GHOSTS
It had been 37 days since the incident in Washington D.C. It turned around on a moldy cardboard it had been using as a bed, not that it could really sleep, and looked at the concrete ceiling.
"James Buchanan Barnes," it said to itself slowly, struggling with every letter.
It was the eighth time it had said those names in the last hour. James Buchanan Barnes, that's what the man had called it. The names sounded familiar, maybe the Winter Soldier had killed him once, maybe he was a target once. A long time ago. Its mind was blurred from the cryo-sleep it had been put to and woken up from repeatedly.
It pushed itself up from the ground and leaned its back against the damp wall. It shook its head aggressively, trying to remove its thoughts, its memories. James Buchanan Barnes. It was a name, yes. It wasn't its name. It was the Winter Soldier. An asset, a weapon, a thing. Giving it a human name seemed useless, and confusing.
The man on the bridge, he had called it something else too.
Bucky.
That wasn't a human's name. Or so it thought at least. It was a name... for a pet. A dog, maybe.
Bucky.
That name hurt to remember. Every little corner of its mind felt stretched out too far. Too many memories. It rubbed its temples violently, and pulled the hoodie tighter around itself.
Cold.
After the battle in D.C. it had found a secure location, an abandoned factory at the outskirts of New York. New York felt familiar, it felt safe. It had stolen some clothes and money and was now hiding in that clammy factory.
It was confused. What was it supposed to do now? Its handler, more likely than not, was now dead. Did it mourn? Not particularly. But it felt a sense of duty towards Hydra, like it had to go back. It didn't want to go back, though. It didn't even remember why it was in Hydra. How did it get there. Did it enlist?
It had to go back. Obligation, responsibility. It had to. Duty, duty. Duty, it had a duty. It was its obligation.
It didn't want to go back. They hurt it. Made it go to sleep when it didn't want to. Made its head hurt. Screams, it remembered screams. Frightening screams, and it tasted plastic in its mouth.
It had to go back.
Maybe it had a new mission. It had to complete its mission. It should probably look for a new handler. It knew there were many, so many more Hydra agents left alive, sleepers, active ones, they were everywhere. S.H.I.E.L.D. had only managed to scrape the skin of Hydra. They were everywhere, it could hear them.
It couldn't breathe. It scratched at its throat with its metal arm. It felt as though it was suffocating. Maybe Hydra had installed a safety measure. It drew quick shallow breaths while its metal fingers dug into the skin on its throat. It started cackling. It was dying.
It saw a hazy blue light above it. It tried to move only to learn it was tied down. It was tied to a some sort of table. Metal. It felt metal under its bare back, cold and harsh. There were faces above it, looking at it, measuring its movements. Pencil scraping against paper.
"James Buchanan Barnes," it said, its lips shaky, its voice weak. "32557," it added, then it snapped back.
The number reminded it of something. It hurt, its mind stretched even further now. Its consciousness felt thin and worn out. It rubbed its temples again.
Bucky?
No. Not this, not again. Wipe me. Wipe me!
Start over, wipe me. It rubbed its head with its shaky hands. It was having its own thoughts, so many thoughts... voices. Screams mostly, people in pain. Pain it had caused. It was unstable. It had to report itself to the nearest handler, they could make it all go away. It could get wiped. Forget. Forget it all. Wipe me. It was erratic.
The agony of the continuous mind wipes, the cryo, it hated them. But it needed them right now. It was losing control. It pulled out a gun and loaded it.
Safety measure.
It took the safety off, looked at the gun and frowned.
Bucky?
Who the hell is Bucky?
Too many voices. With steady hands, it lifted the gun to its head. It looked down the steel barrel and it saw something, someone. It saw a man. It saw the man on the bridge. But he was different. Smaller. Frail, sickly. A tiny man. The Winter Soldier could have killed him, but it had suddenly lost its will to finish the mission.
Steve?
No no no. It hurts! Wipe me. Wipe me! Now!
It brought the gun closer to its head, placed its barrel against its temple and started trembling. It whimpered, like a trapped animal, it noticed.
It had to find a handler. It had to get into a stable state.
It didn't want to go.
It screamed. Like a predator in pain, it screamed long and loud as it threw the gun away. It was a spine-chilling scream, cold and disturbing. It started to feel tears running down its cheeks.
No. No not this. No tears. No crying.
It quickly wiped away the tears with the back of its human hand.
No tears.
Bucky?
Shut up!
It pushed itself up and away from the wall, grabbed the nearest box and threw it through the air. The silent factory was momentarily filled with echoes and the sound of the box scraping the concrete floor as it landed and slid further away.
Your name is James Buchanan Barnes.
No it's not.
You are my friend.
You are my mission.
It hadn't completed the mission. It had failed. It had let the man live, it had saved the man from drowning. Why?
Its head started to hurt. It always hurt when it was out of cryo for too long, without a wipe for too long. It needed a goddamn wipe!
It was cold, and it saw snow. It was May, there wasn't supposed to be snow. It walked towards the snow. Following the path treaded by heavy boots. About twenty yards away it saw men. Six, seven men. All hunching over something. The snow creaked under its boots and it ducked for cover. It walked around carefully not to make another sound. It hid behind empty crates and boxes, disappearing in the shadows of the factory while it made its way towards the men to get a closer look.
They were hunching over another man. The man had brown, short hair and he was clean shaved. His face twisted with pain. It saw agony on the man's face. Terrible unbearable suffering. It saw blood, blood everywhere. The snow around the man had turned a rosy tone.
The man's arm caught its attention. It was broken, severed. Bones sticking out, flesh and blood everywhere. Suddenly it was all too aware of its own metal arm.
"Take him to the facility," a small man said as he studied the broken man.
The other men followed his orders and tied the broken man. They tied him with ropes and started to drag him away. They dragged him away like he was an animal, nothing more but a carcass of game they caught while hunting in the forest.
It shuddered in its hiding place. The man was nothing more to them than an animal. His blue jacket was tainted with so much blood... He was screaming, still fighting. Squirming around. Trying to make an escape, his words not making any sense. His eyes started to close.
"James Buchanan Barnes," he mouthed. "32557," he added as the men dragged him through the snow. The pain was too much. And he drifted away.
It returned to the factory. The snow was gone, so was the trail of blood. It squeezed its metal hand into a fist. It returned to the cardboard bed and touched the wall gently with its fist, sliding its hand down the wall and finally sinking down on the cardboard bed.
It suited it. A bed for an animal.
It clutched to its knees like a lost child, pushed the strands of stray hair out of its face. Its bottom lip started to tremble.
Bucky?
Why, why did you show me that? Why are you making me remember things? Who are you?
I'm your friend.
Friends don't hurt their friends.
I'm sorry Buck.
It started to wail. The factory was soon filled with loud sobs and choking sounds. Too much. Too many thoughts. Too many voices. Too many memories. Make it stop.
It stared at the stained floor, wiping away its tears yet again. This time it didn't matter though. Strands of hair slipped and covered its face. It didn't matter.
And it weeped. Its throat tightening, it became hard for it to swallow. It drew heavy breaths. Shivering, on the floor of a broken factory, a broken man. A broken thing.
You are James Buchanan Barnes.
Not anymore.
