It had the look of a seasoned gambling ring, only Bucky would never have bothered to involve himself in something as petty as that. He’d tracked the agents here, to a basement beneath a pawn shop in Hell’s Kitchen, the ostentatious layers of locked doors hiding the place’s real security: cameras, scanners, warning systems that had taken him hours of sensitive work to disable before he could move inside, remaining a ghost until the last possible moment. This wasn’t a game for money or drugs. There were secrets for trade. Weapons like him. Strains of the serum that had made him. Bucky didn’t care who were the winners and losers; all he cared about was that none of the agents involved walked away.
His first two shots took out the guards, the next disabled the cameras he hadn’t been able to shut down from outside. The petty criminals, the ones who didn’t know what they were playing for, were the first to bolt. Bucky let them; he had bigger concerns. He kneecapped one of the noncombatants—she would be useful later, to answer his questions—and then there was no more time to fire, three men engaging him at once, and they were trained and clearly ready for the possibility of fighting the Winter Soldier. They came at him with stun batons, hitting him again and again, jamming them into the base of his spine and the nape of his neck and driving him down to his knees. Bucky gritted his teeth against a scream, grabbing one of them by the ankle with his left hand, the wrong hand, metal plates recalibrating with an electric whir as the fingers clamped shut with strength far beyond human. The agent screamed as his ankle bones fractured, collapsing to the floor, and Bucky swept out a kick that threw another one off his feet and blocked the downward swing of a stun baton simultaneously. Then he threw his weight to the side, pulling back his metal fist and aiming a crushing blow for the first agent he’d brought down.
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For jurisdevil
His first two shots took out the guards, the next disabled the cameras he hadn’t been able to shut down from outside. The petty criminals, the ones who didn’t know what they were playing for, were the first to bolt. Bucky let them; he had bigger concerns. He kneecapped one of the noncombatants—she would be useful later, to answer his questions—and then there was no more time to fire, three men engaging him at once, and they were trained and clearly ready for the possibility of fighting the Winter Soldier. They came at him with stun batons, hitting him again and again, jamming them into the base of his spine and the nape of his neck and driving him down to his knees. Bucky gritted his teeth against a scream, grabbing one of them by the ankle with his left hand, the wrong hand, metal plates recalibrating with an electric whir as the fingers clamped shut with strength far beyond human. The agent screamed as his ankle bones fractured, collapsing to the floor, and Bucky swept out a kick that threw another one off his feet and blocked the downward swing of a stun baton simultaneously. Then he threw his weight to the side, pulling back his metal fist and aiming a crushing blow for the first agent he’d brought down.