p dir="ltr" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Lucida Sans Unicode', 'GNU Unifont', Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 15.8003997802734px;"The Soldier's trained hands moved over the cold metal of the sniper rifle, muscle memory taking over as he carefully aimed the weapon, his flesh hand lingering on the trigger, waiting for the right moment. He doesn't remember such things making him guilty or angry anymore. He is recalling many things, from before, but they are small, little things and from during the war. He does not know what to do with those memories, but he knows he is no longer their weapon anymore but he is not Bucky Barnes. He is just simply the Soldier./p
p dir="ltr" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Lucida Sans Unicode', 'GNU Unifont', Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 15.8003997802734px;"He doesn't hesitate or flinch when he pulls the trigger. The sound of gunshot is familiar, almost An assassin's lullaby/em. It was all he was used to- all he knew. With only memories of war, of violence, it was difficult to imagine life as anything else. To just try to quietly assimilate. Vaguely, somewhere in his mind, he knows it'd be so hard. That he was really so, so fucked up right now. But he was choosing to push those things away, away until he completed his first (and only) mission he had assigned to himself… It was their fault he was this way. They'd hurt so many people, too. So, for the first time in his life, he was doing something right. He was killing people who actually deserved it. He was their greatest asset, their successful little experiment. And now he was their worst enemy./p
p dir="ltr" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Lucida Sans Unicode', 'GNU Unifont', Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 15.8003997802734px;"Karma was a bitch. He's not sure where he heard those words, but they fit somehow./p
p dir="ltr" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Lucida Sans Unicode', 'GNU Unifont', Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 15.8003997802734px;"The Soldier doesn't make a sound as he quickly packs up his (admittedly stolen) weapon. He could leave no trails to be followed, after all, and it wasn't like he had any money at this point. It doesn't matter. He won't be using the rifle for much longer, anyway, he thinks, flexing the mechanical arm admissively. Though it's built for the cold, it's been long since he's had maintenance, or, god forbid, some lubricant for smoother movements. He can feel it's already starting to take a toll on the false limb, the wrong gears moving or some just not at all… and that ache, that ache that was always there, the ache that lingered where metal met flesh and bone, was worsening. The Soldier did not know why, but he couldn't muse on it for too long, because thinking was badbadbad. He wasn't allowed to think. Thinking like that got him in trouble. He was just supposed to go through his assignments like always… and that's what he was doing. Completing what he started./p
p dir="ltr" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Lucida Sans Unicode', 'GNU Unifont', Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 15.8003997802734px;"This is his last mission, the Soldier knows./p
p dir="ltr" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Lucida Sans Unicode', 'GNU Unifont', Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 15.8003997802734px;"After he eliminates them, all the enemy, every last follower of HYDRA, he will be all that is left. The remainder of what was once a powerful antagonist in the story of his pitiful existence. Without orders, without something to contribute in this world… He was just a broken soldier. A broken soldier, who couldn't even dream of fixing himself, and who would attempt, to fix him, even think about it, when he was like this? It was just better if he stopped breathing. It was better, because in the end he was just a weapon, a puppet that had gone where the strings pulled… and no one could ever really change that./p
p dir="ltr" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Lucida Sans Unicode', 'GNU Unifont', Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 15.8003997802734px;"He shoved thick gloves over his mismatched hands and fingers and snatched what seemed to be an instrument case (only he knew the truth) and left the abandoned building he'd taken residence in behind. His eyes narrowed slightly as he joined the crows of joyful adults once again. This was a festival, and no one really cared where he'd come from just a moment before. They were too busy having fun. They wouldn't know about the assassination of their senator for a while yet. He'd be two states away before they even thought to look where he was now./p
p dir="ltr" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Lucida Sans Unicode', 'GNU Unifont', Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 15.8003997802734px;"Despite the waves of talking and laughter, the Soldier didn't speak a word. He was never one for talking, at least since he had ceased being Bucky Barnes and became the Winter Soldier. Besides, it was best no one really saw him, really remembered him at all. Fading into nothingness was a skill very essential for the business he was in…. or used to be in./p
p dir="ltr" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Lucida Sans Unicode', 'GNU Unifont', Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 15.8003997802734px;"Well, he better get out of here, he mused, and then there was the challenge of finding somewhere to sleep, maybe something to eat. He only needed four hours of sleep, with the modified serum, but it wasn't the best when one was on the run and in hiding. He needed many times the amount of food than the normal, average man, and next to nothing (a meal at a homeless shelter every once in a while) wasn't doing him well at all. But he'd survived on less… He'd be okay. He'd be fine until he completed his mission and out a bullet in his own head… ending this hell once and for all./p
p dir="ltr" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Lucida Sans Unicode', 'GNU Unifont', Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 15.8003997802734px;"He doesn't hesitate or flinch when he pulls the trigger. The sound of gunshot is familiar, almost An assassin's lullaby/em. It was all he was used to- all he knew. With only memories of war, of violence, it was difficult to imagine life as anything else. To just try to quietly assimilate. Vaguely, somewhere in his mind, he knows it'd be so hard. That he was really so, so fucked up right now. But he was choosing to push those things away, away until he completed his first (and only) mission he had assigned to himself… It was their fault he was this way. They'd hurt so many people, too. So, for the first time in his life, he was doing something right. He was killing people who actually deserved it. He was their greatest asset, their successful little experiment. And now he was their worst enemy./p
p dir="ltr" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Lucida Sans Unicode', 'GNU Unifont', Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 15.8003997802734px;"Karma was a bitch. He's not sure where he heard those words, but they fit somehow./p
p dir="ltr" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Lucida Sans Unicode', 'GNU Unifont', Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 15.8003997802734px;"The Soldier doesn't make a sound as he quickly packs up his (admittedly stolen) weapon. He could leave no trails to be followed, after all, and it wasn't like he had any money at this point. It doesn't matter. He won't be using the rifle for much longer, anyway, he thinks, flexing the mechanical arm admissively. Though it's built for the cold, it's been long since he's had maintenance, or, god forbid, some lubricant for smoother movements. He can feel it's already starting to take a toll on the false limb, the wrong gears moving or some just not at all… and that ache, that ache that was always there, the ache that lingered where metal met flesh and bone, was worsening. The Soldier did not know why, but he couldn't muse on it for too long, because thinking was badbadbad. He wasn't allowed to think. Thinking like that got him in trouble. He was just supposed to go through his assignments like always… and that's what he was doing. Completing what he started./p
p dir="ltr" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Lucida Sans Unicode', 'GNU Unifont', Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 15.8003997802734px;"This is his last mission, the Soldier knows./p
p dir="ltr" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Lucida Sans Unicode', 'GNU Unifont', Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 15.8003997802734px;"After he eliminates them, all the enemy, every last follower of HYDRA, he will be all that is left. The remainder of what was once a powerful antagonist in the story of his pitiful existence. Without orders, without something to contribute in this world… He was just a broken soldier. A broken soldier, who couldn't even dream of fixing himself, and who would attempt, to fix him, even think about it, when he was like this? It was just better if he stopped breathing. It was better, because in the end he was just a weapon, a puppet that had gone where the strings pulled… and no one could ever really change that./p
p dir="ltr" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Lucida Sans Unicode', 'GNU Unifont', Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 15.8003997802734px;"He shoved thick gloves over his mismatched hands and fingers and snatched what seemed to be an instrument case (only he knew the truth) and left the abandoned building he'd taken residence in behind. His eyes narrowed slightly as he joined the crows of joyful adults once again. This was a festival, and no one really cared where he'd come from just a moment before. They were too busy having fun. They wouldn't know about the assassination of their senator for a while yet. He'd be two states away before they even thought to look where he was now./p
p dir="ltr" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Lucida Sans Unicode', 'GNU Unifont', Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 15.8003997802734px;"Despite the waves of talking and laughter, the Soldier didn't speak a word. He was never one for talking, at least since he had ceased being Bucky Barnes and became the Winter Soldier. Besides, it was best no one really saw him, really remembered him at all. Fading into nothingness was a skill very essential for the business he was in…. or used to be in./p
p dir="ltr" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Lucida Sans Unicode', 'GNU Unifont', Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 15.8003997802734px;"Well, he better get out of here, he mused, and then there was the challenge of finding somewhere to sleep, maybe something to eat. He only needed four hours of sleep, with the modified serum, but it wasn't the best when one was on the run and in hiding. He needed many times the amount of food than the normal, average man, and next to nothing (a meal at a homeless shelter every once in a while) wasn't doing him well at all. But he'd survived on less… He'd be okay. He'd be fine until he completed his mission and out a bullet in his own head… ending this hell once and for all./p