"Bucky?"
That name, that voice saying it, that face… All of it reverberated in the back of his mind, over and over, growing louder and louder until he had to respond.
"Who the heck is Bucky?" he growled, and knew immediately by how the man's face fell that he had said the wrong thing.
But this man and his red-headed, gun-wielding vixen were his assignment. Pierce had told him to kill them, so kill them he must.
He didn't know them. Had never met them. So why did that face echo in his foggy memory? Why did he see it and think of ice and snow, of pain, yet also of laughter and light, of—could it be possible?—of friendship?
It wasn't possible. He didn't have friends. He had marks.
With all these foreign thoughts and…yes, feelings…surging through his mind, he did the only thing he knew how—drew his gun and aimed it right for the man's forehead. He would die. He had to die. He was his mission. There was no way the man could even fight back at this distance.
He was about to take the kill shot when he was knocked off his feet by their other companion, but if the man thought that would stop him, he was wrong. Making a mental note to rid him of his wings—later—he whipped out his gun again. He would not back down now. He would not disappoint his General.
Then he saw the red-head, and the rocket launcher aimed straight for him. It was over.
He disappeared in the cloud of smoke and dust that followed, and knew in that moment that he would be punished for not destroying them. He had failed.
They would die, though. His troops moved in as he moved away, capturing the two and their friend. The soldiers would kill them, taking up the slack where he had not been able to succeed.
But before they led the man away, he caught one last glimpse of his face from where he was hiding. Dejected. Defeated. It wasn't right. He couldn't be defeated.
Seasoned soldier.
Fearless leader.
Devoted patriot.
I know him.