April 3rd, 2014. That date, today's date, was on the list of three things that he knew.
Also on that list as his target. Some man who in his memory was known as Agent Coulson, Phil of S.H.I.E.L.D. badge number 2271 YA. He knew everything about the agent as the manila file that had been given to him said. That the agent had been killed, resurrected, and was now looking in the wrong places.
The last thing on the list that held his entire memory was how to use the ORSIS T-5000 sniper rifle. But even as he cleaned the rifle and checked it's sighting the act felt more like instinct.
Even though there was little he knew the man wasn't clueless. There were many things that stuck out to him as abnormal; though he could place exactly why they were odd, or what he believed an odd feeling to even be. But the overwhelming cold he felt as something that seemed distinctly abnormal. It felt like he was thawing. Every inch of him was numb and left arm- the one that was maybe oddly made of shining metal with a red star on his shoulder, was could to touch. Only a few hours ago had the last of the frost melted away from the metal limb. He held back a shiver as the section of metal that touch his scarred skin seemed to bite with cold. He ignored the pain of icy teeth digging into his shoulder and focused on the task at hand.
From the open window he could hear the sound of the busy street below. Car horns sirens, and masses of people in a million different private conversations. He was grateful for the noise, because noise meant crowds, crowds meant an easy escape. Because he had a feeling that if he were captured or seen there would be pain from those he got his orders from. So if he got captured he wouldn't let it be alive.
His attention turned back to his mission from the dropping feeling that had formed in his stomach. It took his less than a minute to spot his target dressed in the same style, a suit and sunglasses, he had been in the photos that he was given to memorize. His target tried blending in with the crowd, but it was in vain. The sight on his rifle met the target seamlessly, definitely more instinct than memory.
The man suddenly stopped walking and reached into his suit coat pocket to pull out a cell phone, distracted by whatever news he was getting. It was now or never, the sniper thought. Just as his fingers squeezed the trigger to finish the job with a single muscle movement a pedestrian ran into the agent who dropped his phone on contract. As he bent down to grab it the bullet went right over him and traveled into the neck of the man who had inadvertently ran into the agent.
The sniper growled in frustration. He took a few more carefully placed shots to take down the target. But the agent was obviously used to being shot at.
The agent was quick in his movements and hid behind a dumpster truck that had been parked a few feet from his position. Even as the sniper gave a few shots to try to worm him out out of his hiding place it became clear that his mark wasn't going to move from his safe haven.
Methodically he pushed the window fully open before jumping out and making his flawless landing on the roof of a blue sedan that had been parked on the street below his window. The metal crushed beneath his weight and made a large crater in the once smooth roof.
Having left his rifle in his makeshift perch- the long distance weapon would have been a hassle for going up close- he pulled out a knife from one of the many holsters on his military grade uniform. With a twirl he got the knife in a proper hold and stalked towards his prey.
But he wasn't there. When the assassin rounded the large truck there was no agent. The grip around his knife tightened when a gun clicked behind him and the tip of it's barrel touched the back of his head.
"Guess you haven't dealt with many S.H.I.E.L.D. agents." The voice behind the gun said in a voice that his cocky smile translated into. "We aren't as easily struck down as some of your other targets."
Phil Coulson watched the assassin closely. He noted how when he put the gun on the back of the man's head, into his messy black hair, he didn't move a muscle. He didn't flinch or make any noticeable reaction. He almost seemed to have gotten a 'gone fishing' sign hung around his neck and left he be.
"What's your name?" Phil asked, but he received no answer from the near catatonic man. "Alright, who sent you?" Nothing. "Why were you sent after me then? I hope you aren't here for my Captain America trading cards because they might have lost some value."
That got a reaction. In what seemed like a fraction of a second the assassins had spun around, grabbed the gun from Phil's hands, and aimed it at the man who had originally been leveled at the assassin's head. It was all in one swift movement; like instinct.
"What did you say?" The assassin demanded. His muzzle like mask muffled his voice but didn't remove his authority.
Phil noted the assassin's fluent Russian. After being Natasha Romanoff's handler for nine years he had picked up a fair amount of the language. Not enough to be fluent, but enough to be able to understand what most of the assassin was saying.
So in choppy Russian he replied, "I said that I hoped you weren't looking for my Captain America-"
"Who is that?" The man tried masking his confusion with anger but the emotions ended up mixing together and the gun in his hand lost some of its stability and shook slightly. Not a great thing for Phil.
What Phil wanted to know was how the man in front of him didn't know who Captain America was. He was a nation icon before The Battle of New York and an international symbol of peace after. It was nearly impossible to avoid mentions of the hero since he was not only national discussion, but an exhibit at the Smithsonian.
"How do you not know who Steve Rogers is?" Coulson asked, still in disbelief.
The assassin muttered something that his mask made impossible to understand. When the assassin glared at Phil expectantly he knew that he had been asked another question.
Annoyance washed over the assassin when he realized he hadn't been heard. He raised an arm mysteriously made out of metal to rip off the mask and threw it to the side before asking his question again.
Phil was too much in shock to hear it.
James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes stood in front of him. The war hero that Phil had read about in his history textbooks and old S.S.R. files on was standing in front of him seventy years after his death. There was no way it was anyone else. The only thing that Phil could have thought of was a relative but Bucky the Barnes bloodline ended when the soldier had fallen down a ravine somewhere deep in Europe. Hs parent didn't have anymore children and the rest of his family had been living in Romania in a time when being Jewish in Europe was a death sentence. There was no explanation for what he was seeing.
"Holy crap." It wasn't the most profound thing to say when realizing one of your childhood heroes wasn't actually dead. But it was the only thing that made it out. "You're Bucky Barnes."
"Who the hell is Bucky?" He asked in sudden English.
Phil didn't get to try and explain because a Bucky tensed when he looked at something to their right. Phil glanced over and saw Melinda May holding a gun tightly in her hand a taking a shot without hesitation.
"No!" Phil yelled. He didn't know what had happened to the former Howling Commando sniper and him dying wouldn't help that.
But what happened was different than he had expected. Barnes spun out of the way of the bullet and shot at Melinda, who dodged the bullets with the same amount of care. After Phil had seen that his agent wasn't injured he turned back to the war hero to find him gone the only evidence he was ever there was a small pile of blood that trailed a little before it was gone, along with Bucky Barnes.
His agent ran up to meet him as he kneeled down to the small puddle of blood. "Who was that?"
He stood up and looked around. Something told him he wasn't going to be able to find Barnes if he didn't want to be found. Phil knew that he had seen Bucky Barnes, but before saying it out loud he wanted more proof of what he had seen was true.
"Get that blood tested, run it against every S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, and by every I mean all the back from the S.S.R. days."
"Can I ask why?" Melinda asked.
"You can, but I'm not going to answer." Phil answered plainly. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you, and if it is who I think it is then there is someone who is going to really want to see him."
The instinct of running away to the memory of where to go was what brought him to the compound he had started at. He, Bucky, stumbled back with a bullet in his shoulder fearing that wasn't the worse pain he was going to be in soon. But that was in the back of his mind because that name, Steve Rogers, was stuck in his mind along with the blurred outline of a man with blonde hair who went from being short and skinny to tall and muscular. He was so lost in memory that he barely noticed getting found by soldier, brought back to the room with the chair, and having his bullet wound treated.
He didn't listen to the man who questioned him because of the memories that assaulted him. Nor did he react when the words wipe him were spoken with hate and and annoyance.
The only feeling he got was from the fear of being strapped in the chair that he didn't know what was but only had fear and pain associated with. Being stuck in the chair was the last thing he wanted because that memory of that man was something he wanted to follow until the end of whatever line of memory he was falling down. But, as always, when instinct turns to memory he always ended up back here.