As blood seeps into the dashboard of the car and smoke billows from beneath the hood, the Winter Soldier opens the trunk and acquires his package. It slams shut once he has precious cargo, and the crack in the back window lengthens.
He prepares for his departure, strapping his newly acquired serum down so it won't fly off during the ride back, cracking into as many pieces as the car. He sits down on the cycle, feeling the cold from the handlebars seeping through his right glove, and the chilled seat beneath him, but at the same time, feeling nothing at all. The coldness in his chest runs deeper and more intense than anything caused by the December weather. It is frigid and empty and hollow.
Tightening his grip on the clutch, the Winter Soldier prepares for his departure, but finds himself unable to rev the engine with his other hand.
Instead, the words of his mark echo throughout his mind. Sergeant Barnes.
Gnawing, clawing from some dark thought at the back of his mind stops the Winter Soldier from picking his heavy boots off the ground and polluting the valley with the sound of his vehicle. Sergeant Barnes. He knows he's heard that name before. He doesn't know how, or where; just that something about those words possessed him to lean the motorcycle back on its kickstand and step off.
He stalks back to the car, silent as ever, metal arm flexing involuntarily. Only the rustling of leaves around them, and the electric static of the streetlamp dare permeate the air as the Winter Soldier, for the first time, looks back at what he has done.
The sight is gruesome, to say the least. What once must have been a sleek white pinnacle of automotive progress is now a mangled skeleton of steel. And the inside is no longer pristine; sticky crimson is splattered across the seats of the car's passengers and leaks from the man's- Howard's- nose and mouth. Both features are distorted, bent at odd angles, bones as easily demolished as the broken glass littering the area.
But… No matter how hard the Winter Soldier had hit that man, he could still see the original face of the man beneath it. Beneath that jaw, unhinged and hanging by only a few tendons; beneath the eye popping out of its socket and oozing liquid over his smashed-in nose, only barely jutting out from his face at this point. He sees a shadow of somebody he should know.
Sergeant Barnes.
It echoes once again through the crisp December air, firm and loud even despite the breeze shaking the leaves and whistling through the branches. The Winter Soldier tears open the passenger door of the car, grabbing the still-warm cadaver by the shirt and hoisting it out once more.
Cold eyes scan over the man, narrowing as the Winter Soldier begins to decipher what the hell the man could have meant by his words.
All of a sudden, he hears laughing. There is cigarette smoke and booze in the air, and he sees the corpse in front of him, animated once more, two beautiful women by his side. Though years have disappeared from the man's face, and wisps of silver haven't even begun touching his hair, it is unmistakably the same man. Sergeant Barnes. The name slips through his lips as easily as his whiskey, and he holds out a hand for the Winter Soldier to shake. Howard Stark.
But as instantaneously as the image appeared, it fades away once more, the scent of alcohol replaced by the metallic twang of blood and the chemical burning of the smoking car engine. The man is once again alone, held up by glinting vibranium stained burgundy.
Too soon, the Winter Soldier drops his victim into the seat where it rested, not caring if the force breaks any more bones. He shakes his arm, as if the man had poisoned it, and slams the car door shut, squelching a few of the man's fingers in the process. He turns away, faster than a normal man should have been able to turn, and slinks back to his motorcycle, forcing the image of that smiling man out of his head.
The Winter Soldier knows no smiling men, no laughing and leisurely visits to the bar. He knows only pain and misery and death. He knows targets, coming into focus between the crosshairs of his rifle; crimson stains on their suit jackets and his hands.
He knows crying widows and screaming children, blood splattered across their faces, too dark and too bright at the same time. He knows shaking hands and heavy hearts, and the empty chill in his chest cavity.
He knows being beaten down, strapped to operating tables, and freezing away countless years until he is needed.
He is the harbinger of misery, anguish, and despair, and he has never caused anyone like that man to smile in his life. He has never spent a night boozing and being carefree. He has never heard the name Sergeant Barnes before.
So he remounts his escape vehicle, ensuring his cargo is strapped down only once, and resumes his previous position on the metal steed. This time, he wipes his mind on his own, and grips down on the clutch. Next comes the accelerator, and the motorcycle roars, saturating the air.
This time, the Winter Soldier leans down close to the handlebars and speeds away, escaping from the sight of his latest kill and that man in the bar. He leaves behind the thought of knowing that man or Sergeant Barnes.
Because he is the Winter Soldier.
He knows only the mission he is on and the people who sent him. He knows he is just a killer; just an agent of Hydra; just a rat from their labs groomed to do whatever they want him to. Nothing more.
He rides away, and doesn't make the mistake of looking back ever again.