Author's Note: When asked what was in Bucky's backpack in the trailers, Sebastian Stan had this to say: "a dozen notebooks that compose the scattered memories dating back to as far as he can remember which somewhat piece together a scattered life. In a similar way to Alzheimer's, he's written things down, for fear of losing his memory again...He was prepared, were something to happen, to walk away with nothing but that backpack, which is why it's the only thing he takes and knowing full well that not everything those pages contain is pretty."
Here are the scattered pages of Bucky's memory. Some spoilers possible, and will be marked. Italicized sections denote non-journal narrative.
A Thousand Scattered Pages
Prologue
His lungs burn as his ribs constrict around them. He pushes toward the surface and the light and gasps as he breaks through into the sunlit afternoon. Dirty water streams off of him as he slogs across the mucky bottom, dragging the other man with his metal arm. He feels no weakness in that side. The rest of him aches and he's not sure what to do about it; he's gone so long ignoring pain, or not feeling it at all. So he falls back on instinct and training and hauls the other body up onto the banks of the Potomac.
Across the river smoke billows to the sky and sirens wail. The Winter Soldier glances between the destruction and the man. His mission. "I'm with you til the end of the line," he said, and in that fraction of a moment his training faltered. The man: Steve. At least, he thinks. He knew him. He called him Bucky. He called up memories of brick buildings and hot summer days, smiles and laughter and war and fighting and falling and…
Steve coughs and water trickles out of his mouth. His face is already swollen and bruising. The Winter Soldier… Bucky? Whoever he is, he can't stay here. But he won't go back there. Not to them. Not when Bucky is inside of him, whoever he is. He doesn't know how to be two people at once. He only knows how to be a soldier.
He strikes off, silent and keeping to the shadows and copses along the riverbank. The first rule of any mission is always "No witnesses."
He waits for dusk and thinks about the man on the shore. His mission. A first failure. Why did he pull him from the river? Because it was the right thing to do. His head hurts, like there is too much for his mind to contain. There has never been right or wrong. Only orders. Compliance. Killing. No questions, no witnesses.
His skull throbs with his pulse. Why. Why. Why. He shakes his head and flexes his biological fingers. Pierce wanted confirmation of death in ten hours. It's been longer than that. He's failed. He's never failed before. What does failure mean? Why? Why? Why?
He slams his metal fist into the ground, punching a hole nearly up to his elbow. He beats the ground over and over again and when that's not enough he uproots saplings and snaps them and they splinter into ribbons of wood that squeeze through his metallic fingers and he can't feel the splinters and all he hears is the echoing crack of wood and it's cold.
Deep breaths. Keep moving. If you stop, you're dead; if anyone sees you, they're dead. He's not sure he wants that to happen.
He sees the map of the city in his mind and traverses alleys and shadows. He ignores the feeling of fatigue and powers through the fuzziness in his head and his vision. He doesn't remember ever being out of cryo so long before. They wiped his mind and kept him going. He's at his limit and he wants to scream but he's silent.
He doesn't remember getting to the building. The shell of his mind is cracking, pieces of programming falling away. There are no orders to keep them together. He failed his mission.
He finds things: civilian clothing, gloves, backpack, weapons. For the first time his hand falters when he reaches for a sidearm. He cracks his knuckles. Squeezes his eyes shut, punches the wall. Punches the filing cabinets. Rampages through the room, destroying everything. He stops and catches his breath. Papers flutter to the floor. Flashes of images, hints of sounds filter through his brain. He can't grab onto anything.
The Winter Soldier finds a simple hat and puts it on, pulling the brim low. He dons a dark canvas jacket and pulls on gloves, effectively hiding his silver hand. His mouth is dry. He's getting dizzy. Everything swirls in his head. Once more his hand hovers over a weapon, and he sweeps it off a table with a savage cry. He won't do that anymore. That's not him.
But who is he?
He kneels down and sifts through the wreckage on the floor. Grabs a sheaf of papers; he doesn't have orders anymore, so he'll have to make his own. Finds a drawer with passcodes and cards and ways to access HYDRA's funds. He'll use everything they've taught him against them, if it's the last thing he does.
As he heads out of the building he passes a desk with a leather-bound notebook open on the desktop calendar. He grabs is, ripping out the first, used half of the book. Grabs a pen. He can't keep things straight in his mind—they keep flitting away like finches, too fast and fragile to be held. He leans against a wall, book in hand. Takes a deep breath.
He called me Bucky.
Who the hell is Bucky?
