Lost in Translation

by Travelilah

It started with a few glimpses. Somethings get lost in translation though, especially when you have a witch and super-soldier involved. Fortunately, both of them being bi-lingual certainly does come in handy at certain times. Sadly, neither of them are fluent in the language of love, as it is tricky to master and difficult to get right. Good thing that practice makes perfect right?

1. Before

Hello, bonjour and buna! I have re-written this beast of a fic and well, now it's in present tense and a lot more content.

Here I am with another Hermione/Bucky fan fiction and I have to say, it wouldn't have been possible without Bahowle. This guy, puts up with so much from me, thank you for being such a wonderful friend, alpha reader and Puff Puff :)

More thanks goes to EntwinedLove for reading over my work twice and proving such wonderful feedback and helping me improve as a writer.

Massive shout out to StarkRavingSlytherin, for enabling me to write this and cheering me on to write most of the smut for this baby ;) She has chatted to me along the who way, helping me brainstorm ideas and drool over Sebastian Stan - she is an amazing writing buddy and friend and can't wait to read her fic!

Er, more thanks on this go to BloomSoftly - who has come on board last minute and helped to beta as well 3 Thank you for your tireless effort of making this story make sense.

.prologue.

-prolog-

prologue

[Before]

He's not sure when the world stops making sense. He thinks it might have been when the world explodes around him (which is becoming a normal kind of thing for him at this point) and he's free falling into the murky depths of the Potomac River.

At first, he doesn't even realize that he's falling, only when he feels the wind rushing through his hair and the sting of air cutting against his cheeks it becomes clear to him, but nothing is really that clear. The world is nothing more than a blur, around him spinning faster.

Time seems to slow for a bit. Almost like damn slow motion that he sees the brown water getting closer. He knows all too well what comes next, so in the precious few milliseconds he's got before impact, he manages to brace himself, straightening out his legs so he enters the water feet first.

The frigid water grips him like a vice. It seeps through his clothes, icy tendrils creeping their way into him, under his skin and it chills him to the bone. It's no surprise that the bitter chill gets the best of him and makes him freeze up. This allows the weight of his arm to pull him down; an anchor dragging him down with the rest of the metal wreckages.

The burning in his chest finally pulls him from his stupor and he starts to fight back. Clawing against the icy cold water, which is sapping what precious little of his strength is left. Finally, makes his way up and as soon as he reaches the surfaces he greedily gulps in several mouthfuls of air, letting it bring sweet relief to his heaving lungs.

It takes a few shaky breaths to get his breathing back under control and regain his focus. Years of habit have him checking his senses as the best place to start for getting his bearings. He can smell smoke and taste blood on his tongue. He can hear helicopters and jets mobilising in the distance.

Flinging the hair from his eyes he gives a cursory glance towards the tree line. It's a struggle though, to look around and continue treading water. His limbs are so heavy, like lead, and his muscles have no strength left in them and he's still distracted by the cold. But he must keep going because right now it a sink or swim kind of situation.

Surveying the area, he sees the shore's approximately thirty feet away with a dense copse of trees situated just beyond the waterline. It'll be useful for providing him with aerial coverage from the choppers he can hear getting ever closer.

He knows he can swim to the bank in a few seconds and retreat into the foliage in less time than that. Survival instincts, as well as his training, tell him this is the best course of action. A second idea pops into his mind though; he should check if the target has been eliminated.

Before he can stop himself, he inhales a great lungful of air and dives back into the river.

Luckily, it doesn't take long to locate the target amongst the wreckage of metal and glass and the target is in the heart of it. Wedged between some shrapnel that makes it impossible to check for a pulse. His chest grows tight and his lungs burn with their need for oxygen.

Maybe it's the lack of air that's getting to his brain or he's hit his head, he makes a snap decision to drag the target up to the surface.

Grabbing for the strap on the side of the targets vest, he fumbles and loses his grip. He struggles to grab hold again, the debris blocking his access. Finally, he hooks his hand into a buckle, pulling the target free and starts to swim upwards with him in tow. As he ascends, the notion that he's done this kind of thing before crosses his mind. His jaw clenches at the thought and he viciously shoves the thought away.

It's madness, he tells himself. but you do care. He scoffs, but he can't deny the grain of truth that the words hold.

He knows that saving going back for the target is a spontaneous action. Not only that but a massive diversion from the mission directive. Yet he can't deny saving him from drowning feels right. No, not just that, it feels familiar to be coming to his rescue. He is troubled by this notion but there's no time to analyse it, so he shoves it to the back of his mind, promising himself he will dissect it later before he's wiped, as he is every time post-mission.

He knows that saving going back for the target is a spontaneous action. Not only that but a massive diversion from the mission directive. Yet he can't deny saving him from drowning feels right. No, not just that, it feels familiar to be coming to his rescue. He is troubled by this notion but there's no time to analyse it, so he shoves it to the back of his mind, promising himself he will dissect it later before he's wiped, as he is every time post-mission.

Safely ashore, he pauses to look down at the target's face and sees his chest is moving. Two sensations simultaneously course through him: recognition and relief. They hit him like a freight train and make his head throb with the mix of emotions.

Steve, is the name his mind whispers and starts to chant, Steve, it's Steve. The man on the bridge is Steve.

As Steve the target starts to stir, he takes it as a sign to retreat. He barely manages to stumble away from the bank, the throbbing in his head causing a dizziness.

He becomes overwhelmed by an onslaught of stimulation. The roar of the jets as they get closer overpower his hearing and his vision goes fuzzy. It's followed by flashes of emotions, sounds and voices, swirling through his mind. They don't belong there. Yet, he can't help feeling as though the pieces of his past are finally clicking together in his jigsaw-like brain. He knows this isn't possible; he is the Asset, his mind itself is a weapon, he shouldn't have emotions or memories of any kind.

He doesn't want them; the memories and thoughts are alien and ghosts of people he doesn't know. People only bring weakness, this mantra is what's been drilled into him since the beginning.

The words reverberate deep in the roots of his mind, instilled in him during his training. But as these people echo through his mind, he can't help but feel maybe, just maybe, the mantra might be wrong.

Not able to stand the chaotic storm of thoughts any longer, he dashes into the trees as fast as possible, before anyone finds him near the target– Steve, his brain corrects. No matter what the man is called only one name is truly applicable: a failed mission. Which will mean punishment.

Ignoring the chill of waterlogged clothes, the tiredness in his bones and ache in the muscles surrounding his left arm, he marches on; making his way back to base so he can give his Mission Report and sleep.

As he walks back, he ponders how unnerving it is that he willingly wants to sleep. Normally, he resists being put to sleep or succumbing to the ice, but now he wishes for nothing more than to allow such numbness to relieve his fevered mind. He doesn't care where it happens either, be it in the freezer, a cot or on the damned ground. He wants to rest, to close his eyes and banish the thoughts.

It's just before sunset when he arrives at the old bank the task force has been operating out of for the past month. As he is about to lay his hands on the rear emergency exit door to push it open, he hesitates. Something is curling in his stomach, his instincts telling him something is very wrong here.

A trail of dead HYDRA bodies certainly confirms his gut feeling. A quick scout of the perimeter reveals the building is empty. There are no handlers or medics around, but all the equipment is still there. He tries to figure out what's going on, but there is a chill running down his spine and he's not sure if it's from his soaking wet clothes and the onset of hypothermia or how eerie the base is when it's empty.

Trying to use logic, he knows HYDRA does not allow for resources to be wasted without dire consequences. Which leads him to believe there's been a security breach. As protocols would've made for a hasty evacuation, the scattered equipment being left behind in the flurry of activity.

Satisfied with his deduction, he starts to sift through various piles of equipment and cables, taking inventory of the what's been left behind, trying to focus on anything other than the memories that continue to invade his mind.

In this situation, he knows they will have relocated to the closest safe house. Logging into the internal database, he discovers that it is a two-hour drive away, in Baltimore. He also knows there's a spare vehicle in the basement from when he did the perimeter search.

It'll be best to leave under the cover of nightfall, which allows him a few hours to get some much-needed rest.

He's of no use to HYDRA in his current state. In the interest of returning to peak condition, he sets about performing routine self-maintenance on his arm. Pulling up a chair, he looks around for a tool-kit. He spots lying on the ground near one near The Chair.

He approaches it with caution; he knows all too well the torture the chair is capable of.

Tools retrieved, he settles in and pops his arm open. Beneath the cover, gears of metal whir and click in intricate patterns amongst a nest of wires and circuit boards. He can feel something is lodged underneath the elbow-joint plate, which is stopping it from moving with its usual precision.

Threading the thin screwdriver in, he sets about trying to calibrate the sensors and reboot the arm so it can identify whatever is causing the jam. After a few useless minutes of trying to root out the blockage, he sighs and leans back in the chair. The intricate mechanisms of his arm are so tightly packed he isn't able to sneak the screwdriver past the GPS that's embedded along the inner casing.

He only knows the basics of how to carry out repairs on his most important weapon. If he isn't able to fix it himself, he will need to head for the safe house. He can't be without his arm for too long, it makes him feel far too vulnerable and it's not a risk he's willing to take.

Or you can stay.

The stray thought comes out of nowhere. It startles him to the point that his grip on the screwdriver slips and dives into the blinking light of the GPS, slightly damaging it, but a quick check confirms that it's still functional.

He reels back from what's just popped into his mind. Never before has he had a desire to defect. To disobey at such lengths would be a direct betrayal to HYDRA.

He can't keep be having thoughts like this, the Asset is always loyal.

The Asset always comes back from missions. He always returns.

What if you didn't?

Brushing the treasonous thought aside he scowls and focuses back on his arm.

He resists the temptation at first, not wanting to indulge the new theme of thoughts. But as he tinkers away, he can't help but contemplate the possibility. What if he did stray from HYDRA? What if he did go rogue?

A sharp pain worms through his brain, and he can't help but clutch at his brow, metal fingers cool and soothing against it. It feels as though his mind is being shocked from the inside. Like it's trying to wipe itself of the freethinking. He pushes through the pain, and as he forges on, the pressure builds.

You were, you are a person, you aren't just a weapon. You know him. Steve. Need to find him.

The voice keeps going on and on, nagging him, growing bolder with each repetition, drowning out all other thoughts.

You can leave. You don't have to be their puppet anymore.

Each word is like going through a round of shock therapy in the chair. Lightning crackles in his skull, and he can hear his heart racing. His arm reacts to the pain, metal twisting and turning, fighting to be in charge. But even with the pain and Soldat ordering him to ignore the new voice, the same message comes through: that he is someone, a person.

Not a weapon. Not a tool for murder; not just Soldat.

That he's got a choice.

He doesn't have to return to HYDRA and continue to do their bidding, he can take this chance and escape their clutches.

Pain is what helps him decide. Because while there may be solace in forgetting, in being blank, he can't go on like this. Not knowing, who he is, what he was… who he was before HYDRA moulded him into this tool for death...No, he's not going to let himself be erased, not again, not before he has answers about the target and why he'd recognised him.

Decision made, he begins trying to remove the tracker on purpose. Eventually, after a lot of scrapping, stabbing and generally hacking away, he manages to remove the GPS. He's sorely tempted to crush it with his left hand for good measure but he knows it would be smarter to leave it here. It'll buy him some time if they think he's still here.

With the GPS out of the way, he finally has access to the blockage. With some meticulous manoeuvring, he's able to remove the thin sliver of metal that had been caught between two gears. He gives his arm a test flex, the plates whir and shifts seamlessly with the movement and everything feels normal again.

Satisfied, he's done everything he needs to do and that his arm needs no further maintenance or rust treatments, he closes up the metal panel with a small click. He draws his flesh hand over the metal, the sensation makes the artificial sensors light up, and his brain recognises the touch as a tingling sensation. Everything appears to be calibrated and functioning normally.

Well, not everything. His mind is a mess, more so than usual and if he's honest with himself, he's still trying to process everything that's happened in the last couple of hours. He's unable to escape the heavy sigh from escaping his throat as the gravity of what he's done sinks in.

It's nearly unfathomable, to think that the Asset he is going to defect.

But it's really happening and he's really doing this. A bit late to turn back now anyway, he thinks wryly, looking down at the remains of the GPS that's spread out across the desk.

Truth be told, he is petrified of what HYDRA will do to him when they figure out he's defected. They'll punish him, he knows that much, but he still can't bring himself to care about that right now. He's full of rage, and hunger, a burning desire for the truth and to get answers.

To find out why he keeps seeing things that he doesn't remember but feels like he should. He sees so many people, in the flashes. One face, in particular, continues to stand out amongst them all. The face of the man, his target. He is able to put another name to that face–Captain America–when he finds a discarded flyer atop a desk, amongst the ashes of hastily burned files.

Quickly he is able to figure out that the flyer is promoting some kind of exhibit about Captain America. His curiosity is piqued when he spots a name on the back of the brochure: Bucky. He can recall the target, calling him that.

It raises the question of why the target would call him that. The only logical option is to go to the Smithsonian. The place that will hopefully hold answers to his ever-expanding list of questions he's been compiling since the fight on the bridge. Most of all, he wants to know why the target is so important to him?

To get this information, he'll have to venture out into public; risking exposure and capture. He knows he's wanted around the world for a litany of crimes. HYDRA has also undoubtedly noticed that he hasn't checked-in for his usual post-mission report. Soon as they do realize that he's not merely late but gone AWOL, they'll send a squad out to retrieve their Asset. They will then wipe him and stick him back in storage.

Having already come this far, having already taken the steps towards an elusive freedom of not being under the thumb of HYDRA, he knows it is a risk he is willing to take and he vows to himself he will get the answers. Even if it kills him.

Finding clothes he can use for undercover reconnaissance is difficult. Anything he's salvaged so far doesn't fit him or conceal his arm appropriately. After hunting high and low, he locates a large coat but is frustratingly unable to find any gloves that will conceal his hand, so he has to settle for keeping the metal hand in his pocket.

Just as he is about to head out the door, already plotting how he will get to the museum, he spots a cap, lying on a chair. On impulse, he reaches out and pulls it down over his eyes. He knows that HYDRA can readily access any security cameras, so it's for the best for him to keep his face concealed.

Making his way down to the garage, he resorts to hot-wiring the car to get it started as he's not able to locate the keys anywhere. Throwing it into gear, he peels out of the garage, not looking back once at the only life he's ever known.

On the road, he's constantly checking his mirrors, judging the gap cars have between him and one another, but also seeing if any are following him. It's a tense drive that's for sure, but it's just one of the risks in taking the car. There's also a chance there might but a tracker, but it's still his best option for remaining inconspicuous. It also allows him to get there faster, and right now, speed is critical.

He's still a few miles out from the Museum when he switches to taking the back streets, doubling back every second turn or so in an attempt to calm his nerves. He pulls up to the curb a couple of blocks away and decides it would be best to walk the rest of the way. Leaving the car is easy enough to do, once he's swept it for any of his fingerprints or weapons.

Upon arriving in front of the sprawling complex of buildings that make up the Smithsonian, he holds off on entering. Taking a chance to analyse the position of the camera's first and the guard's rotation. Entering on his own poses a risk, he can be isolated and drawn out, it'll also draw more individual attention to him. So he waits for a large tour group to head in and slips into the back of the shuffling herd when he spots an opening.

As he enters the museum, a prickling sensation of familiarity washes over him. It feels like he is walking through a memory or a dream—it was rare, but sometimes he'd have them while on ice. Scenes and machinery from the past make up several exhibits. As he walks through them, they make his brain itch and burn as if fire ants have invaded it and are burrowing in to build a nest.

When he reaches the Captain America exhibit, he is overloaded with information on the team of men that'd fought beside the Captain during the War. They were called the Howling Commandos. As he reads about them, more alarm bells sound off in his already rioting brain.

Noticing that he's starting to pant, he becomes aware of how tight his throat has become. Even as he glances around wildly, he knows there is no escaping the information. The edges of his vision start to go fuzzy; he needs to get away, to regroup and figure out the best method for gathering intelligence.

Spotting a display a fair distance away from the majority of the exhibit, he quickly moves to seek refuge behind it.

His plan falls short when he realises the display has his face on it. At first, he thinks it's some kind of looking glass, but a quick peek around the corner confirms it's a glass panel with his face printed on it. As his face lines up with what appears to be a younger version of himself, he sees the image for what it truly is: a hellish reflection.

A siren starts to go off, and he retracts his head and takes cover behind a model of an outdated HYDRA tank. The shrill sound echoes in his ears and panic surges up in his throat. He starts to shake but before he can yield to the terror, a wave of cold composure washes over him, and his training kicking in– Soldat takes control.

Cocking his head, he deduces the siren to be nothing more than a security alarm, and from the shouting he hears, he infers it's stemming from a child touching something they shouldn't have. Still not entirely convinced, he takes a quick scan of the surroundings.

All he sees are families and civilians milling around and enjoying their day at the museum—kids complaining that the history section is boring, egging their parents on to go see the dinosaurs. Unclenching his balled-up fist, he takes a slow breath and pictures Coney Island. He doesn't know why but when he does, it pushes Soldat to the back of his mind and puts him back in control.

Feeling slightly less fidgety, he edges out from behind the display and tentatively shuffles over to the glass. Glancing around as surreptitiously as he can, he grabs a pamphlet version that's on offer and retreats back to his safe spot.

Looking down, a closer inspection reveals that it's an almost perfect replica of his face, the hair is shorter, and the face less severe, but the resemblance is uncanny. He stares into the eyes of the man and wonders if it's some kind of trap or test that HYDRA's cooked up for him. But it isn't their style, so he quickly dismisses that idea. No, this is something else, he decides. And while it isn't a mirror, he realizes, it's certainly a reflection of his past, of someone he used to be.

Slowly, it clicks. He'd been James Buchanan Barnes.

But, it doesn't make any sense. Not that anything over the past few hours really has, but it still seems downright impossible. For him have been to be that man.

He reads about Bucky becomes quickly absorbed in all the details of the man's life. He finds out that Bucky had apparently died over sixty years ago when he fell from a train during a mission with the Howling Commandos. Killed in action, died as a hero for his country. Those are just some of the praises used for Bucky.

He still can't wrap his head around it all. Or how he can be Bucky Barnes, despite his mind telling him that it's him. He is from Russia, not America. He is a killer, not a hero; he takes lives. He doesn't save them.

The only thing they have in common is a face. For a brief second, he considered the possibility that maybe he's a copy of the original. It wouldn't surprise him if he is. HYDRA did always like to experiment. But it stands to reason if he's just a copy then HYDRA surely wouldn't have spent so much time making sure he'd come back.

Not that it'd do them much good now, he thought as a grim smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

The target had called him Bucky. Recognised him to be the same as the man talked about in the display. Yet he still can't seem to connect himself to this man in his mind.

He lets his mind wander to a time that people may have called out to him, looked up to him, not upon orders, but to greet him. A time and place that seems like a fairy tale compared to his dark and haunted life currently. But he knows, he's not just imagining it now, because once upon a time, he knows he had a name, something other than Soldat or The Asset.

He thinks now, it might've been Bucky. But he wants to remember on his own merit, rather than going off a wild conspiracy theory. Grinding his teeth in concentration, he tries to summon the information from the depths of his mind, but his thoughts remain infuriatingly blank.

However, the labyrinthine levels of his mind make it impossible for him to know for sure, leaving him frustrated and feeling like a child. He doesn't know where he was born, or even when for that matter. Nor can he recall any clear memories from before his last mission and defection. If he tries to remember and push his mind to recall the memories, he'll get something but it's fuzzy and in short bursts of unrelated images accompanied by a spiking pain behind his eyes.

He's spent longer than he cares to admit staring at the pamphlet, lost in his thoughts. He realizes he's been staring at one face in particular: Steve Rogers, Captain America, best friend to Bucky Barnes.

Left feeling unsteady after the revelations of the exhibit and his training takes over, forcing him to remember infiltration and undercover tactics. But they are rusty, skills that he's not used for a while, so he sets about by scanning the patrons, memorising the behaviour and mannerisms of the other men, as a means to refresh his knowledge. Adopting their slouched shoulders, listening to their accents and trying, but failing, to replicate their facial expressions. Smiling proves to be a particular challenge.

Strolling through the Marine Creatures section, he begins to create a mental checklist of things he is going to need to shirk detection and for making it out of the city. First, on the list being civilian clothes, his combat armours barely concealed by his coat. With every camera he spots, it makes him all the more aware that his current attire will need to be upgraded to something more covert.

He manages to scavenge some food from a cafeteria and new clothes from the museum's gift shop, which he affords by pick-pocketing a museum visitor or two as he passes by. He knows that he needs to start planning his next move in if he wants to ahead of HYDRA. More importantly, his instincts tell him to keep moving, to leave this country behind and lie low for a while.

Shedding the combat clothes, he feels refreshed as he pulls on clean slacks and jacket–which is annoyingly oversized but is the only thing he's been able to find which is able to hide his arm. He's forced to keep his hand in his pocket still, as he isn't able to find any gloves.

His arm's a dead giveaway to the people trying to find him. The silver metal is a stark contrast to what an arm is meant to be made of and he'll have to think of something else to use as a cover other than gloves all the time but he'll worry about that another time. He's got a priority list he needs to work through. Leaving the damned country is right at the top of that list.

Unfortunately, it's proving to be more difficult than he anticipated. He doesn't have a valid passport, nor enough money to buy a ticket or counterfeit documentation. Any contacts he can recall having that can assist with skipping out will report him immediately if he so much as looks in their direction. All of this leaves him with very few choices for making his way out of the country.

It takes him a few days of threatening various less-than-reputable people that possibly belong to the local mob but he finally finds his ticket for getting out of the States. There's a cargo ship that carries Sea Mail and various other goods all over the world. According to the schedules he's stolen, the next one is slated for Europe. Which isn't what he was hoping for. Somewhere more remote like South America or Asia would've been better.

He's picked up a saying in the last few days: Beggars can't be choosers. So he settles for disembarking for Europe. He sneaks into the port and gets himself set up a little way from the loading bays. He's got the clothes on his back and a backpack with what little cash he has, a few random books and most importantly his journal that he's started, so he can start trying to unravel some of his tangled past.

Since being on the run memories have had a habit of slipping in and out of his mind, leaving him unsure of what they were or if they were even his in the first place. Recording the details of them is his attempt at trying to stay sane. In the days of waiting for the ship, he gets a lot out and the pages fill up quicker then he can get the words onto paper. When he runs out of room in his first journal, he switches to reading some of the dog-eared paperbacks he's bought with him.

When he finishes the books (failing to pace himself as he read), he finds himself struggling to find ways of entertaining himself so he decides now is as good a time as any to rest. He's afraid to close his eyes though, as of late his memories have been haunting his dreams.

He is roused from his sleep between two crates by the clacking of shoes against the dock. He'd grown accustomed to the sounds of workers loading and unloading cargo, they all wore the same kind of boots with rubber tread.

It's a new sound he hears this time, through the of waves and forklifts beeping. This new sound grates on his nerves, and sends threads tendrils of anxiety through his stomach. He recognises it to be the scuffle of gravel, as it rattles in his mind like a landslide. Poking his head out he sees the back of a man in a black combat suit with the telltale patch of HYDRA sewn into the back of his jacket. The agent speaks quickly into his phone, voice high and anxious. It's a junior agent, that much he's able to tell.

A stupid agent, he notes. A low ranked nobody who's probably been sent to conduct surveillance; to try and look for something or more specifically someone: him. He plans to sneak past and move over to the other side of the docks. These days, he's trying to avoid confrontations and violence as they act as triggers for the other side of him to come out. A side that he knows that he has no control over.

The man turns before he can dart past and catches sight his face, that he's stupidly left uncover (his hat at the bottom of his bag). Recognition shines in the agent's eyes and he sighs. There's nothing else for it now. He's going to have to resort to violence.

Soldat takes over and he watches on from the back seat as the junior agent is neutralized. From there, Soldat makes quick work disposing of the agent's body by tying it to a discarded anchor and rolling them to the edge of the docks, before shoving them both into the cloudy water.

Soldat immediately begins walking away from the dock, thoughts of returning to HYDRA sinking into his mind and it takes a monumental amount of sheer willpower to slow those steps reclaiming control inch by inch in his own mind until he's able to return to his temporary home, throwing himself onto the rough bags he'd taken as a bed.

But he's not able to get back to sleep. He lies awake wondering how many other people he's killed just like that, so easily and without any effort.

On the evening before he makes his move to infiltrate the boat, he finds himself praying. Praying that he will make it onto the ship without being caught. An encounter with a security guard surprises him at the border of the port as he is sneaking in. He's tried so hard since his escape not to harm anyone but his control slips and when it does, it leads to his mental arm snaking out of its own volition and snapping the man's neck.

More disturbingly, he doesn't feel an ounce of guilt as he hears the sickening crack of bones.

He knows he should feel some sort of remorse but no emotion stirs. He wonders what's happened to make him like this. So numb to the pain of others. The man he'd seen at the Smithsonian was a hero. He'd been human… something that Soldat doesn't appear to be capable of.

After that, he is able to board the vessel without too much effort. Posing as a dockhand, he carries some supplies up the ramp. He nods at a few ship hands and crew members as they pass him by. None of them paid any attention to him, all of them too busy with their own work readying the ship for departure.

He dumps the supplies he's been carrying and darts away to find a hidey hole that he can stow away in for the remainder of the journey. Which is how he finds himself tucked away in the corner of a cargo container which is in the rear stack towards the back of the ship. It's as safe a spot as he's ever going to get because no matter where in this world he tries to hide, he knows that someone will be after him. From here, it's only a matter of when–rather than if–they will find him.

His time at sea is not pleasant; seasickness overcomes him more than a few times but worst of all, the voyage gives him time to think. It lets self-loathing and nightmares come to the forefront of his mind. For weeks over the trip, he relives past missions through his dreams. He wakes up, body burning with the phantom pains in his arm, alongside the feelings of hacking saws and needles piercing his skin, lingering freshly in his mind like he is there on an operating table just waking up from the procedure.

He's lucky if he gets two or three hours of sleep on a good night. During the remaining hours, he is left to hate how he feels like an impotent child, running and hiding from the boogeymen of his mind. He knows that in reality that it's HYDRA he's running from, but he still feels like a coward.

He doesn't know his own damned name for sure (he thinks it might be Bucky) but HYDRA is there, seared into each moment, waking or sleeping. Maybe one day he can be Bucky… but right now he doesn't have the luxury for hoping for that kind of life.

HYDRA's changed him, damaged him, made him into something less than human in his own eyes.

The other thing that's driving him insane is that somehow he can understand multiple languages–he doesn't even notice he's shifted tongues half the time. But he can't remember his own blood type or say what his favourite food is.

It's always a surprise when he uncovers a latent skill, like when he finds out he knows his way around a computer when he hacks into the ship's database, which after some digging he finds that a large portion of the ship's revenue comes from black-market munitions being smuggled out of the country. He's taken to squatting in one of those containers now and spends most of his waking hours sorting and identifying the various weapons and equipment.

He knows the best way to evade capture but doesn't even know what year it is. He knows that he's been frozen for too long due to the technological advances in the world, which don't match up with the flashes of memories that he has. He tries to analyse the passages he writes in his journal, sometimes sketching out faces or places in its pages, for clues about his past, for some sort of sign about what he should now be doing with his life, but that doesn't get him anywhere. Despite his efforts, he quickly grows frustrated at the thought of how much he's missed out on in the world already and feels the need to force himself into action.

He does this by pacing–which helps him calm his thoughts and put them into order–push-ups and squats… anything to keep his body active and mind silent. He's got nothing else to do as he's already sorted through all of the weapons.

It feels like it takes forever; however, the ship does eventually dock, and his container is offloaded. In the chaos of unloading the ship, he manages to slip away into the night. Not before pilfering a change of clothes, boots and thankfully a flask of alcohol from a row of lockers that belong to the dock workers.

From there, things become much harder. He's got to stay on the move to not be caught. The simple act of scrounging for food becomes a nigh impossible task, he finds. With his face being so identifiable and so many cameras around in main cities, their beady black lenses always on the hunt for his face or any sign of his presence, he's got to watch every move he makes.

After his second night of being stuck to one corner of the street to avoid being caught on camera, he makes it a priority to find something to cover his face. He finds something suitable in a convenience store.

He's got the impeccable timing to arrive just as a hold up is taking place.

A gun's trained on the cashier and the assailant is making demands for the contents of the till. Instinct and hard-wired training take over when the gun swivels to him.

A quick dash forward and a few sure moves ensure that the threat is disarmed.

His next move is to turn the gun back on the intruder. Staring the man down, he walks him to the edge of the store and sends him running off into the warm night.

Turning back to the cashier, he's smothered with thanks and appreciation. The little bit of heroism scores him a free cap and a pair of sunglasses, but more than that, he feels a swelling in his chest he did something to protect someone, maybe he can reclaim some of who Bucky was, step by step he could become more than Soldat.

So he doesn't look the gift horse in the mouth and accepts the gratitude, albeit damn awkwardly. The clerk even deletes the video footage at his request so that's one thing less to worry about.

He leaves the store in a hurry, making sure to wipe down and dispose of the gun (it pains him to leave the firearm behind but he knows that after an encounter like that it's for the best) as he heads back to the alley he's calling home for the night. After such an encounter he knows it won't be safe for him to stay in Amsterdam any longer, and he begins to make his way through Europe, seeking some sort of haven.

He travels via train for the most part and finds a new talent for mentally switching off, forcing his mind into a sleep which is a kindness and a curse, but the decision is between reliving old nightmares or the terrible sense of foreboding the cabin gives him.

Often he finds himself waking up just as the train pulls into a station.

Berlin, Roma, Athens pass by outside the train's window. None of them feels like they are a suitable stop. He's swapped trains a few times, making sure his trail is scattered. He never goes beyond the limits of the station and hops on the next train that passes through.

Close to the end of the line, when the train pulls into Bucharest, Romania, he decides it's as good a place as any to take a break from travelling. It's a fair distance from America, he's also got no memory of any HYDRA operations existing in the country.

Upon arrival to his new (if temporary) home, he decides that he will need to have a name. Civilians have them and since that's what he's trying to be, he needs to comply. He considers a few but he settles on James in the end. It's a simple name, globally popular and won't raise an eyebrow or be memorable if he shares it with anyone.

The next task is for him to rent an apartment. He's scouted a few so far. The one he likes the most is in a good tactical location. The building is older, meaning no security cameras or fancy locking systems. There is no concierge or live in staff to worry about either.

What really sells it for him is the corner unit at the top of the stairwell that he's shown. It's got restrictive access, concrete walls and only one entrance which means if he's ambushed, they'll only be able to come after him one at a time, rather than surrounding him.

He's staring out the window, calculating how far away the next building is and if they'll be able to look in through the windows, when he says, "I'll take it. How much for the first month?"

Mouth agape, the landlord responds with, "Six hundred Euros, to be paid on the first of every month."

He walks into the living room, drops his bag and bends down to pull out a wad of Euros. "Is it alright if I pay in cash?" he asks over his shoulder.

The landlord blinks and nods. He walks over and accepts the cash without hesitation. Quickly thumbing through the bills, the landlord looks him up and down and says, "This is a lot of money. I don't care how you got it but let me tell you right now, I will not have the cops sniffing around." He gestures around the apartment. "I don't care what you do in here: drugs, weapons or hookers, not my business what you do. But if the cops come, you're gone, understand?"

He nods in agreeance, he doesn't particularly want the cops snooping around him either. That seems to be all the man needs, as he resumes giving his tour of the small apartment and listing of details of the neighbour.

He watches the money flapping around in the landlord's hand and struggles to keep listening to him. It's not an easy thing for him to hand over that much money, as he's put a dent in the funds he's managed to gather from pickpocketing and theft. But he's still got enough to last him a few more months if he lies low and is frugal.

Residence and shelter secured, he starts to establish what will become his routine for the coming months. He's got a goal in mind during all of this: to rebuild himself to reintegrate into society and prove that he can be human, and not just Soldat.