"The fruits of victory are tumbling into our mouths too quickly."

- Emperor Hirohito

media:

"I'm Getting Sentimental Over You"

by Tommy Dorsey

Location Classified; June 15, 1943

The whir of electric wringers sounded above the slosh of water. The soft scent of detergent filled the laundry room with a long-lost connection to home and the memory of the ordinary things one would do back at home: washing clothes or peeling potatoes, folding laundry and appreciating times that weren't encompassed by war. Clint flung the mountain of dirty uniforms into the enormous pots to wash, mustering all the anger he could manage into each hurled uniform.

Ordinarily he went to the laundry room to make his wage – a buck a suit for over two hundred clients added up mighty fast, and he reckoned he made more than the officers did by starching uniforms. Now he came to get away from the prying eyes and ears of the men in his bunkroom. They had been suspicious and inquisitive about his time in the States for weeks after his early arrival back on the ship and couldn't seem to take no for an answer. Even when he left their whispers echoed in the corners of the room, when they thought he couldn't hear.

Clint reached forward and began to crank the wringer, watching as the dripping uniforms passed through the bars in crisp folds. The laundry room was his place to get away, where he could stew in silence without interruption. Or so he thought.

The door creaked open, announcing the entrance of D'Amico. He wore off-duty digs, most likely because Clint was washing his uniforms, and a pleasant expression that Clint wanted to slap off his face. He leaned against the wall, ever so casual.

"You better be careful with my uniforms, I won't stand for them being ripped apart. A buck for each of these? You're gonna be rich!"

Clint chose to keep his silence, pulling another batch of washed uniforms from their pot. Soapy water slapped against the ground, slicking the steel floor with a sheet of suds.

"God, Clint, I can't even talk to you anymore? What the hell is the matter with you?"

"Nothing's the matter," Clint growled, sending the first five uniforms through the wringer. He hoped the buzzing would drown out D'Amico's words, but he persisted.

"Bullshit. Ever since you came back from the States you've been all uptight and angry at us. What gives?"

"You already know." This was true – news of the "unnamed agent's" breakout from the city hall had only recently reached the North Carolina, and Kessinger had been quick to keep the sailors and Marines up-to-date on the diplomatic repercussions. Clint made sure he left whenever the topic was brought up – he had had enough of Captain America's foolhardy exploits for a lifetime.

"Jesus, is this about the Nomura thing?"

"What do you think, Dan? Of course it's about the Nomura thing!"

"All right, listen up, you idiot. Put the uniform down. I'm about to tell your ignorant ass something, so you better pay attention." D'Amico fumed, crossing his arms and glaring at Clint. "Believe it or not, I was gonna be a politician before this blasted war, so I'd say I know a thing or two about this sort of thing."

"You? A politician?" Clint snorted with disbelief. "I doubt that."

"Hull and Nomura met years before your precious meeting, and they didn't do squat to prevent the war. Nomura's sway in the Japanese balance of politics is worth jack shit, so even if he and the Secretary did come to some conclusion, it would most likely be rejected by the Japs in favor of war. You might have learned this if you didn't storm off in a huff every time we bring the issue up."

"Aren't the Marines angry? You heard what they said about sending back the coffins." Clint shook his head, trying to reconcile D'Amico's words with the truth he had believed for the past weeks. He couldn't fathom the garbage spewing from his friend's mouth.

"The Marines don't give a damn! They knew what they were getting into, and those figures don't surprise them. Not like they'll be true, anyways. Don't you get it? The only one who has their panties in a twist about this whole thing is you!"

"You don't get it – he signed off the deaths of our soldiers when he broke those POW's out!"

"They're going to war! Of course some of them are gonna die!" D'Amico threw his hands in the air, releasing an exasperated sigh.

"You're wrong." Clint refused to believe him, couldn't believe him.

"No, you're wrong. You don't care enough to look beyond your own nose because you don't want an excuse not to be pissed off anymore!" Tension crackled above the thrum of the washing clothing.

"You take that back," Clint seethed, his hands balling into fists.

D'Amico's eyes flicked to this gesture of agression, then met Clint's burning stare with a chilling anger of his own. "I won't. You know why? Because I, and the rest of the crew, are tired of pandering to your childish sense of morality. Look, Barton, I know you want to be right about this, but can't you let it go?"

"Just let the lives of a hundred thousand Marines go? Not likely!" The forward jab thrust from his arm like a rocket, but D'Amico anticipated the blow and brought his forearms up to block it. Clint threw himself forward and slammed his shoulder into his friend's chest, the suds on the floor causing them to fall to the ground. Drawing his arm back for another blow, Clint leaned to the side as D'Amico rolled out of harm's way. His clothes were now streaked with dirty water, forming muddy blotches on the once-pristine white surface.

"I'm not going to fight you. Is that how you solve problems, with your fists and not your brain?" Pulling himself to his feet, D'Amico held out a hand to help Clint up as well. "I should let you get back to your washing."

Clint swore to himself and ignored D'Amico's hand. He didn't need the man's charity or his sympathy – or his lofty opinions, for that matter. "Y'know why I come and wash all these uniforms? Because they don't try to chew me out every second of the day!"

D'Amico's cheerful expression hardened. Turning away, he called over his shoulder as he opened the door to head back to his post, "Just because we don't agree doesn't mean we're not friends, Barton. You ever want to talk, you know where to find me."

The door clanged shut, with Clint spitting in the wake of D'Amico's departure. Let him go. Good riddance.

Rome, Italy; July 26, 1943

Night loomed heavy and hot over the smoky skies of Rome. A balmy, humid wind stuck like sweat to any exposed skin, and Steve was practically suffocating in his fashionable yet long-sleeved evening wear. A hat dipped low over his eyes, concealing the face plastered across the silver screens of the world. Steve's attendance in the meeting was functional. The Allied strategists he was accompanying were not career soldiers, and they would need protection.

The shield was stashed in an extra-large suitcase clamped tightly in Steve's hand. Captain America had changed since Kasserine Pass, and his look had to reflect it. Colonel Philips had sent along a large parcel with Steve's new uniform, built with tough and utilitarian material to protect against shrapnel and bullets. Gone were the days of tights and tin shields – a circular disc took the place of its predecessor, built of vibranium that resisted everything Steve could throw at it.

Even the comic books had taken up this new angle, showing Captain America wrestling with the moral good of killing and the logical flaws with fascism. The newest newsreels stuck him right in the action, hurling grenades and tearing through enemy lines with the enlisted men. Indeed, Steve had spent the past weeks on Sicilian soil filming shorts with Patton's Seventh Division. The general had wanted to have pictures with Steve as he took Palermo, and they shook hands for a good five minutes while the photographers danced about to get the perfect angle. Patton didn't seem to mind, but Steve thought the whole ordeal was more than silly.

But now he had moved beyond television stunts into the real action. An amphibious landing fifty miles from Rome had deposited Steve and a small squad of intelligence officers on Italian shores undetected. Mussolini had been ousted mere days ago, replaced with the man the squad was tasked to meet with, Pietro Badoglio. The danger lay in the fact that Italy hadn't yet surrendered to Allied forces, and any Italian military would easily shoot the Allied officers on sight. In this darkened country they were all alone.

The meeting spot was a bombed-out department store disguised in the rubble of the hilly Roman roads. In Steve's opinion, it was an unseemly choice for the newly elected Prime Minister. Crushed concrete sheltered their illicit activities, the dangling bulb of a burned-out streetlamp hovering above his head as he stepped from the sidewalk through what he assumed was a doorway before the Allied bombs struck.

In front of Steve stood the three intelligence officers. For security purposes, they operated under codenames. The American officer was Rader, the British officer Corpse (which Steve found rather morbid) and the Russian officer Kursk. Their mannerisms were professional yet anonymous, as were their faces. Whenever Steve turned away he could never quite remember what each man looked like. All were dressed like Steve, in long coats and hats to hide their figures, and all were on edge as they ducked under the buckled lintel of the room to meet a room full of Italian soldiers.

Badoglio sat in the center of the room at a table, miraculously clean amongst the rubble. His face was haggard and solemn, with dark shadows like charcoal smeared beneath his eyes from lack of sleep, but his vision flashed with alertness as he observed the newcomers. His gaze lingered on Steve's suitcase for a moment before turning back to the officers, standing and extending his hand to shake.

From across the room, one soldier's finger drifted towards the trigger of his rifle.

Rader shook first, followed by Corpse and Kursk, and they sat in the chairs proffered by Badoglio. Steve stood behind them against the pitted wall, hands clasped in front of him on the handle of his suitcase. Anticipation choked the air, practically throwing off sparks as Badoglio took his seat and rested his chin on his hands.

"Mussolini is still alive," he began in lightly accented English. "As I am sure you are aware. His position will be given to me in the near future."

"Why else would we be meeting with you? We know all this," Kursk growled. He turned a ring around his finger around his finger as the Italian spoke, the practiced motion of an old habit. Badoglio merely sighed, lifting his hat from his head and drawing a hand through his silver hair.

"I am wary to sign an armistice with your countries."

"Do you fear German repercussions? You would have the strength of the Allied forces behind you! Rest assured that the livelihood of Italy would be spared!" Corpse interjected.

Shaking his head, Badoglio stood and placed his cap on his desk. The rows of soldiers around the room stiffened, eyes darting with renewed vigor from the officers to their leader and back again. "Just as the strength of the Allied forces protected the Philippines? Hawaii? France? Gentlemen, Germany is still the strongest power in Europe, and defying them will mean certain doom for my people."

This stifled Corpse's enthusiasm; he studied his boots with a tinge of an ashamed blush coloring his high cheekbones. Kursk opened his mouth to speak, but Badoglio continued.

"I am sure you have heard of the newest technological innovations my allies have introduced as well. Guns so large they have to be ferried about by rail. Aeroplanes that fly at speeds that would run circles around your newest models. Would it be wise to turn against such a well-armed power?"

"Germany is too busy retreating from the bulk of the Russian army. They have no need to trifle with a lesser enemy." Kursk spat. "I have seen the effects of these weapons on my people, Prime Minister. I assure you, they are not enough to stop an army."

"The Russian Army, perhaps," Badoglio mused, tracing the edge of his desk with a finger as he paced, "but Italian forces are not as well-equipped and well-staffed. The turmoil of Il Duce's fall and a German invasion from the north... How could my country hope to survive?"

"Speaking of invasions –" Rader began, but Kursk waved his comments away.

"Are you afraid of the flying man from the papers, Prime Minister? You wouldn't take the steps to preserve your country after this hellish war because you were frightened from ladies' gossip journals?"

Badoglio's eyes popped, and he turned to Kursk with a burning gaze. "There are German lines of fortification in my country! What damage would they do if I were to reveal myself as a turncoat? I repeat, I am reluctant to begin the journey to an armistice until the German menace is free from Italian soil. And that is final!"

Settling back in his chair, Kursk nodded his affirmation. Steve tilted his head and listened to the sounds of the rubble-scarred city. The trickle of pulverized cement sounded as the bombed-out buildings shifted, scattering a fine layer of dust across Badoglio's tabletop. Glancing to his left, Steve peered through the enormous hole in the wall and ceiling of the meeting room, watching the ruined buildings on the opposite side of the street. Shadows flitted like ghosts across their charred facades, the hiss of dust low beneath the wind. His finger reached down slowly, unlatching the suitcase and slipping his arm down to grip the handle of the shield.

Steve reacted as soon as the sound of the shot thundered into the air. His arm swung around like a pendulum, shielding the Italian Prime Minister from the bullet aimed for the man's heart. Sparks scattered from the shield as the bullet ricocheted off of the glossy surface and embedded itself into the wall. Fifteen rifles snapped into position, aiming across the street for whoever had fired, but the darkness gave the would-be assassin a much-needed advantage. Not waiting for the Italian soldiers to initiate contact, Steve leaped forward and charged into the street with his shield held before him.

Another shot clipped the ground beside his foot and then the edge of his shield, but Steve was undeterred. He raised the metal disc above his shoulders and forced his way through the wooden doors of the apartment complex. Shrieks and rapid Italian swearing followed his entrance as he forced his way through the foyer and up the stairs, bounding up three steps at a time. Once he reached the third floor he ran for the apartments that had windows, forcing his heel into the wood nearest the hinges. The flimsy door shuddered and slammed to the ground, splintering against the warped wooden floor of the apartment. A family stared back at Steve with astonishment, silent for a moment before leaping into yammering Italian. They waved their arms to shoo him away, and Steve backed towards the other apartment with hands raised.

"Sorry, ma'am, I'll pay you back for the damages, sorry," he called, then threw his weight against the opposite door. It gave way to reveal an empty flat save a blanket and a high-powered sniper rifle. Both were abandoned. Steve dropped to his knees and peered through the rifle's scope, which framed the figures of Badoglio and the Allied strategists perfectly. There could be no doubt about who the sniper was going to kill – the x was fitted over the Italian Prime Minister's head.

A clattering sound drew Steve from his position and onto his feet in seconds, charging towards the source of the disturbance. Footsteps pounded on metal as Steve chased after the fleeing assassin to a spiraling metal staircase. Charging through the tiny rooms of the apartment, Steve found the source of the noise in the back corner of the building, the staircase twining up through the ceiling. The flash of a boot caught his eye before the assassin fled to the roof, and Steve ascended the stairs in moments. Adrenaline pulsed through his veins, and his fingers itched to put his new weapons to the test.

The sweltering night air washed over him as Steve burst onto the apartment roof, which appeared devoid of life. The only light that shone around him was the moon, with blackout curtains shuttering the livelihood of Rome behind starchy fabric. His eyes scanned the horizon, but he could scarcely make out a pinprick of light around him. How would he be able to find the assassin in these conditions?

The bark of a gun firing preceded a flash of pain along Steve's thigh; he reached down to feel torn fabric and warm blood pooling on his fingers, a mere nuisance. Dropping to the ground, Steve squinted into the gloom for any sign of the assassin. His heartbeat pounded over the whispering silence of the moonlit night.

A shadow fell across Steve and he turned just in time to see the assassin descending on him from the sky. Two enormous wings stretched from his sides, every movement paired with a screech of metal the shower of sparks. Steel draped and folded over itself in lightweight segments, bending and flexing with every movement of the assassin's body. Thick straps shackled the man into his wings, coiling over his shoulders and around his chest to support his body in flight. As soon as the shock wore off, Steve jumped up and threw his shield at the rightmost wing.

Sparks leaped across the roof as the shield gouged a gash in the delicate structure of the wing. Planting his feet against the concrete roof, the assassin leaped upward in a jerky bid towards the sky. The broken parts ground and howled against each other as he struggled to raise himself to a height out of Steve's range. Fumbling hands reached for a pistol, most likely the weapon that had wounded Steve before. Despite the complicated machinery strapped to his back that obviously gave the man the upper hand, he seemed nervous and shaky as he aimed the weapon at Steve. One clumsy shot pinged off of the roof, then another. Steve lunged forward and tucked his body in close to roll underneath the winged assassin, scooping his shield from the roof before twisting his body back for another attack.

Steve's mechanical expertise came into use in this moment – he knew at a glance that the right wing was structurally compromised. If the assassin was smart he would abandon the failing machination, but he continued to sway and struggle in the air. With every pump of his wings, he was further damaging the carefully crafted segments. Steve yanked his arm forward and released the shield again, but this time the man was clever enough to bring up his other wing to protect the broken one. Squinting against the shower of cinders, Steve ducked behind the stairwell as the assassin fired another shot at him, this one much too close for comfort. A dull clicking sound indicated that his assailant had run out of ammunition.

Steve emerged from his hiding place and made a dash for his shield again. Anticipating his move, the assassin swooped down and folded his wings forward, pulling them apart in a slashing motion that would have separated Steve's head from his body if he hadn't ducked. He slid up next to his shield like it was home base, bringing the vibranium up over his head before the assassin's boots came down hard on the metal.

He was pinned between the roof and his attacker. Steve's arms burned as he forced the man from crushing him, but the added weight of the metal wings pressed his body closer to the concrete. Gritting his teeth, Steve lifted himself up on one elbow and turned his shoulder under the shield. He could feel the hot breath of the assassin against his ear, the energy and pain pumping in the air.

Steve drew his arm back, yanking the shield out from the assassin's feet, and the surprised man fell to the roof with his feet straddling Steve's shoulders. Steve drew his shield arm across his body and thrust his elbow back, bringing the shield around and into the man's face. His goggles shattered and his nose splintered. A sharp kick to the ribs forced his assailant off-balance, wings flailing and dragging across the roof as the man collapsed, pawing at his wounded face.

Leaping to his feet, Steve bounded over to the collapsed assassin. He pulled his shield over his head and down on the central ball-and-socket that locked the wings into the harness. With a whine of metal the wing sheared away from the rest of the structure, flailing and slapping against the concrete as its circuitry shorted. Steve ducked behind his shield as the metal rocketed across the concrete, tearing into the stone and anything that came in its path. Embers hissed against his suit as sparks caught on the fabric. I'll be in hot water after this mess - this was a new suit!

Steve crawled over to the man, his head ducked low as the right wing continued its spasming, and he tore the harness straps open. The assassin was too bleary-eyed and battered to protest as Steve pulled him away from his ruined flying apparatus, which was reaching a blistering heat as its engines backfired. Electricity sparked from the center of the wings and arced outward, blackening the steel. Fire raced across the wires, scorching the swastika designs seared onto the widest parts of the wings. With a wail of dying machinery, the wings exploded in a magnificent flash of light and roiling fire. Smoke broiled across the moonlit sky, obscuring even the stars.

Steve fell back against the concrete, panting alongside the man who had moments ago tried to kill him. His leg seared and his body was battered from the encounter, but he was no worse for wear. The opposite could be said of the Nazi assassin, whose face was smeared with fresh blood and peppered with glass from his broken eyewear. Pushing himself to his knees, Steve shuffled over to the man.

"You're with the Germans, aren't you? Why were you going to kill the Prime Minister?"

The man mustered a whimpering snicker, rolling on his side away from Steve. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, staining his teeth crimson. "I'll never tell you anything, filth."

"Where did you get those wings? They're state-of-the-art!" Steve cried, trying to pull the man back. When the assassin looked back at him one of his teeth was balanced on his tongue. Before the truth registered in Steve's mind, the man had bitten down on the concealed pill, foam racing across his mouth as he swallowed the poison.

"Heil Hitler..." the man whispered, rocking back onto the roof. His face froze in a triumphant grimace, body convulsing and limbs flailing as the poison raced through his bloodstream. Steve jumped forward and forced the man's jaw apart, trying in vain to prevent the inevitable. His body stilled, eyes dulling as they mirrored the lapping flames.

Steve's head dropped to his chest, exhausting finally overcoming him as smoke drifted from the roof. The wail of the fire department sounded some distance away, but it appeared low and mournful in Steve's ears. His fingers slid over the man's eyes, closing them against the horrors the battle had left behind.

A brief breath of wind brought a fragment of a burned label skittering against Steve's shoe. He stooped down to pick it up, eyes flashing across the words before the paper disintegrated in his hand.

Two words stood bold in his vision even after the paper crumpled into flaky ashes between his fingers: Stark Industries.

Steve stood on the edge of the roof as the Italian troops poured out of the staircase, assessing the damage and ferrying the body of the Nazi down to the streets. His eyes remained fixed on the horizon as the wind tugged at his ruined clothes, fist clenched around the grip of his shield.

Steve was jolted out of his contemplation when Rader clapped a hand on his shoulder. "I used to think Captain America was just a propaganda tool, Rogers. But you did some good work out here tonight. Congratulations."

Nodding absently, Steve watched as the American tactician strode over to Corpse and Kursk to admire the ruined mechanical wings. A Nazi assassin, a winged machine beyond any military technology Steve had ever seen, secret diplomatic missions gone sour... What was going on?

(Long chapter in celebration of a long weekend! Hope you have a great day, and feel free to leave a vote or comment if you're enjoying Repulse so far!)