They're people. He must have asked that once, in the beginning, his skin still cold and crawling from the slide of the needle, what happens to the person who used to be, once an agent takes over? Nothing. They're still in there. They're still people.

(He hasn't forgotten how to kill people.)

It is too late. Bruce's shot launches in one direction and another of the agent's has already left the barrel, a trigger efficiently pulled, a muzzle flash marking its exit, crossing the distance from machine to man with that same relentless speed — until between them, a ripple of steel plates cuts a path through red air and sets the latter bullet to ricochet with a tink. (You're welcome.)

That metal forearm continuing on its smooth hook across Bruce's midsection is not the gentlest of Let's get the hell out of here yanks, but Wayne has the gun and Barnes has the momentum

(and the grappling hook, hopefully)

to take them straight over the edge of this rooftop before the next shot catches Wayne in the head, because it's only too late for one of them.