Location, Unknown
Date/Time, Unknown
My name is Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes. I have a sister but no parents. I served in the 107th as part of the Howling Commandoes. Captain Steve Rogers is my friend. In the winter of 1945 I died.
That should be the end of my story. Except it isn't.
Except I didn't die. Except Steve Rogers is not my friend. I do not serve the American army and I am not James 'Bucky' Barnes. I am the Winter Soldier, and I am feared.
I am the ghost that will conquer and destroy, shape civilisations and tear them apart again. I am the monster in your cupboard and under you bed. I am despair and death, the causality and singularity of this changing world. I bind you. And I am unknown.
I do not know myself, I do not know the people around me and I do not know my mission. I have always had a target but now, in this sea of uncertainty, I am lost. This time there is no clean slate, no memory wipe, only foreboding and isolation. And the screams of the dead.
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Nord-Pas de Calais, France – Secure Location
04.06.2014 22:18 [GMT]
Nick Fury stood in thoughtful silence as he considered the computer monitors in front of him. Each one bringing more news of chaos and havoc the leaked SHIELD data has caused. Personal crisis as people found out about loved ones, friends and neighbours who were not as they appeared, countrymen and politicians shown for the corruption they hold, and countries threatening war due to truths that had been publicised. He sighed and reached for his mug before realising it was empty. He wondered half-heartedly, as he made his way through the tiny darkened apartment, if he was too old for this shit, if he really should get out and go live in Marbella as he had promised himself twenty years ago. Find a nice villa, settle down, maybe even purchase a dog or two. But no, he chastised himself, he had been too long now in this community of spies and convicts, if he were to settle down it would be into his grave and he was not ready for that yet.
Filling the kettle with water he dumped two spoonfuls of coffee into a cup and absentmindedly twirled sugar between the granules. In his days as the Director he had often wanted this life back, to be on missions in foreign countries with no one but himself to rely on, but he was quickly remembering how bland it was. There was action, of course, but intense hours and days of nothing but waiting was the pinnacle of operations like this. He was bored, unable to do anything without increasing risks or compromising more agents – or himself. The kettle bubbled and clicked and he poured the steaming water into the mug. The floorboards creaked as he walked back to his desk and –
The floorboards creaked.
He knew every inch of this apartment, had memorised it and stored it for years. The floorboards did not creak between the kitchen and office.
He was compromised.
Turning swiftly, he removed his Smith&Wesson from its holster and flicked the safety off. Keeping his right eye trained on the hall he moved parallel to the doorway. Everything was unsettlingly still and silent. Fury counted down, four, three, two. Before he got to one he threw himself around the doorframe, pouring the searing coffee on the assailant and kicking him square in the chest. There was a hiss and a thud as the attacker hit the floor and then –
"Yield! Yield, sir."
"Hawkeye?" Fury paused, his boot inches away from a crushing blow to the man's testicles. Short sandy hair and grey eyes greeted him, hands held palm up in a surrender.
"Yessir." Agent Barton let out a cough and a groan and moved to stand. Fury snapped his gun up and levelled it at his face, his foot pressing down on the agents genitals.
"I may not be as good a marksman as you, but I can certainly blow your brains out from this distance." Barton leant back on his elbows and raised his hands again. "Hydra?"
"They're the menace we want gone sir. Doesn't take a genius to realise they're no good. You think I take orders from them, you should know better." Barton replied, his reserved seriousness appearing, showing the bare bones honesty he hid beneath the façade of light-heartedness. It dissipated quickly with a grin, "Can't believe you wasted a cup of coffee on me, sir, you really do care." Fury grimaced, stood down and replaced the safety, before tucking the gun back into its holster and offering his agent a hand. Barton took it and hopped up, muttering, "I sure am a princess tonight." before wiping off the rapidly cooling coffee from his scalded face and neck.
"There are very few people that know of this place, how did you find me Barton?"
"I, uh, wasn't looking for you." The agent's face began to flush red, and it wasn't just from the burns, "I was looking for Natasha, I hadn't heard from her in weeks and was checking round all the safe houses we used. Sorry sir, it was an accident, I saw movement and thought it might have been her."
"How did you know about the house?" Fury narrowed his eyes, only himself, Maria Hill and Phil Coulson knew of this place.
"Natasha found it, after a covert in Belgium went a bit awry we hopped the boarder and she lead me here. I don't know how she knew about it though, sir." Barton shrugged, running a hand through his hair and smiling wistfully. Fury felt sick. He realised this was for two reasons, one; Agent Romanoff knew far more than she ever damn should, and two; Barton may have been one of the most proficient liars he had ever met but he could not stop that revolting puppy love seeping through whenever Romanoff was mentioned. He put a hand to his head and sighed, what he would give to have Maria here to deal with this bullshit.
"Sir, I need to find her." Barton said, a determined glint in his eye.
"Get yourself cleaned up; you're sleeping on the couch." Fury stood straight, commanding authority, "We'll find Agent Romanoff, but you have to do something for me first. And Barton, drop the 'sir'. SHIELD doesn't exist anymore, or hadn't you heard?" He gave a slight smile and a raised eyebrow before lifting his unbroken mug and stalking into the kitchen to make himself another coffee. He sensed a long night ahead and would need all the caffeinated help he could get.
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Location, Unknown
Date/Time, Unknown
I lie awake. A mother's- sister's- wife's screams rip through my head, causing me to curl and writhe against it. My arms fold over my head, fingers tearing at my hair, the metal freezing against my burning skin. Anything I can do to stop the noise. It grows louder and I do not know how much longer I can take it. The sheets are soaked, sweat and piss mixing into one pungent swamp and I feel myself falling.
"Bucky?" That voice. That voice is with me every night.
"NO!" I yell, slamming into him, beating him even as we fall, the crunch and slap of bone against metal as his head collides with a support column, glass raining down. He lolls back, muttering, I do not pause. His head in my hands. His fear mine. His neck is snapped and I remember. I drop his head. Mission complete. I remember. I scream his name, I rage and cry. Coward. You coward, soldier. Zanudnyj. Slomannyj. Bespoleznyj. Vy trus. You are nothing, ničego.
"Stop!" I yell. And it does. I smell freshly cut grass and feel a hand rest on my shoulder.
"Bucky?" A voice. Soft, young, I do not know it, though I feel I should. "Bucky, it's ok, really, I can fix it." I glance up, a small round face with pigtails and blue eyes stares back, unwavering.
"I couldn't- I'm sorry – I didn't mean to-" I stutter. I do not want this girl to find out what I've done. I do not want her to know I killed my friend. To know I am not who she believes.
"It's just a toy, Buck."
I stare at her. The lives I've taken are not toys; they're not part of some game. My vision focuses past her and I see a small doll laying in the grass, am arm torn off and the stuffing puffing out in various places. Its small dark eyes unseeing, but I look into them and remember. I did this. I got mad because…
"Becky?" my voice quivers, she nods, folding round and enveloping me in an embrace. I feel her hug tighter and tighter, constricting against me as I try to pull away. I cannot move, she's trapped me and I heave and push but cannot leave. Her arms become harsh barriers against my skin, warping and wrapping around until my arms are stuck by my sides, my legs strapped down on a solid steel table. There are voices echoing around in languages I don't know and I strain against my captors. A face looms near, into my fuzzy vision, his eyes calculating and cold. I plead, unsure what for except this to end, and I squirm and he looms and-
And.
And I wake in a mass of bed sheets and fear. I rush to stand, my haste causing me to trip and land on the floorboards face first. My nose crunches and I hiss, the physical pain dulling the pain in my head. I shake myself free of the sheets and lay there on the floor. Trying to remember. The dream, it was something about… grass? And the target – stuffing – I'm sorry - blue eyes –
"Rebecca." I remember. Rebecca Barnes. My sister.
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A/N: Hi everyone, thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed! I have a pretty good idea of where this is going so hopefully there will be some quick updates (although I'm not promising anything, I get distracted very quickly) Also, my last story, Square One, has one more chapter to go before it's finished so that will hopefully be updated either today, tomorrow or Wednesday.
I have used some Russian in this story and have tried my hardest to get it right, if it's not or there is a better substitute word, please let me know!
Russian Translation (as I understand it):
Zanudnyj. - Wimp.
Slomannyj. - Broken.
Bespoleznyj. - Useless
Vy trus - You coward
ničego - Nothing