you did not see that coming?

A cream colored manila envelope on your desk, your name written in big, bold letters.

This is not new. Working at as a journalist, you get plenty of letters. Some good, some bad. You never know what it’s going to be until you open it.

Your boss, Clark Lane, sticks his head in the door to your office as you slide a finger under the lip of the envelope.

“More fan mail?” he asks, and you shake your head, eyes skimming down the contents.

It looks like an official report, but so much of it’s been blacked out by censors, it’s nearly impossible to make it out.

“I think it’s a military report,” you say, frowning slightly. You turn the page, revealing a map and a grainy photograph. Squinting, you try to make out what — or rather, who — it is, but it’s impossible.

“Just shred it,” Lane says. “Last thing we need is some conspiracy nutter trying to get published.” You nod, distracted. A few words catch your eye, and something niggles at the back of your mind. You wait until Lane’s gone to put everything back in the folder.

You open the bottom drawer on your desk, the only one with a lock, and hide the envelope beneath a few other files you’re saving for later.

~~~

And you forget about it. For an entire month, you go about your life. The day after you receive the files, though, you notice a black van across the street from your office.

You don’t think anything about it. Right up until you get a look at the two men in the van.

They look… official, to say the least. But more than that, you remember seeing one of them at your local coffee shop.

Still, you try to play it off as a coincidence, ignoring their presence as best you can, varying your routines, having someone walk you to your car, just trying to move on with your life.

Until they show up at the drugstore, late one night. You’re on your way home for the evening, stopping to pick up a few essentials, and you hear the bell above the door ding.

Your head comes up, awareness pricking your spine, and you watch as the two study a display of reading glasses.

Something tells you to get out. Now. You abandon your basket in the aisle and head for the back door. A quick glance in the window as you leave confirms your suspicions.

They’re looking for you.

You’re not fast enough. Someone steps out of the shadows, cutting off your path to your car. You turn, figuring it’d be better to stay inside, where there’s at least one witness and plenty of cameras.

But when you step back into the drugstore, the other two are waiting. The lone clerk keeps her head down, organizing her till.

“Is there a problem?” you ask, glancing between them and the clerk, feeling bold and foolish and scared out of your mind.

The taller of the two shifts, his jacket opening a little. The fluorescent lights catch the silver of his gun.

“Depends on you,” he says. The bell over the door dings, the third one slipping inside.

“Store’s closing in fifteen,” the clerk says without looking up. You glance between the three, boxed in and cornered.

Your mouth opens, and he lifts out the gun.

“No sudden movements,” he says quietly. Tears spring to your eyes. You’re trapped, with no way out and little clue as to why these people are gunning so hard for you. It not like you actually published the information in the folder.

The clerk looks up.

“If you’re not going to buy anything, quit loitering in the doorway.” She steps out from behind the till.

“Stay there,” you call, stepping towards her. The gun swings up, leveled at your chest.

“Shut up,” the man says. You grit your teeth. The clerk steps closer, at an angle to see the gun now.

“Hey!” she calls, startling you all.

It’s a mistake. The man swings the gun towards her. You lunge, trying to knock him down, to give the clerk and yourself a chance to escape. The other two are on you in an instant.

You’re no seasoned fighter, but you can fight dirty. The four of you end up rolling on the floor, grappling for the first one’s gun.

It ends up in your hands.

You scramble away, grasping it in trembling hands. The first man finds his way to his feet, and in a panic, you squeeze the trigger.

At such a close range, it hits its target. But the other two are still coming.

You’re not as lucky.

Your aim is wild, and you watch in slowed down horror as one bullet finds its way to the clerk, who’s been caught in the crossfire.

She grasps her chest and crumples the ground. You drop the gun in horror, backing away as the two men remain crouched, waiting to see what you do.

Tears blinding you, you run, trying to plan.

You hesitate to go to the police, because you don’t know who these men are, and there’s something about the way they carry themselves that makes you think they are law enforcement.

You’ll withdraw all the savings you have, you decide. Pack a small bag — including the file — and go off the grid.

A wise idea, as it turns out.

Because the very next morning, the entire world is looking for you.

~~~

Joaquín Torres rubs the back of his neck as he fills out another form. If he’d known it was going to be such a headache to give Sam Wilson and Bucky “The Winter Soldier” Barnes a hand, he’d have passed.

Well, okay, not really. Because it was cool to be able to help them.

But he could really do without the paperwork.

His CO enters, slapping a fat folder of papers down on the desk, and he bites back a groan.

More busywork.

This CO — Major Smith — is new, his old one having retired, and Torres is still trying to endear himself to the man. He’s older and more “traditional” — which is code for being a real hard ass.

Major Smith rolls his eyes, disdain evident.

“Still working on the reports for your little excursion, Torres?” Smith asks, and he bites his tongue to keep from pointing out that the “excursion” was sanctioned and actively encouraged.

“Almost done, sir,” he says, and he’s quite proud of himself for keeping the exhaustion out of his tone.

“They can wait,” Smith says. “I want you to take a look at this instead.” He taps the top of the folder twice, and Torres takes a deep breath in through his nose.

“What’s this?” he asks. Smith waves him off.

“New assignment. A target I want brought in.” Torres frowns slightly at him, trying to calculate Smith’s angle.

“Sir, I’m happy to take the assignment, but isn’t there anyone else who can take point on this? Since I’m still trying to wrap up the aftermath of the Flag Smashers.” Major Smith looks annoyed, and he taps the top of the file again, punctuating his words.

“I’m giving you this because it’s your hometown. I’ve read your file, Torres, and I figured you’d want a chance to see some of your old haunts.” Torres glances down at the words.

“Sure. I mean, yes, sir. I’ll be on the next plane out.”

And he is, along with his team, bordering on record turnaround time. 

Because the more he looks at the assignment, the less things make sense. Because he knows the target. Better than Smith probably realizes.

He grew up with you. You and your brother, that is, and he finds it hard to believe you’re what they’re saying you are. What they’re saying you did.

But a lot can change in two years.

~~~

You haven’t seen Joaquín Torres since your brother’s funeral.

In the aftermath, he gave you a card, told you to call if you ever needed anyone, and you just… never did. Maybe it’s because a part of you chafed at needing someone, or maybe it’s because he reminds you too much of your brother.

You don’t know.

Regardless, you never called, and enough time passed that anytime you seriously considered it, you always felt weird.

Today, you’re seriously debating calling him as the news runs through its cycle again.

Your face — the one from your ID — is plastered over all the channels, and they’re calling you a spy. Footage of the incident at the drugstore plays again, and you look away. You can’t see that awful moment again.

The clerk — whose name was Betty Williams, according to the news — was pronounced dead at the scene, along with another unidentified man.

It’s being pinned on you, and you’re being torn apart on every news channel.

You chew the inside of your cheek and fight back tears, pacing a path in your tiny motel room, out of options and afraid for your life.

If you were going to go to the police, that time has passed. The very fact that you’re being branded as a spy means someone high-up is most likely pulling the strings. The police wouldn’t be able to do jack shit.

You’ve managed to go three days without being found, but that time has to be running short. The idea of calling Torres crossed your mind when one news station reported military intelligence forces being involved. You haven’t kept up with him, but you do know he’s still part of the Air Force.

At the very least, you’re hoping he can tell you what to do. You make another lap of the room.

There’s a knock on your door. Your pulse thrums in your head, drowning out any other noise.

They’ve found you.

“Sparky?” You grit your teeth at the old, familiar nickname, given to you by one Joaquín Torres and your brother when you were barely old enough to walk. Carefully, you peek through the peephole, sagging with relief when you see Joaquín Torres on the other side.

Slowly, you open the door, looking past him, down the hall, tense and ready to run.

He pushes past you, into the room, closing the door behind him.  

“So,” he says, “you want to tell me what the hell is going on? Why you’re on a national watchlist?” You sit down on the bed, hard, and look up at him, biting your lip to keep it from quivering.

You’re not usually this emotional, but you’re just wrung out.

“I don’t know,” you say, finally, voice cracking. You reach for your bag. “How did you even find me?” You find the folder and slap it on the bed beside you. He glances at his watch, then the door.

“Motel owner ratted you out. I told my team I’d look into it, since I know you. see if I could get you to come in without a fight.” You close your eyes, taking a deep breath.

“So you’re here to bring me in?” Torres grimaces.

“It’s looking like that.” You let out the breath in a shuddering laugh.

“I’m not a spy. Hell, I work at the local newspaper. I’ve known the people of this town as long as I’ve been alive. But they all just turned on me. You know what Lane said, when the news broke and they interviewed him? He said he’d always seen it coming.” Torres glances out the window, then back at you, looking torn.

“Just come in,” he says, “and we can get this settled. If you’re really innocent, then it won’t take long to get everything cleared up.” You shove the folder at him.

“Except I’m pretty sure someone in the government is trying to silence me.” He takes the folder, flipping it open carefully.

“What is this?” You give him the details, what you’ve been able to figure out so far. Not much, other than this all centers around some shadowy figure known only as the Power Broker.

“And someone started tailing you?” he asks. You nod.

“Yes. After I got that file. I think someone wanted to expose the truth, but they got to whoever it was before they could. So it got passed to me. Which pretty much confirms the existence of some kind of conspiracy.” You open your mouth to continue, and he holds up a hand, pressing the earpiece he’s wearing tighter against his ear.

“Listen, Sparky,” he says, “I’m out of time. Just come in, and I’ll protect you. We can work this out together.” You take the folder back from him, tucking it back in your bag and shaking your head.

“You saw the footage! I might have pulled the trigger, but they were trying to get me. If I come in, I’ll be dead within the hour. Someone doesn’t want this information to see the light of day, and they’ve already proven they’re willing to kill me to stop it. I’m sorry, Torres, but I can’t go with you.” He looks desperate, glancing between the door and you, tense, as if he expects you to run.

His hand tightens into a fist, and then he rips the earpiece out.

“Damn it,” he hisses, throwing the piece on the ground. He stomps it with his foot, shattering it.

“You’re going to help me?” You can’t help but sound surprised. He shakes his head with a long-suffering sigh.

“Like you said: I’ve known you all your life. You wouldn’t do what they’re saying. We’ll figure this out together.” You hope your eyes convey the gratefulness you’re feeling, because the lump in your throat is making it hard to speak.

~~~

He’s got his CO yelling in his ear, chatter from his men doing a shit job of maintaining radio silence, and the news on the TV all talking at once, making it hard to think.

But as you look up at him from your position on the bed, sheen of tears in your eyes, he knows he’s a goner.

He can’t resist the puppy dog eyes, least of all from you, and he really does mean what he says.

You wouldn’t do this. You’re not a spy, and you’re sure as hell not a murderer.

“Torres, whatever the hell you’re thinking,” Smith says, “you better quit thinking it. You bring the target in right now, or I swear to Christ I’ll demote you so far down you’ll-” He tears out the earpiece.

At best, if you’re wrong, you both look like conspiracy nuts. At worst, you’re right, and this is bigger than either of you.

Further, if you’re wrong, this will mean the end of his career. Disobeying direct orders is a death sentence.

But as you grasp his hand, standing and tugging him into a tight hug, he’s a little hard pressed to say no.