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It’s a minor comfort, at least, to hear Sitwell proving his capability as an agent, protecting prisoners, exchanging clipped commands with Steve. Thor is shouting something; you can’t tell what, because it’s only coming through in the radio background, but you catch your name and maybe Bruce’s as well.

You gather your strength, tense your muscles (hands tighten on your biceps; you know perfectly well how to break a grip like that, but there are other restraints on you and you know you’re well outnumbered). Despite knowing it, you shift your weight, and - now - throw yourself forward, attempt at escape quickly hindered by five or six different pressures of hands against your head and shoulders, shoving you roughly to the ground. Before they haul you back to your feet, you taste dirt, grit tiny pieces of gravel to dust between your teeth; you feel the burn of a raw scrape along your cheek.

            It’s worrying you that you haven’t heard a word from Natasha. Was she taken along with you and Bruce?