Being on the run had always been a distant thought of mine, one that had been constantly ripped from me. It seemed like an escape, like a journey that would lead to success and freedom. Now, as I've experienced it, I've learned it's quite the opposite. The sense of security that I craved was replaced with constant paranoia, and fear of getting caught. To others, it may have been easier, but I couldn't hide if I wanted to. I don't even know who I am, much less where to go. The few things that seem familiar are more of distant memories than a point in the right direction. For the first time, there was no mission, no puppet master, no plan. I should be grateful. I'm not.
My previous mission was a man named Steve, that I am confident in. In light of recent events, I am inclined to believe that I knew him before I was the Winter Soldier. Then again, I don't even know who I was before the Winter Soldier, much less who this man was. Since I walked away from that life, regaining my knowledge has been my prime focus. So far, it has been.. difficult. There aren't very many people who take me seriously, not in this time. Even trying to adapt to this new world is hard, especially when you don't know who you are. Things are different, enjoyable, almost. Since I left Hydra behind, I've learned that there is more to life than missions and targets. The world I'm used to was filled with death and corruption, and though there is still a lot of that in my life now, it is nothing like before. I've found.. happiness, it would seem.
There is a lake in an abandoned neighborhood that I find especially peaceful. It isn't much, and to most I guess it would be considered littered and gross, but to me, it's one of the few places where I know I'm safe. Each morning, the sun rises and reflects off of the water, and though it may seem ridiculous, it never fails to amaze me. You don't get to see the sun rise when you wake up each morning in a frozen metal chamber. The neighborhood surrounding the lake is quite nice, as well. Since it is mostly abandoned and trashed, no one is there to stare or watch me. I feel secure, something I don't think I've ever felt, or at least I don't remember feeling it. It's there where I rest, though I usually spend my downtime planning my next move. Sleep doesn't come to me, not anymore. Each time I close my eyes, I'm haunted by the things I've done and the screams of those I've killed. My dreams are the worst I've ever had. Images of the Winter Soldier fold in on each other.. I see things I forgot happened, like a door unlocking in my mind. Torture, slaughter, and training others in their use.. So much horror, I wake up vomiting, and I don't feel much better after. My bad dreams linger, but I wouldn't expect anything else. I know it wasn't my fault, but whether it was my orders or not, I carried them out and I have to live with that for the rest of my life, however long that is.
Remembering comes slowly and painfully, but it comes. Each time I remember something new, it always seems to be negative. A week ago, while I rested, I remembered falling off of a high place, and the fear that came with it. I haven't known fear, and it was unpleasant to say the least. I remember the terrible things I've done to people, and I hope that the man I was before did better, so that those good memories can wash away the bad. Then again, it's hard to imagine there being good in me, especially considering what I've done. It doesn't seem like I have that capability anymore. Still, I want to know who I was before I was a murderer, if there was anything before the machine. Steve, the man I saved, must have thought so. I had a friend at some point in my life, so that must have meant that I was not always this way. If that were the case, finding more about Steve would be the only logical step to finding more about myself, and in any case, I had a next step.
There were many things I couldn't do because of my past. I couldn't leave America, I couldn't get a job, I could barely walk down the streets without someone staring at me, and though I knew they were just regular people, I still felt like they would drag me back. Of all the things I couldn't do, I was shocked to find out that I could slip into some tourist attractions unnoticed, like the Smithsonian, for instance. It seemed as if there were some sort of advertisements for the Captain America exhibit on every corner and every alley, and I figured if I were to find out more about him, the best place to go without getting on his radar would be a public place. Thankfully, with my arm and hair concealed, I look like just another face in the crowd. I've always been good at stealth, and hiding in plain sight seemed to be the same thing. The large mass of people headed up to the exhibit made it easy to slip by without a single problem, but I didn't doubt it would be hard at all. I took a look around my surroundings, first locating each and every exit and scanning the room for anything suspicious. Many things caught my eye, but to me, everything was suspicious, even down to the children in the room. I kept walking with the crowd, looking at each and every picture in the opening. There was two pictures that stood out to me, the first one of a scrawny man, the other of a more built man. I recognized the second as the same Steve from before, but the smaller man caught my eye. Though I knew it was the same person, the weaker man somehow stood out, but I didn't know why, so I kept walking. Inside, it seemed to be more glorified than anything else. This man – this threat – was viewed as a hero, a symbol of freedom and bravery, but ultimately, he was just a man. Maybe that was because I had seen him beaten to a pulp and grasping onto life by a thread. By my hands. In a way, I suppose that made me the villain to these people. Maybe that's what I have become.
I kept walking, looking over the entire area. There were glass walls of information at each corner, and at the majority of them, hoards of people crowded around, taking pictures and reading the information. However, there seemed to be only a few that had no one around, and that seemed like the safe route for me. I stuffed my hands in my pockets as I walked to one, keeping my head low. As I approached it, I stopped to read the words. James Buchanan 'Bucky' Barnes. That's what he called me. "Your name is James Buchanan Barnes. You're my friend." The picture did not feel like it was me, but the only reflection I had seen of myself was in the glass of the cryogenics chamber, since looks were never part of the mission. I had to be faceless, anonymous. Not like the man on the glass. I kept on reading, looking over the death date multiple times. How the man died. Captured by Hydra, Barnes endured long periods of isolation, deprivation, and torture.. I could remember being strapped to the chair for the first time, the pain of the tests still running through me. I remembered all of the bad things. This man, this hero, was me.
After that, I looked over the soldier's gear – my gear – and then left. I try to avoid public scenes, especially ones teeming with my past. I had the information I needed anyways. Instead of finding my way to my typical retreat, I walked. Really, I had no place to go. I could go anywhere I'd like, but there was one thing that really plagued my mind. Before, when I fought him, Steve Rogers was nothing more than a target and a threat, but now, I knew we used to be friends, brothers even, and though I didn't remember him entirely, I still regretted what I had done to him. I killed his friend, and I tried my best to kill the rest of them as well. I guess I was just listening to orders, but that doesn't change the act. I still murdered people, and though my mind has been tainted by corrupt people, I knew that was wrong. I knew what all I had done, and Steve Rogers was just the most recent life on my list. There was a long trail of blood behind me, and I wanted to clean it up more than anything. Once upon a time, I was considered a hero, not a murderer, and that was the reputation I wanted to keep. I couldn't bring back everyone I had killed, but I could try to be more like the man in the exhibit, the old me. I didn't know who he was entirely, but I had an idea of what I hoped he would be, and that was the closest thing to a goal I had since my last mission.
A few months after my visit to the museum, I started getting used to my life. I still didn't sleep, but I tried. I barely ate, since I was always told that meals were a luxury, something that a person like me didn't need. I functioned without eating too much. Besides, everything in this world costs money, something I didn't have. I spent the most of my time trying to remember names, numbers, places, anything. I had a list of the few things I remembered, excluding the tests. I didn't want to remember that. It was interesting to me how I seemed to forget everything I wanted to remember, but the things I craved to forget seemed to always be on my mind. In fact, the memories were more haunting than ever. When I closed my eyes, I could see the looks on the faces of my victims as died by my own hands, and when it was silent, I could hear their screams as if it were happening before my eyes. At times, it was not just what I had done that haunted me, but what was done to me as well. It was the emptiness I felt, the machine-like way I worked, the way I was programmed. It was the coldness of the chamber that kept me awake at nights, the death-like state I was in when they froze me, when they ripped the memories from me. It was the flashes of the old me. There were times where I missed not having a single thought to myself. Though I lost the good memories, I didn't have the bad either, and at times, that seemed ideal. Anything to get the pain to go away.
I typically took my anger out in violent ways. I never hurt anyone else, since I made sure there was no one around me that I could hurt. It was a safety, being alone. I ran a lot, which cleared my mind. I did research on the names I remember, and on myself to keep myself busy. Every now and then, I lashed out and put a hole in the concrete, and sometimes, I lost control, but I was slowly figuring out how to stop myself. I had a few good memories, and dwelling on those made some of it fade. I knew that mentally, I wasn't stable, and I wanted to change that.
I found Steve Rogers. Any search for information on my life somehow lead back to him, and so I instead concerned myself with him. I put him in the hospital, but he recovered. He's been everywhere since he was released, everywhere from Switzerland to Russia. I could follow his tracks, but something tells me he doesn't want to see me. I don't blame him. His official residence is in New York, which lead me to my next step. Records say I grew up there, and so I went.
When I was the Winter Soldier, I did not know where I was or where I was going. Some days, I was assigned to a highly populated city, but others were private sections, where I would often meet the target and complete the mission. If I had gone anywhere, it was nothing I remembered. I had never been to New York City, or at least not in this life. Maybe I went before they captured me. Maybe I went all over the world before.
I walked the city streets like every other person, my left arm shoved into my pocket. To the untrained eye, I could have been mistaken for a homeless person. Technically, that is what I am. Just a lost soldier who ever forget he had a home. There were people on every side of me, almost blocking me in. For a moment, I stopped to think. How many of these people had I affected by my actions? I was told I shaped a nation, but how warped had I made it? These things haunted me and kept reminding me of the things that I had done. I know that I have to face it in order to move on, but sometimes, I can't get over what I did.
Rogers was said to live in the Avengers tower. I looked up pictures of it, and I knew where it was, but standing in front of it was a different experience. It made me feel small, almost as if I couldn't compare. Then again, all of New York was this way. As I suspected, it was hard to get into the building. It was heavily guarded, and the security system alone was impossible to decipher. Instead of sneaking my way in, I knocked on the front door. It was a courageous tactic, but I didn't feel the need to hide anymore.
A lively young woman opened for me. "Hi, do you have an appointment?" She asked, smiling widely. I couldn't answer her, or even muster up the strength to speak. I stumbled over words, trying for a moment to remember the words in English. For so long, I used Russian to communicate, and it seemed now that some words slipped my mind, along with the rest of my memories. "Steve Rogers," I managed, taking a deep breath. She nodded and picked up the plastic box beside her, speaking into it for a while. Phone, I remembered. After giving a general description of my appearance, she set it down. "He's on floor number twenty-five, sir, and the elevator is that way," she pointed, and I nodded. Sometimes I underestimated the kindness of people.
As I traveled to higher into the building, my stomach seemed to toy with me. If he hadn't reached me yet, why would he want to see me now? I considered leaving, but by time the doors opened, I didn't get a chance.
I was greeted a welcome by a tall blonde in a brown leather jacket. Steve Rogers, I concluded. He stared at me for a long time, his expression flat. Before, I would make direct eye contact with a threat, fighting for dominance. This time, though, I was the weaker one. I was forced out of the elevator, but I never once looked up from my hands, which were wringing together, metal against flesh.
He finally broke the silence seconds later. "Bucky," he said, not moving an inch. I looked up, giving him a wide-eyed stare. I knew that was my name, but something told me there was meaning behind it. When he spoke, he said it fondly, as if he knew me. As if he cared. I redirected my stare once again. "Where have you been?" He asked. I had lost the words to answer, but I did not have a chance to find them.
In a few swift movements, he had stepped forward and pulled me close, which made me twitch. I did not understand what was happening, and for good reason. To me, it felt as if he was going to strangle me, and I couldn't stop it. I didn't want to hurt him again, but it seemed to me as if he was not trying to hurt me at all. No, this felt like a warm.. embrace, though I did not understand. For a long time, I stood with my arms at my side, but when I realized what he was doing, I tried to make it better. I put my arms around him, making sure not to hurt him.
When he leaned back, I noticed the tears on his cheeks. I had never encountered a reaction like this, but I was not objecting to it. "I missed you, pal," he admitted, stepping back a bit more. I couldn't tell him that I did not remember who he was. I was afraid I would hurt him. Instead, I nodded slowly, trying to smile. I tried. He let out a chuckle and draped his arm over my shoulder, but I shifted out of it quickly. "We'll work on that," he said, nodding slowly.
For the first time since I was captured, I was hugged. People were showing kindness to me, though I felt as if it was undeserving. This man who I once called a target called me a friend, something I do not remember having. I felt something other than confusion and hatred: affection. I had hopes that this man would help me recover, and remember, if all went well.
There are things from the Winter Soldier days that I'm just remembering. Weapons left in the field, dangers I can still prevent.. I think maybe that's the path - a way to the redemption I have been looking for. All I have to do is start walking down it. Thankfully, I won't be alone.
A/N: This is a one-shot I decided to post, that may or may not eventually mix with my story, 'Dear Marvel: The Winter Soldier'. Not entirely sure yet, but I hope you all enjoyed regardless!