His memories are vague.
As Bucky Barnes. As the Asset.
The prominent sounds he remembered.
The rumble of an engine, sickly Steve's huff of breath,, the crease of newspapers.
His ma's laughs, his sister shrill of happiness, his pa's encouraging advice.
Sarah Rogers's lulling talk, night time conversation with Steve, never ending coughs.
Clatter of beer bottles, music and footsteps in the bar, the hiss of cigarettes.
The trigger. Whispering bullets. The bombs.
The shouts of Prisoners.
Dernier's french words, Dum Dum Dugan hoarse timbre, Morita's jokes.
Howls of the Howling Commandos.
The shield flying through the air. Peggy's stride. Steve's speaking on his ear.
The wreck of the train.
His yells of rage. His whimpers of pain. His prayers.
For Steve.
For the Howling Commandos.
For the world and everything it took.
For him.
To be free of this hell.
The emptiness of the Cryo. The sizzling of electricity. The pings of machines.
The creaks of his Arm.
Broken bridge. Wings soaring on the air. His Arm tearing into the asphalt.
Bucky?
Broken glass. Broken Hellicarriers. Broken bones.
'til the end of the line.
Rivers. Speeding cars. Crowd in the Museum.
Do you remember me?
Sirens. Gunshots. Metal against metal.
Amidst the falling debris, he listens to the scream.
Such heartbreaking, anguish sobs.
Steve's dead.
His voice.