The Manhattan skyline reflected the gray clouds hanging in the dimming sky. He has been here before; he could feel it more than he could remember it. It was snowing; he was sure it was snowing the last time he was awoken, but the soldier was not in Manhattan. The soldier was in Russia, and the world was different then. The man who had brought him out was not the man who had put him in. Though his words were clunky with the same accent, the man was not the same as his predecessor. He was sure this had to do with the change the world had undergone. The man did not hold the same ideals, he was not out to serve the Motherland; he was using the assassin for personal gain. But what he was gaining, the soldier was not told. That was not his mission.
He tugged on his left glove, a subconscious habit formed to keep his metallic arm concealed. He was not the Winter Soldier; he was no one until he assembled the gun in the case in his hand. The course of action had been implanted in his mind. They had brought him out of his sleep, deprived him of his sense, slid a needle into his arm and shot the cold, burning serum into his veins. This is how they kept him tame, kept his leash taut. The soldier knew who, where and when his target would be. The job would be done quickly and without error, but plans were never steadfast; improvising was part of the job description.
"James?" her breath caught in her throat. She was speaking to him, her eyes wide with shock and sadness and fear buried deeply in her tone. He was not James; he was the Winter Soldier, but something still told him that the name was his, that he should answer, that the woman in front of him—
His eyes narrowed, the street around them was empty, but it would be risky to start anything out in the open. The soldier grabbed her wrist tighter than he meant to with his bionic hand. She didn't wince and speak out in protest; she had been trained by him years before; she knew better than to fight him in the open.
"The Black Widow"—his words made harsher by the acerbic language of Russian—"traitor," he spat at her. His programing told him this was wrong. He was not in Russia; he should not be speaking Russian, but she was causing a short in his programing. The woman he dragged into the alley and threw on the ground, she was a problem; she would have to be dealt with.
The Winter Soldier let the briefcase drop from his grasp, replacing it quickly with a pistol concealed under his jacket. She was as fast as he remembered her to be, as he trained her to be. But something was off. The Black Widow was holding back, and he wasn't sure why. It would be the death of her; why wasn't she fighting him back?
He tightened his fingers around her throat. She tried to pry his fingers back, despite knowing she couldn't.
"J-James," she managed to gasps, tears rolling down her cheeks, "What have they done to you?"
The question cut right through him, through the layers of programing—a voice he hadn't heard in years. His grip loosened slightly, and he looked long and hard into her green eyes.
"I am not here to kill you, Natalia," he says in a voice he doesn't quite recognize, but he knows it is his. And the name, her name, feels as familiar on his tongue as a gun feels in his hands. The soldier couldn't tell you how he knows it or why he remembers it, but he cherishes her name, even when he sends an electrical shock through her to keep her out of his way long enough.
It was a mistake to leave her alive, James knew that. The Black Widow would impede his mission; he didn't doubt that for a second. But he couldn't understand why; why hadn't he killed her? He jumped the gap between two buildings, making his way swiftly into position. His target would be walking out of his apartment shortly for his evening run; he couldn't miss the opportunity; failure was never an option, and the Winter Soldier never failed.
James reached his perch, several blocks away from his original destination. Natalia would undoubtedly know the best building to take the shot from as soon as she realized his target; he knew it would take her longer to figure out where else he could go and still make the shot. This new location wasn't ideal, but he was one of only a few people in the world that could make the shot. All he had to concern himself about was the Black Widow; she was all that was standing between him and a successful mission.
He assembled his rifle quickly, adjusting his sights to account for the distance and the wind. His target walked out of the concealed door of his apartment right on time. The soldier drew in a deep breath, letting it out, slowing his heart rate and squeezing the trigger.
"Shit," the assassin jumped up from his position, quickly making his way down the fire escape. He missed; he hesitated, and he missed. He never misses; the Winter Soldier never misses. His mission wasn't complete; the soldier hadn't failed, not yet. But the mission was going to be messy, messier than he would've liked.
Something was wrong. His programing seemed to be fragmenting. He wanted to blame Natalia, but she was only a small part of it. He knew this because something was telling him he knew the target. The man's blond hair and blue eyes, sharp features worn down by war but still effective in a fight. He was not much different from back then.
Back then? James had to shake the thought away as he ran through alleys, scaled buildings and moved quickly towards his target. The amount of space he had to cover meant time wasted, time for his target to get backup, to prepare for his arrival. But when he arrived, his target was alone—a red, white and blue target strapped to his arm and an "A" on his forehead.
"Bucky?" the name left the other's lips like James had left Natalia's—sadness buried deep beneath the shock. But this name was foreign.
"Who the hell is Bucky?"