The Failed Mission - Chapter One
Arm. It hurt - he had broken it. That man - the american, he had recognised him, altogether it was a new experience. James Buchanan Barnes, the man said it was his name.
No. It wasn't true. He pleaded that it wasn't true. He didn't have a name - he didn't want one.
The bunker was almost out of supplies - the winter soldier winced and sat down. Her knew the woman was following him, but at that moment he honestly didn't care. Flicking his wrist he knocked the latch out of place and the trap door banged shut, the woman moved like a cat, in a moment she was in his face pointing a gun at his head.
"Well, Mr. Tall, dark and terrifying, you've got some explaining to do." The woman's voice didn't match her words, it was shaky and petrified, the gun in her hand was trembling, the Winter Soldier felt genuine fear for a split second at how hard her finger near the trigger was shaking. He swung his right leg, swooping her off her feet, he leaned back sharply as he did so, expecting it: the pistol sounded a shot, right next to his left temple, and going into the brush behind him. He grabbed the woman's neck with his slightly less painful arm and pulled her face close:
"You're pissing me off." He said the words quietly and launched her by the neck backwards into a tree, the back of her head hitting the trunk, and she slumped unconscious on her back.
The injured face of a now mostly dead empire lifted the door of the bunker and slid down the ladder, landing hard and off balance on bruised legs. Stretching his neck, he flexed his ankle, turning it this way and that trying to get some of the tension out of it. The muscles in his upper back and neck were tense and tight, pressing into his shoulder he rubbed a knot out of his neck. His face twisted into a grimace, a word came to mind... Bucky. It often happened, when nothing was on his mind, a word, sometimes a phrase, or just a voice, there was always the voice, american, a Boston accent. He shook his head and flicked on the light switch - it wasn't working. The stream of light coming from the trap door wasn't nearly enough, but it was something. He pulled out drawers and opened cupboards, sifted through boxes, collecting a little pile of the things he could recognise were needed currently. He ticked off the list in his mind the things that were needed. He replayed the memory of the failed mission in his mind; he knew he had to go back.
He had an appointment.
After all he'd kept him waiting this long. He grabbed the last and probably most important thing on his list from the corner of the bunker - a green civilian style duffle bag. He stuffed the items in the bag - including the last of the american and russian dollars in the bunker, a fair amount considering the lack of everything else, two pistols and six clips - more than enough for what he had in mind, but he was never one to underestimate. And lastly he strapped his right arm and braced it, he would have to find another bunker with more medical supplies. He shoved the pain from his mind and set his arm stiff, locking his mind not to move it. His mental checklist began forming itself:
Find a gas station, some place with a sink and running water
Change into civilian clothing, shave, rebind arm
Acquire a communication device
The Doctor.
Bucky.
The last item on his list was the one that bugged him the most. It wasn't supposed to be on this list, what the hell was it doing there?
...who the hell's bucky?
The question he had asked, the answer seemed rather important to him now, he hoped his mind would erase it from the list as soon as he actually got started, the lists would start to mean something soon - he would start to want something.
It would have to do.
"Can I help you with anything man?" The guy behind the counter worriedly asked as the soldier walked in, his eyes scanned the shelves, dusty - this place was a bomb - perfect. Attracting attention was the last thing he wanted to do. However at the moment he still had his full mission suit and his hair was long, covering his face - the checkout guy had reason to be scared. The guy had a south african accent, he was wearing a cap and a Nike tshirt. Fairly forgettable, average appearance, the Soldier took note. He shook his head at the checkout guy, and made a beeline to the unisex bathroom in the corner of the store, he closed the door behind him softly, making the most effort to make a not-lasting impression on the checkout guy - he was surprised to find no lock. Seeing a little wedge of wood in the corner he forced it in the gap between the door and the floor - effective.
He looked in the mirror - hell. He thought to himself and dumped the dufflebag on the lid of the toilet. Opening the zip he took out the razor - he was surprised whoever had raided the bunker had left it there, it was a good one too. He plugged it into the socket and selected the razor level - eight. The hair was going, and he was damn glad.
Do you know how hard it is to fight and stay concentrated with a curtain of hair in your face? Dirty hair at that.
It wasn't a bother in the first few missions, but now that he could finally do what he wanted - finally. That word wasn't enough - freedom from memory wipes, from the ice, the chamber; his own personal hell. He knew he could never truly be free, there would always be somebody following, searching. He shook his head and began shaving his head.
Although the mirror was dirty, he still managed to even out all the clumps; he knew it had to look normal, average, un-astounding. Squinting his eyes to see a blurred image; he didn't notice anything outstanding, and that was good enough for him at that moment. He pulled on a cap from inside the marine style duffel and the messily folded clothes that were left in the bunker. Fairly average civilian style clothing, just what he wanted. After changing and stuffing his metal hand inside his jacket pocket, he yanked the wedge out from under the door, and tried his hardest not to look too menacing as he left the bathroom.
Not as easy as it sounds when your have a metal limb that has a patriotic symbol on it - for the wrong side. His jacket wasn't quite big enough - and it hung awkwardly off his left clothes weren't used to the whole metal-limbs deal. He had balled up his mission uniform and stuffed it right to the bottom of the duffel bag. The south african guy's car was parked at the back of the petrol station, tank full, and a manual; just the way he liked it. The soldier hot wired the car, the roar of life adding to his sense of freedom. The list rolled through his mind - the first two were gone - now to find a cheap phone - he had an appointment.