I was on my way home when he found me. Totally engrossed by Taylor Swift singing me through the day, I didn't see him at first. As I unplugged my earphones, I saw a man walking briskly towards me, pushing people out of his way. He was wearing a plain black jacket with the collar flipped up and a cap pulled low over his face. As he passed, an arm jutted out like a snake and caught my arm in a strong grip - an inhumanly strong grip.
"Come with me," he muttered. Surprised, I made a split decision to follow him into a dark, vacant alley. He turned to face me and, checking that no one was around to eavesdrop, pulled off his cap so I could see his face. He had the look of someone who had once been handsome and been mistreated to have uncharacteristic sunken and hollow features. Shoulder length dark brown hair framed his sallow face. Dark blue eyes, almost grey, filled with sorrow and heart-break, were deep set along a strong jawline with a month's worth of stubble grown along it.
"Wh-Who are you?" I stammered. Something about those eyes, so reckless and frightened, put me on edge. He ignored my question.
"You're Meg Blanchard." How did this strange man know who I was? And what did he want with me?
"Yes," I said after a moment. "Did you want something?" He seemed more than edgy; he was scared. As a therapist, you tend to pick up on these things.
"I need your help. You're the big therapist, right? The one who everyone talks about?" Everyone? Not likely. I was just a kid with no background and half an education trying to make enough to make ends meet, put food on the table, or have clothes on my back. The only reason I had this job was because... Well, never mind.
"Um, I'm not sure I'm 'that big therapist' as you say. But if you want an appointment, call Anita, she'll make a time you can come in-"
"No." Startled, I broke off. "Look, I don't have time to explain, and, quite frankly, don't know enough to explain," he continued. "They're after me, and if we don't get on the move, they'll catch us." As if on cue, a gunshot shattered the busy chatter of Broadway, New York. The man sprang into action, grabbing me by the waist and forcing me behind the nearest garbage can. "Stay here," he commanded, and with that he sprinted into the busy street, disappearing from my view. Shaking, I emerged slowly from my hiding spot. I saw the man in a fierce battle against a strong, athletic looking figure holding a .22 a little too carelessly for my comfort. As they clashed, the pedestrians screamed and ran here and there, all the while becoming more and more prone to be hit by one of the flying bullets. I darted out from my trash can hiding spot and began pushing people out of the line of fire.
The two men were still interlocked in combat, the new figure slowly overpowering the other. Making sure the pedestrians were safely out of range, I raced towards them to try and help, but even as I reached them, I was struck by something hard across the back of my head. The blow was so hard I began to lose consciousness. The last thing I saw before black was a glint of metal where the sorrowful looking man's arm should have been.
When I woke up, I was back in the alley where the strange man had first spoken to me. I sat up slowly. Geez, my head hurt. I nearly jumped when I spotted the broken form of the man with the gun crumpled in a corner.
"Good, you're awake. Now you can see why we need to get out of here as quickly as possible."
I jumped again, unaware the scared man was still there.
"Did-did you do that to him?" I croaked. My throat was dry and it hurt to talk. I was scared and tired, and I was starting to wonder why I was still here, in the cold street, rather than my warm apartment on the Upper East Side. "Actually, it doesn't matter. I need to go, I have things to do..." I trailed off at the look on his face.
He resembled a lost puppy that had been kicked too many times and thrown out into the cold to fend for himself, while at the same time so self-disgusted I even felt pity for him. Then I checked myself, because he didn't seem the type to appreciate pity. He sighed.
"I-I guess you think I'm some sort of monster, huh? That I'm a twisted, awful human being, but I doubt there's more human than machine in here," he murmured, pointing at his chest. I didn't say anything. "This is why I need your help. I guess I lost my memory, because I can't remember anything except from a month ago. Then I'll have these... These episodes, where I'll get triggered and black out, and when I wake up, something horrible has happened," he finished, crouching next to the man who was still laying in a silent, still heap. His voice had been getting quieter and quieter with everything he said, until it was just above a whisper. "Usually, I've done the horrible thing." I was terribly confused. How was I supposed to help a potentially psychotic maniac who'd lost his memory?
I finally contented myself with repeating a simple question: "Who are you? I mean, what is your name, if you can remember?"
He seemed to think for a minute, then stood up and said, "Bucky."