Disclaimers, here. Trying a little something out, keep me posted on your opinions and thoughts.
Following some MCU and some comics, some ships are just too hard to jump off though. Hold tight.
Captain America was a symbol, a recognizable image of hope, virtue, and freedom; the public had long since dubbed anyone he teamed up with to be equally great and some kind of hero. And this all confused and further drove the Soldier away from his handlers...and further away from the great image that is Captain America.
The problem was, the further he tried to run from Captain America, the closer his dreaming mind got to Steve Rogers- a skinny, sickly kid from Brooklyn who apparently knew the Soldier- James Buchanan Barnes.
It's because of the dreams that James, the Soldier, finds himself unable to leave the Howling Commandos exhibit inside the Smithsonian museum on his fourth day of "freedom".
He sees his own face staring at him with a warm smile and happiness in his eyes, and the Soldier feels weak, lost, exposed.
Pulling his hat down further, he turns back towards the Captain America hall, frowning and unsure of himself. The image of a taller Steve Rogers and himself are in front of him, they're both smiling. Reaching his gloved hand towards the glass wall, the Soldier sighs in frustration. Perhaps he should seek Hydra now, they are all he is certain of. But he can't shake the feeling that it would be wrong to do so, wrong to Steve. Wrong to..wrong to who else?
He feels her beside him before he actually sees her, but this does not shock him. Realizing he knows her face does, however. She's dressed in all black, a wide hood covering her from cameras, and she too is looking at the glass wall now. The Soldier sees the frown before she can mask herself again, this troubles him.
She smells of lavender, this is familiar to him.
Touching his sleeve, she speaks to him quietly, "It's time to come back, Soldier."
She is Hydra, he-the Soldier- should've known, it is obvious since no one else can know him except Hydra.
The Soldier continues to stare at her, watches the way her eyes go from dull green to an illuminated emerald as he tilts his head in curiosity.
That is wrong, so he returns to his slouched posture, tucking his hands in his pockets as he moves away from her.
The Soldier hears nothing as she approaches him again, tugging his blue sleeved hoodie again, nodding at the smaller Steve Rogers as she smiles.
"Please, James, we need to go back now.." Her voice is quiet, a whisper as she says his name again...but, machines do not have names.
Unless, he is human.
Nodding, the Soldier begins to follow her towards the exit, noting how she ducks around the metal detectors, as does he.
He knows what will happen, the Soldier has an impressive muscle memory, despite his actual memory being so rapid with spots now.
An unmarked van.
An unknown location.
A grotesque chair.
A scream.
Pain.
Darkness.
But, she knows his name, so he follows her down the steps. She takes them two at a time, her hands at her sides as she turns back every so often to conform he still follows.
The Soldier will always follow, she knows his name. She must have authority, she is Hydra. He will return to them, though he is compromised, because Hydra gives him purpose.
"James, Hydra is a lie."
The Soldier shakes his head of these words, but he knows the quiet voice to whom they belong. He sees her glance back again, it proves useless though, as he is much faster than her and vastly larger. He could have been to the dark maroon van by now, if he really wanted to.
The Soldier stops just behind the woman, realizing that machines do not feel or want.
Sliding the door open, the woman frowns as she nods sideways, indicating for him to enter the vehicle. As the Soldier begins to climb inside, he catches a glimpse at her pale, exposed hand. On her right ring finger is a ring, a moon and a sun. He knows this ring, James remembers this ring.
He knows the moon. The sun. He frowns as he seats himself along the wall, hands in his pockets again as the woman enters after him.
"Very good, Amaris." A dark voice says from the front, as the van begins to move forward.
An unknown location.
A grotesque chair.
A scream.
Pain.
The moon.
"Thank you, sir. The Asset came of his own will, though." She says louder now, louder than in the museum. He notices when she pulls the hood back, her hair is not dark like it was inside, it is a vibrant magenta and he is confused.
"The Asset has no will," the man snaps back, looking in the rear view mirror as he speaks down to the woman.
James notices how her jaw clenches, and her hands clench and unclench as she leans against the wall of the van. He sees now a knife strapped to her leg and a small gun to the other and he is sure she could have tried force with him, but she knew his name instead.
Head tilted in confusion, James watches as her hand, the one with the ring, slides down her leg, unclipping the knife as she continues to lean against the vans wall. Her eyes are closed and he sees the scrunch of her nose and the frown on her face, he knows this look.
Amaris, that's what the man had called her, but he had also called James 'the Asset', though that is not his given name. Looking over her hands again, James sees now that she's gripping the knife flat against her leg, eyes staring into the roof as the van comes to a five second stop.
Unfolding his hands from his pockets and bringing his right hand up, James pinches the bridge of his nose. Remembering is hard, is painful. Though, so is the chair.
Perhaps instead of going to the museum he should have sought out Steve Rogers or Sam Wilson, it might not have been so painful if he'd gone with that route instead.
Amaris shifts slightly on the bench, leaning forward a bit as she twirls the knife into a defensive position. This action confuses James, they are not currently in danger-
'Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, 32557, the 107th'
"32557...32557.." James hear his voice before he knows what he's saying, cradling his head in his hands as he shakes, James sideways at Amaris; his eyes wide and a cold sweat coming over him.
"What did he just say?!" The van jerks sideways and then stops as the man upfront screams back at them, for the first time since entering the van James notices two other men sitting across from himself and Amaris.
"He's muttering, that's all. He's been out of cryostasis too long, on his own, he is delirious.." She rambles off, watches him closely now, shaking her head at him with wide grey eyes.
Rubbing his eyes, James looks at her face harder now, because inside the museum he would've sworn her eyes wore green. Green like grass, like jewels, green like paint...a darker green than Steve's walls...
"Bullshit! Hit 'em both!" The man yells as he begins to move from the front seat towards the back, giving directions to the men sitting across from him and Amaris.
"James, get down!" Amaris screamed suddenly, flinging her knife into the man across from James, who had just begun to dig into one of the many pockets littering the tactical vest he was wearing.
Ducking quickly, James rolled onto the floor as the man across from him heaved and writhed next to him, Amaris' knife embedded into the side of his throat. Yanking it free, he twisted and pulled the second man off of Amaris just as they started to struggle over a needle the man was gripping tightly.
Driving the knife into the back of his knee, James stood, hunched slightly, and wrapped his gloved left hand around the back of the mans neck, banging his head off the seat twice then against his knee.
Turning as quickly as the tight space would allow, James moved for Amaris but paused, watching as she kicked the driver in the face, successfully moving him off of her and back into the front, between the two seats.
Moving forward, James saw how quickly she moved, grabbing the gun from the floor before the man could. The sound of the shot shook him inside, causing him to gasp and clutch at his head. The Soldier wasn't used to this, feelings. But James...James was all feeling and all protective caring.
Amaris began to dig around the van, pulling guns and ammo from the storage compartments and re-sheathed her knife, using her sleeve to wipe the blood from her face before she pulled her hood back over her dark hair.
Turning on her knees, she saw as James sat back down, head in hands as he shook, remembering things. Gripping his shoulders and wiping her sleeve across his nose, her voice broke his down-ward gaze, "James! James we've got to go! Now!"
James looked up, meeting the emerald eyes again, his frown deep set as he saw the blood on her hands and neck, "How do I know your face...your eyes keep changing?"
"I'm gonna get you out, James. I promise."
No grotesque chair.
No scream.
(At least not his.)
Minimal pain.
He knows the moon.
