Author's note: Alright so this is my first fanfic in...ugh, nearly 2 years? And I seem to have jumped in at the deep end here. I honestly thought my first Marvel fanfic would be Loki-based but nope.

Aaaaanyway. I have absolutely no idea where the hell I'm going with this, I have no specific plot in mind - only various destinations to reach. How we get there is going to be a fun ride for everyone. That probably means it'll be crap and full of trash but hey, I'm really rusty. Also I am really new to the Captain America fandom (as you may have gathered, I'm a Thor fandom girl) but I've read the Winter Soldier comics and a few of the Cap ones so I feel I know the character from the comics well enough...but MCU Bucky? He's an unknown and my interpretation may be wildly off from what he ends up as.

But I've rambled on long enough. All that's left to say is that I own nothing except an overactive imagination.


The target hovered in the scope of the rifle, perfectly calm and perfectly still in its owners hands. It tracked the man in the crosshairs with laser-like precision despite the fact that he was well over half a mile away. The pale blue eye that peered down the scope narrowed as it watched, the trigger finger idly resting but poised to twitch into position at any given moment.

The gunman was a silent, patient figure in the early dawn, perched high on the rooftop of an abandoned building, sitting motionless and poised. Waiting. Every morning was the same and the man in the scope was nothing if not predictable in his routine. He was just asking for a bullet in his head and the sniper was amazed no one had taken advantage of the situation sooner. Of course he had considered it to be a trap, but there was absolutely no one protecting the target – he had been hanging around the area for over a fortnight, checking the vantage points and making sure he wouldn't be disturbed. But there was nothing – and no one – in his way.

And with the man in his sights, he had to wonder if he truly believed he was safe.

The target vanished behind a van and the sniper pulled his head away from the warm patch where his cheek rested, quickly scanning the area behind the mark. Then there was a flash, a brief glint off to the upper right, opposite him. The sun – which was rising behind him – glinting off an opposing rifle scope. There was a sudden surge of panic, a rush of familiar adrenaline as his cheek found the warm patch again and the scope quickly repositioned to where the other sniper was. He found them easily, a surge of anger coursing through him as he lined up a shot – just like the other was doing.

They were after the same man, but for different reasons. In a matter of seconds he calmed his breathing and lined up the shot. Then he rested his finger on the trigger, exhaled slowly, and squeezed gently.

The crack of the gun rang out in the crisp morning, loud and vicious. The shot was clear, the aim was perfect and the target was dead. And as the sniper watched the victim fall from the ledge where he'd sat through his reticule, he felt absolutely nothing except anger that someone had the balls to go after his target. But then he caught sight of that target running towards the dead man as he entered the scope and he felt his blood run cold. Of course he just had to look straight at where he was sitting, locking eyes through the scope even though he couldn't see him.

Feral panic over took the sniper's senses and he gripped the rifle tight enough to make it creak in his grip, pulling himself and it away from the ledge. Memories invaded and stung, they ripped themselves out from where they had been forcefully locked away and overwhelmed him. He froze, his back against a wall and the gun hugged tight against his chest; twitching involuntarily as he saw that same man in his memories. The look was different, he was wearing a helmet and that now-familiar red white and blue suit, but the man – and the expression – was the same. And the situation, it echoed in his mind. A siege on a base, a man lining up a shot, and himself taking that man out before he could take it.

When the flashback subsided and the sniper, still trembling and clutching the rifle in a death grip, regained his grasp on reality, the sound of the downstairs door – the door that he'd barred shut – being kicked in meant the original mark was far too close for comfort. As another surge of adrenaline pulsed through his system, he was on his feet and running for the fire escape in a heartbeat.

Four strides took him there and another took him over the edge, rifle firmly held in his right hand while his left grabbed the railing and propelled him onto the fire escape of the opposite building. His boot found the usual weak spot by the lock of the door and he crashed through, ignoring the terrified screams of the family breakfast he had just burst in on. Two, three, four strides until he hit the front door, left arm folded in front of him and braced for impact as he charged through it with little resistance. There were shouts behind him as he lengthened his stride down the long hallway – the mark had followed him across the buildings like he had before. Drawn by the screams no doubt. Damn.

But he couldn't be caught. Not right now. Not like this. He didn't want to come face-to-face with that man again. Not yet.

A sharp right turn into the stairwell and he was taking three, four stairs at a time. But not enough. Not fast enough. Not enough distance. The door he had come through upstairs banged as the mark followed, obviously looking down the spiral staircase and seeing him. There was a shout from above, a command – a request – for him to stop. To wait.

"Please".

But he couldn't, and the cry, the plea, only fuelled him to move faster. Again his left hand grabbed the railing and lifted him over in one swift, fluid movement and he dropped the last two floors and ended up nearly on his knees. The impact shot through him and burned through every joint but he refused to stop. With a grunt, he tightened his grip on his rifle and pushed on, exiting the building with a pained exhale.

The passing traffic didn't slow him down, quite the opposite. It was his way out. He took two strides up a parked car and, timing his jump perfectly, launched himself towards a passing delivery truck. The grip of his left hand was like a vice as he landed on the steps by the door, the driver swerving from the sudden shock of his new, angry-looking passenger. A fist smashed through the window, grabbing the steering wheel and stopping the truck from colliding with parked cars.

The driver, now in an utter panic, had unbuckled his seatbelt and was quickly exiting through the passenger door. Cursing loudly under his breath in several languages, the sniper pulled the door off by its hinges and swung inside, throwing his gun onto the seat beside him as the passenger door, which had still been swinging wildly from the driver's exit, hit a parked car and slammed closed.

Dragging the infuriatingly heavy steering wheel around, the sniper pointed the truck down the center of the road, straddling the center line, and put his foot to the floor. The engine protested but acquiesced and the truck accelerated noisily, clunking through the gears like it obviously never had before. Oncoming traffic swerved violently out of the way and those that didn't ended up slammed sideways by the fast-moving battering ram. And he wouldn't stop until he was well away from the man that was chasing him.

The sniper drove, hard and fast and ruthless, until he was certain he wasn't being followed. Then he eased off the gas and pointed the truck in the direction of the factory district. He was well aware that the local police would be looking for the vehicle, as would the initial mark. The engine started to groan and rattle as he approached an old warehouse which appeared to be disused – because surely if it were operational there would be people about on a mid-week morning. Almost out of fuel and on the brink of falling apart from being put under far too much strain, the truck coughed and then rolled to a halt in the shadow of the building. Close enough.

The sniper knew he couldn't stay for long. He had pulled too much attention and he needed to remove himself from it as soon as possible. But that didn't stop him from sagging in the driver's seat. His limbs ached, his head was pounding and it was at times like this that his body reminded him he was operating on only the barest minimum of sleep. Too many dreams - too many memories - haunting him for anything but the bare minimum.

And that man. Over and over and over. Same blond hair, same blue eyes, same blind optimism in his expression. But the physique changed within the memories. Sometimes he was a small, skinny thing getting beaten up in an ally and yet in others he was the same figure that chased him today. But he couldn't figure out why, he couldn't remember why. Who was Steve Rogers?

With a groan, the sniper opened his eyes and the fingers of his right hand found the point where flesh met metal on his left shoulder and massaged. He would have to get moving. Grabbing his gun, he exited the truck through the hole where the driver's side door had been not an hour before, rolling his shoulders as he got his bearings. There was no one giving him orders now. There was no one pulling the strings. He walked away from the vehicle and the warehouse, his eyebrows pulled down in thought.

Steve Rogers had called him 'Bucky' but the museum had said he'd died. They had called him the Winter Soldier. But he wasn't. Not anymore. By choice.

He turned mid-stride, aimed down the barrel of his gun without using the scope, and put a bullet in the fuel tank of the truck. And as the fireball consumed the vehicle, he turned back and resumed his march.

Not the Winter Soldier anymore. But not Bucky either.