Sam had known when he told Steve they weren’t all getting out of there that this wasn’t going to be pretty. True, he hadn’t thought he’d end up in super hero Gitmo, but he’d know there weren’t going to be Miranda rights and a call to his lawyer. He thought the guys who showed up under Ross’s command—US Marshalls in blue came and bulletproof vests—might even execute them right there at the airport and save themselves the hassle of detaining them. But Ross had apparently decided not to unilaterally shoot them all, at least not in front of the Leipzig police.
But when Sam had his face “accidentally” shoved against a van door as the Marshalls were loading them, he figured they’d been rounded down to international terrorists, and would be treated accordingly. Three of them didn’t have actual superhuman abilities to speak of, so at least they were all the same amount of vulnerable, all other things being equal. But of course, all other things were not equal.
When they’d all been processed—strip searched, hosed off, and dressed in detainee uniforms that looked like medical scrubs—the guards, armed with M4s, hustled them into individuals cells on sub level eight. Sam saw Wanda when they marched her in, staggering like she was drunk or drugged.
“Wanda, you OK?” Barton asked from somewhere to Sam’s right. There came a muffled reply that Sam couldn’t make out.
Before they had time for anything else, the doors at the far end of the room whooshed open to admit Secretary Ross, perfectly neat and orderly in a uniform that certainly wasn’t standard military issue. He’d have looked sharp, if not for the smug expression on his face. A swarm of guards followed him into the room and took up positions behind him.
“One of you,” Ross said, turning slowly to look at each of them, “is going to tell me where Captain Rogers is going, or you won’t like the consequences.”
Sam kept staring at the floor. He couldn’t see the others, but he knew no one would talk. They weren’t nearly there yet.
“You’re wasting your time,” Clint said.
That made Sam smile, at least. It was nice someone was feeling brave. He wondered if any of them had done the tactical calculus on who would bear the brunt of Ross’s “consequences.” Not Wanda, with her unpredictable abilities and wide, soulful green eyes. Not Clint, with a photogenic family on a farm in a swing state. Not even Scott, who already had a criminal record, since an adorable daughter helped balance the scales. But Sam knew that the mug shot they’d taken on the way in, Sam’s face smeared with blood and dirt, so haggard and exhausted he could barely stand, would be re-tweeted a thousand times by people who saw nothing but a thug.
“No answers? Fine. Have it your way.” Ross turned to the guards behind him. “Take Wilson.”
Sam had already pushed wearily to his feet to face to cell door. When the guards pulled him out, he didn’t struggle, and he looked straight ahead as they led him out of the room.
Fill: untitled Sam trashing (1/?)
But when Sam had his face “accidentally” shoved against a van door as the Marshalls were loading them, he figured they’d been rounded down to international terrorists, and would be treated accordingly. Three of them didn’t have actual superhuman abilities to speak of, so at least they were all the same amount of vulnerable, all other things being equal. But of course, all other things were not equal.
When they’d all been processed—strip searched, hosed off, and dressed in detainee uniforms that looked like medical scrubs—the guards, armed with M4s, hustled them into individuals cells on sub level eight. Sam saw Wanda when they marched her in, staggering like she was drunk or drugged.
“Wanda, you OK?” Barton asked from somewhere to Sam’s right. There came a muffled reply that Sam couldn’t make out.
Before they had time for anything else, the doors at the far end of the room whooshed open to admit Secretary Ross, perfectly neat and orderly in a uniform that certainly wasn’t standard military issue. He’d have looked sharp, if not for the smug expression on his face. A swarm of guards followed him into the room and took up positions behind him.
“One of you,” Ross said, turning slowly to look at each of them, “is going to tell me where Captain Rogers is going, or you won’t like the consequences.”
Sam kept staring at the floor. He couldn’t see the others, but he knew no one would talk. They weren’t nearly there yet.
“You’re wasting your time,” Clint said.
That made Sam smile, at least. It was nice someone was feeling brave. He wondered if any of them had done the tactical calculus on who would bear the brunt of Ross’s “consequences.” Not Wanda, with her unpredictable abilities and wide, soulful green eyes. Not Clint, with a photogenic family on a farm in a swing state. Not even Scott, who already had a criminal record, since an adorable daughter helped balance the scales. But Sam knew that the mug shot they’d taken on the way in, Sam’s face smeared with blood and dirt, so haggard and exhausted he could barely stand, would be re-tweeted a thousand times by people who saw nothing but a thug.
“No answers? Fine. Have it your way.” Ross turned to the guards behind him. “Take Wilson.”
Sam had already pushed wearily to his feet to face to cell door. When the guards pulled him out, he didn’t struggle, and he looked straight ahead as they led him out of the room.