Chapter 2: The Package (Part 1)

The early-morning sun streamed through the glass panels of the skybridge at S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters. Steve was already midway across, his pace as purposeful as always, despite the americano in his hand from the cart downstairs. The sound of approaching footsteps made him glance over his shoulder.
 
Natasha appeared, a spring in her step as she caught up to him. Without breaking stride, she fell into step beside him, matching his rhythm after years of working in sync. She took a deep, exaggerated breath, her eyes twinkling with mischief.
 
"I love the smell of napalm in the morning," she declared theatrically.
 
Steve scoffed, but a chuckle escaped him despite his best efforts. He shook his head, the corners of his mouth quirking upward. "Kicking the day off strong with a movie quote. How Tony Stark of you."
 
Internally though, Steve too felt a surge of excitement, the prospect of being back in action with his team sending a familiar thrill through him. But outwardly, he maintained his composed demeanour, only the slight quickening of his step betraying his anticipation.
 
"Speaking of… That mysterious package from last night," Nat started.
 
“Something turn up?"
 
"That's just it," she replied, an almost gleeful note in her voice. "We've swept the entire area around the building. Every nook, every cranny. And you know what we found?"
 
"Nothing?"
 
"Absolutely nothing," Nat confirmed, sounding far too pleased for someone delivering news of a fruitless search. "S.H.I.E.L.D.'s clear. No mysterious packages, no lurking threats. Just that letter."
 
Steve studied her for a moment, noting the excitement barely contained beneath her professional Agent Romanoff image. "You're in your element right now, aren’t you?" he asked, a hint of amusement in his voice.
 
Natasha shrugged, her eyes sparkling as she glanced up at him. "What, I can’t revel in the fact that we’re back?”
 
Steve allowed himself a small smile, his composure slipping just enough to reveal his own enthusiasm. "Yeah, I suppose I get it," he conceded.
 
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
 
The van's engine hummed through your consciousness like a distant swarm of bees. Your thoughts swam through molasses, each one taking an eternity to form. The zip of the duffel bag scratched against your ear with every bump and turn, a constant nauseating, panic-inducing reminder of your confinement. The air inside was stale, thick with the scent of canvas and something metallic—blood, probably yours.
 
Fragments of conversation drifted down from the front seats, harsh whispers in a foreign language:
 
"...Ons moet gou maak. Dis seker nou al vol..."
 
"…Dis wat die baas gesê het..."
 
You tried to command your fingers to move, to fight, to do something. But they remained traitors to your will, heavy and useless. Only your consciousness had begun to return, forcing you to experience every excruciating second of your helplessness. The tattoo on your back burned, still fresh, still bleeding. A parting gift from your captors, you supposed… to be branded like sheep.
 
The thought, though hazy, snagged in your mind. Sheep? Where had that come from? Through the chemical fog, you wrestled with the strange comparison. You were a city person—always had been, hadn't you? Concrete jungle, subway tiles, and taxi horns were your natural habitat. Yet somehow, the image felt... familiar.
 
A flash of wooden fencing, the earthy smell of wet wool, the sharp metal click of a marking tool. The memory, if it even was one, slipped away like water through your fingers. Something about it felt real—too real—as if you'd watched someone marking livestock a hundred times before. But that was impossible. Wasn't it? The uncertainty ate at you, yet another piece in this puzzle you couldn't quite grasp, until the van hit a bump and scattered your thoughts like frightened birds.
 
The vehicle slowed and turned, your body rolling slightly against the canvas wall, irritating the raw skin on your back. Bustling city sounds filtered in through the metal walls—sirens, horns, music. Many voices.... A crowd. The van rocked as it navigated what felt like a pothole, sending a fresh wave of nausea through your stomach.
 
There was one final turn... And then the engine died.
 
Within seconds, the rear doors creaked open. Cool air rushed in, and with it came something else—something that made no sense. A tide of foreign emotions crashed over you: sweaty palms, racing heartbeats that weren't your own, stomach acid burning with someone else's anxiety. Two distinct knots of fear, two separate streams of consciousness bleeding into yours.
 
One thrummed with the jittery energy of too much coffee and too little sleep, the other a glacier of cold calculation cracking under pressure.
 
“Need to move fast. Can't mess this up. Boss will have our heads if–"
 
The thoughts weren't yours, couldn't be yours. They weren’t even in your own vernacular. But they thundered through your mind anyway, drowning out your own confusion.
 
Pinpricks of light filtered through the canvas as someone lifted it, their trembling hands betraying a nervousness that echoed through your consciousness like feedback from a microphone. But your drug-addled brain couldn't process this invasion of foreign feelings. They swirled together with your own fear, creating a sickening cocktail of shared anxiety that pushed you closer to the brink of unconsciousness.
 
The last thing you registered before the darkness crept in was a spike of paranoia so sharp it felt like a knife between your ribs—but whose paranoia was it?
 
"Nou of nooit," one captor whispered. "Die toeriste sal ons bedek."
 
"Tien sekondes… Kyk uit vir kameras," replied the other.
 
The sounds of Times Square were muffled and distant, only brief moments of reality breaking through the dark. The bag swung with each step, but you were barely there to feel it anymore, slipping deeper into the drug's embrace.
 
From somewhere far away, you sensed the bag being lowered. The handlers' movements were precise, for which you were grateful. They set their cargo down among the sea of legs and feet, just another piece of abandoned luggage in the urban chaos. Your consciousness ebbed, the tide of awareness pulling back, leaving disconnected sensations… canvas against skin… the vibration of passing footsteps… the distant echo of chatter fading into the crowd.
 
The rest was lost to the void as your mind surrendered to the drug's pull for one last time. You drifted in darkness, unaware of the hundreds of tourists streaming past, unknowing of the intricate design branded into your flesh—a design whose significance would only become clear when you finally clawed your way back to consciousness.
 
But for now, you slept off the lingering effects of the drugs.
 
 
Officer Joe Costa checked his watch—18:47. Thirteen minutes until shift change. The remnants of his street cart hot dog sat heavy in his stomach as he crumpled the foil wrapper, scanning the usual Times Square chaos for a trash can. The neon signs had just started their evening flicker, painting the crowds in alternating colours.
 
He weaved through the tourist crowd, sidestepping a break-dancing crew and their spreading circle of spectators until a garbage bin came into view. The wrapper missed the bin, caught by a gust of wind that sent it skittering across the concrete. Costa muttered under his breath, tracking the errant foil when a grey duffel bag caught his eye.
 
His steps slowed. The bag sat precisely in the centre of the walkway, conspicuous in its deliberate placement. No owner hovered nearby, no anxious tourist frantically searching for their misplaced luggage or retracing steps.
 
"Excuse me, miss?" He caught the attention of a woman photographing the billboards. "Is this your bag?"
 
She shook her head, already turning back to her camera.
 
"Sir?" This time to a businessman speed-walking past. "That bag belong to you?"
 
Another head shake.
 
Costa’s hand drifted to his radio as he established a loose perimeter, his body angled to direct foot traffic away from the bag.
 
"Anyone lose a bag?" He asked again, his voice carrying over the crowd noise. "Grey duffel bag, anyone?"
 
The responses were the same: blank stares, head shakes, people hastening their pace past him. Finally, a street vendor twenty feet away called out, "Been there maybe fifteen, twenty minutes, officer. No owner."
 
Costa’s throat tightened. He keyed his radio. "Dispatch, I've got a–"
 
The words died in his throat as he crouched down, latex glove already half-pulled from his pocket. A red luggage tag dangled from the bag's handle. Standard procedure was to document identifying details before calling in EOD. His fingers pinched the tag, flipping it over.
 
Three words. Black marker. Neat capital letters. “CALL THE AVENGERS”.
 
The latex glove slipped from his hand, dropping to the sidewalk as his thumb pressed the radio key with enough force to crack the plastic.
 
"Dispatch," he said, voice cracking fear. "Clear Times Square. Now. And... and get me someone from Special Ops… Bomb Squad, S.W.A.T., anyone and everyone. Tell them..." He swallowed hard, eyes locked on those three simple, yet frightening, words. "Tell them we need to make a call to the Avengers."
 
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
 
The radio chatter crackled through Bucky's earpiece as he walked down 9th Avenue. "...suspicious package in Times Square... requesting immediate backup... tag requests Avengers’ presence..."
 
His fingers were already flying across his phone screen. "Ross," he said the moment the line connected. "Listen, there's some chatter on the radio about an unclaimed bag in the middle of Times Square. I'm enroute, about five minutes out."
 
There was a beat of silence on the other end. Then, like a switch being flipped, the sound of Everette Ross launching into action. "I want all hands on deck! Barnes is already in pursuit. Evacuate Times Square and move in ASAP!” His voice carried through the walkie, transforming the easy evening into near chaos. "I want satcom coverage of Times Square, now! Pull every camera feed within ten blocks. And someone get me thermal imaging of that bag!"
 
"Sir, local PD is establishing a perimeter–"
 
"Widen it! I want that area cleared for six blocks in every direction. And where the hell is my aerial support?"
 
Through the glass walls of the command centre, Natasha and Tony speed-walked toward the exit, their reflection ghosting across screens filled with live feeds of Times Square.
 
"In hindsight, we should have heeded the warning in that letter," Nat said, her voice low enough for only Tony to hear.
 
"Now's not the time to caption my failures, Romanoff. I don't usually jump at ghost stories... Just so happens this one's biting back."
 
Three floors up, Sharon burst into the tactical room. Steve and Sam looked up from the holographic display they'd been studying, reading her expression before she even spoke.
 
"The package," she managed, slightly breathless. "It's real. It's been located in Times Square."
 
Steve was already moving, Sam right behind him. No questions, no hesitation. The warning they'd dismissed less than twenty-four hours ago hadn't been a bluff, after all.
 

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