James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes (
trainwrecked) wrote2014-06-01 12:17 am
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ashyperfume
It took a while, before he dialed the phone on the card. Weeks, he thought, he wasn't very good at keeping up with the dates. Or, rather, he didn't care that much.
But time had passed since the party. He'd memorized the information, then burned the card - in his experience already, anything after the last wipe wasn't going away, so he was using what part of his memory he could. Extensively.
In the end, though, he just picked a street phone and punched the number.
"Ms. Fukuyama?" Yes, she'd told him to call her Fuu. He couldn't be sure she'd pick up the phone herself. "This is James Banes."
That was how normal conversations went, wasn't it?
But time had passed since the party. He'd memorized the information, then burned the card - in his experience already, anything after the last wipe wasn't going away, so he was using what part of his memory he could. Extensively.
In the end, though, he just picked a street phone and punched the number.
"Ms. Fukuyama?" Yes, she'd told him to call her Fuu. He couldn't be sure she'd pick up the phone herself. "This is James Banes."
That was how normal conversations went, wasn't it?
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But the enjoyment faded away at the mere thought of Zola.
"The man who invented the algorithm... was in fact, working to aim for the ones who would do such incredibly stupid things. They learned when Captain America brought them down, after all, and he's... exactly that kind of stupid." A faint glimmer of warmth shaded his voice, when he talked about Rogers, but only a very distant, one. "What he was targeting primarily were the people who would do that no matter what. Then the people who'd react to it. Take out the kindling, and no matter how many sparks you might have missed... there won't be a fire. And they can take out the sparks at their leisure."
He wanted to give her a better idea about the twisted genius that Arnim Zola had been. But, try as he might, he couldn't bring himself to compliment the Swiss.
As to her final declaration, he nodded. It was the best option. "That's a better way to do it. I won't make a mistake, but I've been telling you the stakes so that you don't have to rely on me alone. If you don't know what you're fighting against, it's so much easier to fall into a trap." He canted his head.
"How good of a scramble are you talking about?"
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The corner of her mouth twitched wryly. "But it doesn't matter. It still would have meant that 20 million people would be dead."
Her shoulders lifted. "In terms of your question . . . for that I'll need data. What they collect, how they collect it, how they store it, their process of analysis. The less digging I have to do, the faster I can work, the more I can target, and the better whatever I try will hold."
Wry again, "It seems like most men in your position would have opted for plastic surgery and an unknown shack in the mountains."
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He shook his head, but didn't argue anymore.
For a moment, he watched her, with the last statement, closer than laughing - not very humorously, but laughing all the same - that he could ever remember being.
Then he pulled up the sleeve of his jacket, and tugged the back of his left glove down, letting the distant street light glint off the metal. "Not everything about me can be covered up by plastic surgery, Fuu.
"As to what they collect... for the algorithm, everything. From facebook posts to bank account movements, test results... anything and everything. When they're looking for somebody, it's focused more on a specific individual. Keyword searches over all channels that they listen on - audio, text. Pattern recognition over video. They watch over people using twitter when they're on the lookout, for anything that might be a lead-in. If it's on a digital carrier somewhere... it'll probably be accessible to them, eventually."
It was a bleak picture he was painting. But even without the hub of SHIELD resources, even without the cover, HYDRA was a powerful, powerful organization, and it was important not to underestimate it.
"But, other than the automated optimized searches, it still takes people to direct them. One of the things I'm doing is try to remain as unpredictable, compared to both the life I knew I've led and the missions I've had as their asset."
Hence a shady businessman party on the West Coast. Hence Zimbabwe. Hence learning in the least direct ways that he could manage. His hand shifted on the folder he was holding. "And that's why I thank you very much, for bringing this to me, even if you did it for a very different reason. There's much I don't remember yet."
He shook his head.
"I'm sorry. This has been mostly about - me. But I think it's a good habit to get the most dangerous out of the way first."
Beat.
"And so you know, if you turn around and walk away from this all right now, that it's not a wrong choice to do so. Also, in that case, not to step on any toes."
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Her eyes flicked sideways up towards him, beneath her lashes. "Also, I didn't realize this was a date, to worry about getting the entirety of myself out on the table."
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"I didn't... what?"
That rang bells in his head. Like it should be amusing, like he should be relaxing and making a 'move.'
But damned if he had any idea what that meant.
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"Did wonder about the gloves," she said quietly. "I take it that it goes all the way up."
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"It's attached at the shoulder. And gloves are... easiest."
Of the ways he could disguise the arm. At least temporarily.
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Her fingers rested where they were. "Makes sense." Her eyes met his through her lashes again. "But you realize it has nothing to do with plastic surgery on your face."
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He sounded... just a trifle tired. He'd considered so many options, on what he could do. Plastic surgery had been one of them. But there would be a paper trail, no matter how obscure.
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"To answer the question you didn't ask earlier, you already gave me an out, and I didn't take it. I'll suggest that you don't try to give me another one in this conversation, or I'll think you're trying to talk me out of it entirely. I'm used to playing with fire. And walking on toes, for that matter. You can ask my mother."
A breath, and her hand slid down to his fingers. "What would need to happen with you, James, is something that it would take an entire team to do. I'll be upfront with you on that. What you need is someone to hide or scramble your most recent and future digital footprint. That means figuring out where you've appeared and what you've touched. For records, simply erasing the trail of your access and then the record of my interference. Similar for anything audio, though you wouldn't be able to tell me that they wouldn't have anything involving voice recognition in play. Photographs will be harder, involving coding to either turn face-recognition scans aside or to alter the source image so that it doesn't lead back to you. Video or live feed . . . much harder. I can turn spiders and robots aside, but were anyone to be actively watching it, there's little I can do without direct interference. All of this, and it involves constant maintenance and upgrading of the code, as you can be sure that they'll be doing the same. I'm good, but I'm not an entire organization with the same kind of time and resources."
Her fingers curled gently against his palm. "The short of it is that I can give you breathing room. More time in one place. Less sense that someone is always looking over your shoulder. Maybe even some of what I did before -- some pieces of yourself, here and there. But I can't cure the disease. I can't get ahead of those kinds of odds."
"If you want such an imperfect net, I'm not sure I can disregard the challenge. But if you want to walk away now . . . I give you the same out."
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If there was something appealing in her helping him, for her, he thought it should be done without the shadow of uncertainty.
But then he nodded. That was... good. More breathing room. Although... well.
"You probably have a good idea of what this city can do, in local surveillance." She probably, he thought, had access to them, if she was offering what she was. "It'll probably give you some idea of how well I can avoid making mistakes, if you can trace my way to this bar. How I came into the city, where I passed... it would give you a specific reference point, that should make it easier, right?"
But she wouldn't find much. Maybe a shadow, here or there, or a figure that might or might not be him. Never a face.
"To do that, however, takes more time. If I know which corners you'll allow me to cut... that would be of great help."
Then he looked at her, his face calm, almost easy. "And in exchange?"
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"Company." The word came almost too soft to hear as she produced the cigarette she sought. "I don't have much of it these days . . . and in the end, that's what I want most."
But just as suddenly, her eyes dug back into him, almost in challenge. "But as a request, not an obligation."
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It struck closer to home than she could have probably thought it would, if he could go by the look on her face. Her request wasn't about him. It was about her, so she couldn't know...
"I'll try," he breathed out, tightly, after a moment. He wasn't sure he could manage it, as much as was needed, but he would very certainly try. Because he couldn't be there for his ... friend, because, as he'd said, he wanted to learn, because it wasn't going counter to his objectives.
Because she was asking. He was pretty sure this wasn't something she ever mentioned to anyone, let alone asking.
And she was asking, not manipulating him.
But, in the end, she was naming her price - take it or leave it - for her reasons. And he was accepting for his own.
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"From me, or for me?"
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"Both." She cupped her hand to light her cigarette, coaxing flame to the tip. "I don't know Russian, and any information about your most recent past is likely to be in that language. While certain parts of coding are universal, that doesn't help me to know where to dig in a language that doesn't even use the same letters."
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He nodded, slowly.
"On the one hand, I would not recommend trying to dig up that data directly. On the other hand, a process of learning could mask actually reaching for it. That might work. Create a process where that would not be a deviation. Nothing to alert them."
Ever so slightly, he smiled back. She told him she wasn't going to rely on him for safety, which meant that warning her just how dangerous that play could be was unnecessary.
"And teaching you Russian can be a reasonable excuse for my visits."
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One shoulder lifted in echo of the movement she'd given to the drunken man earlier that evening, a smirk lingering, small. "I'd better be a slow learner."
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But then he stilled, at the last comment, and - for the first time - an actual smile blossomed on his face, one not wry or complicated or biting. Just... a smile.
"You might get setbacks because of your instructor's absences, but... I'd like that."
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Then he realized it wasn't a complaint. Thought for a moment, and his wavering smile solidified. "Though I've caught hints that, once upon a time, that might have been intentional. I suppose I should watch myself about that."
That would be as close to teasing as he got.
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Her eyes would probably tell him that she was poking at him again - and enjoying it, no less.
"Are you in town tomorrow?"
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And then he frowned, slightly. "Somehow, I doubt many people did." A tad darker. "For different reasons than most recently, that is."
A shrug. "But, yeah, I think so. A few days is what I usually give myself, most places. More, in lower-tech countries. Less, in cities where I'd be expected."
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"Tomorrow, then." She pushed off the wall. It was starting to rain again, but she didn't flinch at the droplets that slid into her hair, twisting back to face him. "My place."
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"What time?"
'Tomorrow' had a duration of twenty-four hours. Specifics were good.
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