. She was yet to receive one, but it was only a matter of time.

Her second phone buzzes; a message. Annika reads it quickly.

          ?

She replies,

          No.

—then tucks the device back into her right pocket.

          "What have you got planned for today?"

Annika smiles at Elliott's question, as inane as it is. "The same thing I have planned every Monday to Friday, nine-to-five. Work." As far as Elliott was concerned, she was a forensic accountant at the Department of Defense. "What, you don't have to go in?"

          "Not yet. Could I convince you to take a sick day?"

          "Maybe. Probably not."

          "Not even if—"

          "No." Annika put down her coffee and stepped out of the kitchen, into the living room and towards the sliding door that led out to her small balcony. From her apartment you could see the Potomac—that was its main selling point—and, by extension, Theodore Roosevelt Island. Where S.H.I.E.L.D's base of operations, the Triskelion, was located. And from where three helicarriers had just launched, splitting the river wide open like a wound as they ascended into the sky.

Another message. Annika was slower to read this one, barely registering the words as they appeared on her screen: Not even now?

          No, she types back. She puts the phone away again and looks back at Elliott over her shoulder. He's already standing, body angled towards her bedroom.

          "I need to go to work," he says.

Annika nods, her eyes glued to the shadows dark upon the Potomac. Like an eclipse, swallowing the sun.

         "So do I."

But she doesn't. Instead, Annika watches the helicarriers rise higher and higher. Elliott leaves but she stays, watching them fly—then crash, and burn. One by one into the river like a child's toys, like the plastic pieces in Battleship knocked out by an opponent's lucky guess. The T.V. stops calling Captain America a fugitive. The smoke turns the sky black.

🕷️

THE CALL ANNIKA WAITS FOR doesn't come for a week, after the dust has cleared and the damage is done. Doing what she's told—as she always does—she travels to Chinatown after dark. Chinatown in D.C. was once home to thousands of Asian immigrants; with every passing year the number dwindles. If Annika was more of the person people thought she was, she might be tempted to join the mass exodus. But she wasn't, which was a roundabout way of saying it was a waste of time thinking about it.

It being, being someone else. You can watch a film as many times as you want, and it still won't change the ending. You can wish that the characters will make a different choice this time, an absolving one, but it doesn't change their actions. It certainly doesn't change their fate. And to ask them to do it differently this time, any time, is to ask them to be someone else.

Annika Van Kirk is good at being someone else. What she'll always be, no matter what—no matter who wishes differently for her—is a killer.

In Chinatown she enters a restaurant, an old family joint with a seizure-inducing sign that's half flickering LED lights and half faded paint. It's empty when she steps inside, empty when she sits down, and empty for another ten minutes before Natasha, Sharon, and Fury arrive.

          "Cute spot," Annika says. She hugs Nat, Sharon; nods in Fury's general direction. Natasha and Sharon are dressed for dinner, in jeans and jackets. Fury looks like he's about to star in a spiritually soulless and commercially unsuccessful soft reboot of the Matrix. "You pick it, Nick?"

          "Of course," he says, sharply. No-nonsense, as always.

          "You look good for someone who was dead this time last week." Annika sits back down, Nat and Sharon joining her. In the dim light, their hair—red and blonde respectively—is dull. "I'd love to know your beauty routine."

          "Hilarious."

Annika slotted her hands into her pockets: she wore a leather jacket too, one she'd owned long before Elliott, before Washington, before thousand-dollar stilettos and day shifts at the Pentagon. "Is it contingent on an entourage of beautiful, accomplished women? Where's Maria?"

         "Waiting in the car," Fury said curtly. He finally sat, pulling a chair and turning it the wrong way round so he could lean forward into its back. "On a scale from one-to-ten, how devoted are you to your D.C. postcode?"

Annika raised an eyebrow. "I could trade it for one somewhere sunnier, if you're offering. You got S.H.I.E.L.D. postings in Ibiza?"

         "I got S.H.I.E.L.D. postings nowhere. We're being dismantled as I speak."

         "Mm." Annika hadn't ordered anything for the table, but the teenaged server had given her an Ikea bottle of chilled tap water and a glass. She poured herself some water and took a sip. "I saw the leaked files. I can assume that's your handiwork, Nat?"

         "You know it," Nat says with a smile.

         "What's the point of releasing sensitive information like that if half of it's redacted?" Annika smiles back, albeit small. "I was hoping to learn something new."

Sharon arches a brow. "You knew about Hydra?"

Annika shrugs. "Like I said, I was hoping to learn something new."

Sharon scoffs gently. "You're fucking with us. You couldn't have given us a heads-up?"

"Hydra is a global organisation, Sharon. I can't imagine there's a single intelligence agency in any developed country that doesn't have a couple Hydra heads in their ranks—hissing behind the scenes, so to speak." Annika inspected her fingernails, as if the conversation bored her. Which it did, to be frank; her manicure bored her slightly less. "Half of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s S.T.R.I.K.E. team were private mercenaries, guns-for-hire at some point in their careers. They don't suddenly wake up one morning with loyalty to the United States, let alone loyalty to democracy and free will. How many of them ended up being Hydra operatives?"

This question Annika directed at Fury. He stared at her. "All of them. Except for Romanoff and Rogers."

"The blonde, blue-eyed white man born in 1918 wasn't secretly a Nazi?" Annika faux-gasps, sitting up straight. "Colour me shocked."

"Colour you quiet, Van Kirk—" Fury says curtly, but Annika doesn't miss Nat's snort and Sharon's smile. "Can we talk business now?"

"Yes we can, Director." Annika smiles, her words sickly-sweet, syrupy. "What can I do for you?"

"You're familiar with the Web?"

When she speaks this time, there's a lot less sugar in her voice. "I am." She can feel Nat's eyes in particular zeroing in on her, her tar-black gaze boring into the side of her skull. "What of them?"

"Though the leaked information was censored for watchdogs, commentators, the general public—whatever—as Director I had unabridged access to those files. I can confidently say there was a significant overlap of documents that mentioned Hydra, and mentioned the Web."

"I wouldn't call it an overlap so much as a coincidence. They both train footsoldiers through the same facilities and programs."

"I think that's what you've been instructed to say, Annika."

Annika shrugs. "My mommy didn't raise me to be a tattletale. Snitches get stitches, Fury."

"And double agents get bodybags."

"That doesn't really have the same ring to it."

"No, but it has the same consequence, if not a more severe one." Nat touched Annika's shoulder. "Just let him explain, Anni."

Annika rolled her eyes. "Fine." She sat back in her chair, arms folded tightly across her chest.

"Hydra is worldwide, as everyone present knows and understands. From what I can tell in what's been uncovered since Director Pierce revealed himself as part of Hydra, a lot of their strength here in America lies in ancillary power, provided to them by the Web. They're proxies, basically. All run and overseen by high-end mercenary Dexter DeWitt, known to his clientele as the Huntsman."

Annika nods, slowly. "I wouldn't be surprised. If you're paying high enough, Dexter will do whatever you ask of him. And he'll make his people fall in line." A pause, "And before you ask, that no longer includes me."

"I wasn't going to but thanks for letting me know." From his leather coat Fury pulled out a small Moleskine journal, soft-cover and perfect-bound. He slid it across the table. Annika lifted a brow.

When she didn't say anything, he kept talking. "Inside that book is a list of names. I imagine you already know most of them."

"Probably."

"Last week's bullshit put us—what's left of us—on our backs. But it's done damage to Hydra, too. While they're scurrying to cover their asses, I want you to move in, put them down, and keep them down."

A hand flat on the book, Annika didn't blink. "Haven't you heard the saying? Cut off one head, two more grow in its place?" Annika shot Nat and Sharon a sideways look, as if urging them to chime in. Nat simply smiled, that half-smile she always had up her sleeve, equal parts distant and amused. "There's one of me and exponentially more of them. That's their entire thing."

"I'm not talking about killing hydras," Fury said, pursing his lips. He looked tired, real tired, but Annika supposed that was a side effect of dying and coming back to life. "I want you to kill spiders, instead."

"Yeah, get me some bug spray and a boot, I'll put it on S.H.I.E.L.D.'s tab."

"I'm serious, Annika."

Nat: "He is."

Also, Sharon: "He is."

"I know," Annika said, to all three of them. But she didn't look anywhere other than right at Fury, straight and true like a threat. "Do you care how I get it done?"

"Not particularly, as long as you get it done."

"Good." Annika finished her glass. "Do I get a budget?"

"You get an Avenger."

Annika's head turned to face Nat so quickly she could've gotten whiplash. Nat held up her hands as if to deny involvement, accountability, blame. "Not me."

She looked past Nat, at Sharon now instead. "Did you get a promotion, Carter?"

"Yes, but not to work with you, unfortunately. I'm headed over to Germany." The blonde shrugged, like it was no big deal; she'd always been humble like that. "CIA."

"Congratulations. Who am I working with, then?"

"Captain America," Fury deadpanned.

Annika stared. "Funny."

"Very funny, except I'm not kidding."

"You've got to be."

"He's not, Anni." Nat said, in that same, soft way as before. It had the exact opposite intended effect; instead of relaxing, Annika tensed, locking her jaw.

"Do I have to answer to him?"

Fury watched her face. "You have to answer to each other."

"I don't need a keeper."

"Neither does he. But he's proven himself as an exceptional field agent, intelligent, motivated. Loyal," Fury said sharply, "which is rare. Especially now."

"If he's so exceptional then why is he being saddled with me? Doesn't he have an alien invasion to decimate a city over?"

"He's... recuperating," Nat said.

Annika stared pointedly. "What did you do to him?"

"Nothing. You saw those helis last week?"

"Everyone in D.C. did."

Sharon pursed her lips. "Did you see them fall? That was him and Nat."

          "Congratulations. Did he get a boo-boo?"

          "No." Nat made a face. "You remember that guy I was telling you about? In Odesa?"

Annika fell quiet.

          "Yeah." Nat said. "The Winter Soldier—that's Steve Rogers' childhood best friend."

          "I don't even know what to say to that."

          "You wouldn't be the first," Sharon said.

Fury looked between the women, unimpressed. "So you know about the Winter Soldier, too. Again, thanks for the heads-up, Van Kirk. Can we get back to the assignment?"

          "At least you and I both already know we're insane killing machines," Annika said under her breath, nudging Nat gently in the arm. Nat scoffed and, satisfied, Annika looked at Fury with a smile. "So I'm his therapist and he's my babysitter."

          "If that's what works for you, then yes."

          "Will we have any backup on this? Any support?"

          "Nothing tangible past district lines. Carter's off to Berlin and Romanoff has to stay here following her disciplinary hearing."

          "So that's a no on the backup, then. Lovely," Annika said, in a sing-song voice that could have been mocking. If she cared more, it would've been.

          "No backup and no oversight," Fury replied curtly. At this, Annika smiled.

          "So I can do whatever I want, then. No consequences."

          "There are always consequences."

Annika shrugged. "Not always."

Fury made a noise that could've been mistaken for a laugh. Annika knew better. "You're a real piece of work. The Red Room makes monsters out of girls, doesn't it?"

Annika shrugged again. "The Red Room makes killers," she corrected. "The Web makes monsters."

          "Will you be okay?" Nat asked suddenly. Or maybe it wasn't sudden, and Annika just wasn't paying attention.

          "Of course I will." Without addressing Fury, she asked: "When do I start?"

          "Tomorrow. Rogers'll come by to pick you up. Be ready."

          "Oh, I will." Annika watched Fury stand, then leave. Sharon followed after him, giving Annika a small smile before disappearing out into the night. Only Nat remained, studying Annika intently. Annika let her, for a minute or two, leaving Nat unexamined in periphery, before pouring herself some more water and angling herself to face her.

          "What is it? You hungry?"

          "No," Nat's expression was unreadable, as it often was. "You agreed to that with literally no pushback."

          "When Nick Fury asks you do to something, you should know better than to think he's only asking."

          "Right," Nat said. "But—"

          "Do you think you're a monster?"

          "Do you?"

          "Your boss thinks you are. Thinks we both are."

          "Steve won't."

          "You think I care what Captain America thinks?"

          "Once you meet him, you will. He makes people want to be noble."

          "Noble," Annika repeated. She didn't like how often she'd been left a loss for words today. "When did you become so soft?"

          "Casualty of the new job."

          "Glad I'm not an Avenger, then."

          "You could be. If that's something you wanted."

          "It isn't."

          "How's Elliott?"

Annika had been entertaining this conversation—this conversation and the one before, with Fury—up until this exact moment. She stared down at the base of her glass, suddenly very interested in the condensation she could wipe away with her finger. "He's fine."

          "You're running away."

          "My running away is sanctioned by a government agency." Annika smiled congenially. Widows were good at that; easy pleasantries, the numbing kind. "What's left of one, anyway."

          "I thought things were good between you two."

          "They are." Too good, Annika would argue. With herself, not Nat. Never Nat. Neither of them really had the authority on interpersonal relationships, especially romantic, especially long-term. Dr. Elliott Piecyk had been a surprise: a romantic would call it a meet-cute, a realist would call it a malignant tumour. Both were sudden. Both change your life irreversibly. "He wants to get married."

Nat managed a smile. "I'm happy for you."

          "And he wants kids."

The other woman's expression waned. A split second of uncertainty, then the swift recovery: it didn't matter, Annika saw it. She didn't miss a thing, and especially not that. "There are other ways to have children, Anni—"

          "I'm aware."

          "If you talked with him, he might understand."

          "You're the only person who's ever going to understand."

           "Yeah," Nat said. They both knew she wasn't going to press further on this topic. She knew the wound, she knew where it hurt; she knew where to find it on her own body and she knew that if roles were reversed, she would want Annika to leave it alone, too.

And she knew Annika would.

          "Can I trust Rogers?"

Nat laughed, leaning back in her seat. "Blindly."

          "Blindly," Annika repeated, not enjoying how her mouth moved around the word. Blindly. "It's been a long time since I've had a partner."

          "It's good. It's good to be able to rely on someone. Even better when that someone can be trusted."

          "No shit, Romanova."

          "He's one of the good ones. Don't corrupt him."

          "Well, if you couldn't do it, then I doubt I'll be able to."

          "Your agenda and his complete lack thereof might just cancel each other out."

          "I don't think that's how that works." Annika stood, cracking her knuckles before reaching for the Moleskine journal. Nat stayed seated, looking up at Annika with an expression she could finally comprehend: concern. It stirred an uncomfortable feeling within her, a nausea she couldn't just put aside, put away. "Don't look at me like that. I'm going to be okay."

         "Are you?"

         "Of course I am. I've got Captain America to protect me."

          "That's not what I meant."

          "I know. Don't waste your time worrying about me. It won't change anything."

          "I can always hope."

          "Think about my wedding, instead. You can be maid of honour, if you want."

Nat arched a well-groomed brow. She was beautiful, always had been, but in recent years had gone for a more understated approach to her appearance. Minimal makeup, with her hair cut short and practical. Regardless, she'd make a stunning bridesmaid. "You think you'll make it down the aisle this time?"

          "Probably not."

          "People change, Annika."

          "No, they don't." Annika headed for the door. "I'll see you around, Nat."

          "I hope so. Good luck."

          "Thanks," Annika said. She left and didn't look back.

AUTHOR'S NOTES

omg... star 🌟 updating a fic's first chapter within a month of publishing the introduction (let alone a year) is insane. welcome to CREATURE FEAR... i'm just as surprised as you are!

for this fic i'm going to try and write without indulging in my own perfectionist tendencies: as in, i'm going to try not to redraft every chapter eight times before i finally publish it, in this hopes this means i'll actually get writing out instead of just being self-conscious. i have planned this story out within an inch of its life so hopefully everything pans out lol.

writing for the mcu is both super easy and super difficult—so many moving pieces it hurts my brain. this fic will eventually tie in (kind-of??) to my peter parker fic UNSPUN, and you'll see many of that story's characters appear here, in a lesser capacity of course. i want both stories to complement each other but still be able to stand apart.

annika's character will obviously develop more as we follow her and her (and steve's!) story. currently all we have is her boyfriend (NOT FOR LONG HA HA HA) elliott, and her "childhood friend" nat. i'm excited to explore these relationships as CF goes on. and as much as i'd like to cheapen elliott and anni's relationship for The Bit™️ i do seriously adore him and hope you guys do too, eventually, even if it's secondary to steve. oliver jackson-cohen (elliott's fc) you are so loved by me ❣️

(and i know no-one's supposed to know sharon's surname but i couldn't figure out a way around her not having one that didn't annoy me, so.)

i hope you enjoyed this chapter! happy holidays and i'll see you next time! hopefully within this century!

🕷️ CREATURE FEAR by bayports 🕷️