Author's Note: Amnesiacs are so much fun; I just can't resist. I've been having such a blast with my amnesiac Deadpool, that I thought I'd pick up another tortured soul… and then torture him a bit more, as is my general wont. This story will undoubtedly contain spoilers for the entire Cap trilogy; The First Avenger, The Winter Soldier and Civil War. Consider thyself warned.

This story updates… oh, let's say every fortnight. Eight chapters hammered out so far; aiming for ten, but I might go to twelve. Depends on how much torturin' needs doing. Questions, comments, criticisms… use the box or send a PM.

Running To You

1. The One That Got Away

"Papa, papa, look, I got one!"

The child's excited calls reached ears alert for sounds of danger. Feet hesitated, then stopped. The Winter Soldier, feeling more battered and bruised than he could ever remember in his life, and clutching a painfully throbbing arm to his chest, lowered himself into a crouch and slipped silently forward, squatting behind a bush to look out towards the river bank.

"Hold it there, son, I'll help you bring it in."

The father took up position behind the boy, large hands grasping the long pole in a firm grip, whilst smaller hands worked the reel. The pole bent at the farthest end as the prey fought for its life, and the father offered encouraging words to the boy. Mere seconds later, a large, gasping fish was flopping around on the river bank. The man picked it up by the tail and held it aloft for his son to see.

"A fine catch, Christopher. You wanna get a picture with him before we throw him back?"

A grin flashed across the boy's face. "Yeah!"

An aching pang tore at something inside the Soldier's chest. Broken. I am broken. He'd experienced such pangs before, usually followed by intense flashes of… something. Dream? Memory? Imagination? He didn't know. He'd never been allowed to know. Each time the flashes started, each time he began to ask questions, he was strapped into a chair and something was done to him. Then he went to sleep, and the next time he woke up, he remembered the pangs and flashes only as a catalyst for pain.

His metal hand curled into a fist as the boy posed before a slim phone's camera. The father then took the hook out from the fish's mouth, and together they threw the gasping creature back into the river. If they heard the rustle of the bush as the Soldier left, they did not acknowledge it.

The Winter Soldier was broken in more ways than one. The arm he clutched protectively to his chest had been fractured at least once by the tall, blond-haired man who insisted they were something other than hunter and prey. In the hours since he'd dragged the unconscious man from the river, he'd thought about that encounter over and over again. Why had the man said those things? That wasn't how The Mission was supposed to behave. The Mission was supposed to fight, or flee, or curse, or scream, or beg. The Mission was supposed to react with fear before being terminated. It wasn't supposed to talk to you as if… as if you were a friend.

But the things that man had said, they tickled at his mind and evoked feelings and images, pangs and flashes in equal measure. Dozens of missions carried out for his superiors, and never once had he hesitated. Never once had he doubted his orders. Never once had he let his prey escape death.

Until now.

Lost in deep thought, he stopped when he heard the sound of a motor approaching on the river. From his vantage point amongst the trees he was hard to see, but 'hard to see' was not the same as 'impossible to see'. There was no need to take chances. With a quick and silent step, he crouched behind another small bush and peered over it. The boat was not a police craft, just a small private speedboat which soon disappeared around the bend in the river. The Soldier waited until it had passed, then resumed his journey.

He followed the river because it was something to follow. It gave him a sense of mission, a sense of order he craved. Until now he'd followed his leaders. He'd followed orders. But his leaders had not come to find him. His orders lay in tatters because for the first time in his life, he'd found the strength to disobey. But the river… the river was something permanent. Something he could follow. Something that would not let him down. The river had always been there, and it always would be.

At first, after pulling the blond man from the river, he had been torn. Torn between wanting to stay and wanting to go. But he had too many questions. Too much was uncertain, unknown. Plus, he had just killed a lot of people. Society frowned on killing. He would have been captured. Incarcerated. Interrogated. The thought of being caged was unappealing. So he left.

The nearby city of Washington D.C. came first to his mind. It was a big city, inhabited by millions of people. It was easy to get lost in a crowd, and the Winter Soldier was very good at staying hidden. But big cities meant lots of security. Police were numerous; CCTV, ubiquitous. Satellites could more easily pinpoint a target in a city than in the countryside. Instead of going to the city, he followed the river in the opposite direction, and soon found himself miles from D.C. and its noise.

Luck was both for and against the Soldier. It was summer, so the dense canopy of foliage along the river bank gave him an effective screen from aerial observation. Had it been winter, the helicopters and satellites which made frequent visual scans might have spotted him even as he hid amongst the bushes. But summer brought with it an extra hazard; tourists. Though he didn't know it, he was walking part of the Potomac Heritage Trail, and the fine weather had brought out hikers and cyclists, dog-walkers and families. Each time he heard someone approach, he knew he had only seconds to make a decision. The cyclists were most easily avoided; they tended to concentrate on the trail, and were soon beyond sight. The rest were a greater annoyance, especially those with dogs. More often than not, he evaded them by slipping back into the river and hugging the overhanging bank until the chance of discovery had passed. His actions took him across the invisible state line between Virginia and Maryland a dozen times over the course of the day, each dunking in the river making him wince in pain as the cold bit into his aching, burning arm.

Towards late afternoon, he passed beneath the shadow of an ominous-looking collection of buildings. Had he known it was a CIA intelligence outpost, he might have crossed to the other side of the river, but the sprawling mass of Bethesda's outer suburbs made him hesitant to walk the opposite bank. Here he had another stroke of good-fortune; the gaze of all CIA personnel, along with other law enforcement agencies, was firmly fixed on Washington, and the catastrophic mess the Soldier had left in his wake. Nobody thought to look for a fugitive within the shadow of an intelligence organisation much like the one he'd had a hand in bringing down. He passed by the facility without incident.

As night crept in, the Winter Soldier stopped and sank to his knees. His breath came fast and hard, and his body shivered despite his attempts to will it to stillness. Not only am I broken, I am also weak, he thought. Look at me, craving warmth like some mewling infant! I, who have tracked prey across frozen wastelands and barren deserts, who have hunted in some of the most hostile environments on this planet, will not be defeated on the banks of this… this… he couldn't think of the appropriate slur in English, so he thought it in Russian. As he pushed himself to his feet, he never stopped to wonder why he was thinking his thoughts in two different languages.

The need for food and drink forced him inland, and he set off on shaky legs. Though he had been injured many times before, he had never received such a beating as the one given to him by the man whose life he had spared.

Maybe that's why I spared him. Perhaps it was professional respect. I had finally met my match. Isn't it the desire of all hunters to find a prey who will challenge them? Yes, that must be it. But then, why did he throw down his weapons and armour? Why did he not fight back when I was beating him? Why did he call me 'Bucky'?

The thoughts sent uncomfortable feelings that he could neither express nor define worming their way through his stomach. Hungry. I'm just hungry. That's all.

Hunger drove him on. Though he recalled being fed well during his intense training sessions, he tended not to eat directly before or during a mission; it slowed him down. Sometimes, hunger gave him an edge, sharpened his senses and made him more efficient. Now, though, hunger gnawed at him. It had been several days since his last meal, and over twenty-four hours since he'd had anything to drink—half the river he had swallowed notwithstanding, of course. Now, it was time to find sustenance. Once his basic needs had been satisfied, he could decide what to do next.

o - o - o - o - o

Though hunger, thirst, pain, mental fatigue and the beginnings of hypothermia had weakened the Soldier's body and mind, his survival instincts remained strong. The small town of Great Falls, Fairfax County, lay before him, bathed in warm streetlight which gave it a welcoming ambiance. But he did not enter it fully. Not yet. Instead he waited and watched, scoping out his surroundings, looking for the high ground, for the escape routes, for the best places to hide should the need arise. Though weaponless, he was not defenceless, and defence was at the forefront of his mind. His considerable training had drilled into him the need to always be aware of his surroundings, to take advantage of the local terrain.

Finally satisfied, he left his vantage point and crept into the town, moving from building to building, an extension of the shadows themselves. Equally at home in the urban setting as he was in the rural, his head swivelled constantly as he took in landmarks and signs. At the corner of a street he looked out and saw a bank, the neon hue of its external ATM calling enticingly to him. He took a step forward, then saw the CCTV camera directly above it and quickly retreated to his shadow. Dome camera. Limited range, he knew. It would see only the person stood before it, and a couple of feet to either side. It was a risk, but he needed money. One could not get very far in the land of the free without the paper bills that turned its great wheels. The risk was acceptable.

The jungle gym of a nearby park caught his eye, and he ghosted towards it, vaulting almost silently over the chain fence on his cybernetic arm. He cast around the ground and quickly found a suitable stone. Grabbing hold of the fence once more, he prepared to vault back over it.

A high-pitched laugh made him freeze where he stood, every muscle of his body taut. A young man and woman strolled down the street, arm in arm, and the Soldier could only watch in rapt fascination and growing horror as they walked within mere feet of where he waited to be discovered. At the last moment, he decided to lower his profile, and fell into a squat that sent a bolt of pain through his broken arm and very nearly made him cry out.

Love, or at least the ardour of passion, saved him. The couple, so besotted with each other that they only had eyes for their partner, walked on by without a single glance in the Soldier's direction, their conversation about whatever movie they'd just seen not even faltering for an instant. The Soldier's gaze tracked them as they strolled, his attention captivated by the way the girl's skirt swayed around her legs. It reminded him of something… some other time and place. And within an instant, he was there.

Flash.

Heart pounding a rapid staccato in his chest, he slowed his steps as the band on the stage finished belting out Glenn Miller's 'In The Mood.' He took a deep, ragged breath and looked down at the girl holding his hands. She gave him a smile which brought out the sparkle in her eyes.

"Y'wanna get a drink?" he drawled.

"Sure, I could use something to drink, all this dancing is hard work."

She took his arm as he led her through the blueish-white haze of the smoke-filled dance hall to the bar, and ordered a couple of root beers. He reached inside his jacket pocket for his wallet and handed a dollar bill to the barman.

"Just got back, or just heading out?" the man asked, aiming a questioning nod at the Soldier's uniform.

"I'm shipping out tomorrow."

"Then this one's on the house, buddy. Good luck out there, and if you get chance, give Jerry a good ol' sock on the jaw for me, won't you?"

The Soldier grinned as he put the bill back in his wallet. There were perks to the uniform; that's why he'd worn it tonight. "Thanks, pal."

"It's a shame Steve couldn't make it," the girl said as she accepted the drink he gave her.

"Yeah, but he wouldn't have had any fun. He doesn't dance."

"Why not?"

The Soldier shrugged. "He's shy." He glanced across the room to where a pretty blonde was dancing with a tall man wearing a fine suit. "At least your friend's managed to find someone to dance with."

It was her turn to grin. "She always does." When the band started playing a new tune, her eyes widened and she put her drink down on the bar to take him by the hand. "Come on, I love this one!"

With a smile, he let himself be pulled forward, into the dancing throng.

Flash.

Reality slammed back into his consciousness and he tried to slow his rapid breathing, head swivelling from side to side as he looked for the crowd, ears straining for the blaring sound of a half-dozen trumpets and trombones, the subtle rhythms of a clarinet trio, the energetic beat of the drums. But there was nothing except the still night air of the sleepy town.

What the…?!

That place, the place from his vision… he'd been there before. Knew it. Could still smell the smoke that hung in the air, taste the root beer on the tip of his tongue… But how? And when? Wherever it was, whenever it was, it was far from here. That much, he knew. Women did not dress like that anymore. Music did not sound like that anymore. And there wasn't anywhere you could buy two drinks for less than a dollar.

A crunching sound drew his attention down, and he found himself looking at a stone being crushed by the grip of his cybernetic arm. A violent shiver stole over him as he looked at it. In the vision… if that's what it truly was… he hadn't had the arm. He'd had a real arm, just like the broken one, except not broken. He'd had a hand of flesh which could feel all that it touched. Back when he'd been whole. Unbroken. Back when he'd danced with girls and bought them a root beer and listened to something better than the caterwauling they called music these days.

He shook his head.

No. I am the Winter Soldier. I work to bring about a better world. A safer world. Through my missions, I improve humanity. I don't listen to music. I don't drink root beer. I don't dance with girls. And… and… I must remember the mission. I have failed, but there will be new orders for me. New orders to make a new order. I will get strong again. Strong enough to travel. And I will find my way back. Or they will find me and bring me home. Then I can sleep again.

Quickly checking to ensure the street was clear, the Soldier vaulted over the chain fence and made his way back to the street corner. Pulling back his arm, he took careful aim and threw the rock. It hit the dome dead centre, shattering it loudly. For a count of sixty, the Soldier waited. When the broken camera summoned no additional security, he trotted across the road and smashed the front panel of the ATM, ripping the face from the wall. Though he knew how to bypass various security systems, he didn't have time right now for subtlety. His cybernetic arm was the only tool he needed, and it didn't take him long to get into the machine's cash safe.

A few hundred dollars later found him several streets away. Though his shivering had stopped, for now, his hunger and thirst had only increased. Money was no good if he couldn't find a disguise to enable him to use it. Several houses lined the street he was on, and he soon found one that wasn't alarmed. There was a car on the driveway, but all the lights inside the house were off. If anyone was home, they were probably sleeping. He quickly calculated the risk and again deemed it acceptable.

The house was no challenge, a ground floor window unlocked. He ghosted through silently, ears strained for signs that his entry had been detected. There were none, so he continued up the stairs, opening doors an inch at a time to peer cautiously around them. The master bedroom held two sleeping forms, one of them snoring gently. The next room was a bathroom, which he briefly made use of. The next room contained a smaller bed, with a girl in her early teens asleep within it. The fourth room had a bed too, but it was empty and unmade. Several posters of rock bands adorned the walls, but a few lighter, empty spaces showed where posters and banners had been taken down, probably quite recently. This was a good sign.

He raided what was left of the wardrobe, stuffing shirts and a pair of jeans into a rucksack he found beneath the bed. A few pairs of socks in a chest of drawers were threadbare, but they went into the rucksack too, along with what he hoped was clean underwear. To top it off, he grabbed a baseball cap sitting on the bedside table, and added it to the bag before donning a plain brown jacket that was only a little too small for him. Satisfied, he went down to the kitchen, ate and drank as much as his stomach would allow, grabbed a couple of boxes of cookies for the road, and left via the same window he'd entered. The whole thing had taken less than ten minutes.

With the need for food and water now a much less pressing demand, he turned his attention to his broken arm. His skin looked red and angry, his muscles felt swollen and hot. Though he was no medic, he knew that breaks which weren't clean could cause complications internally; damaged blood vessels, trapped nerves, torn tendons or ligaments… this was something beyond his ability to deal with. He needed help. He needed a doctor.

A few minutes later he came to a small building which announced its opening hours as 9am - 4.30pm on a sign in the window. A small smile tugged at one corner of the Soldier's lips. This would do nicely.

o - o - o - o - o

It was a cold, unpleasant night spent in the alley behind the small building. Though the Soldier could go for several days without sleep if necessary, it had already been several days since he'd last slept. The need for sleep was compounded by the pain in his arm and the tiredness of his mind. But each time he closed his eyes, he smelt cigarette smoke, tasted root beer and heard the jaunty sound of big-band music. He was visited, too, by mental apparitions, faces of people who struck familiar chords inside his chest, along with the faces of people he had… terminated during his missions. By the time the sun had started to rise, the Winter Soldier was more exhausted and miserable than he had ever been before in his life.

When traffic began to pick up on the road, he pressed himself further back into the alley. The town woke up and went about its daily business unaware of the stranger lurking in the shadows. He watched and listened as parents took their children to school, as shop owners opened up and greeted each other, as the newspaper boy rang his bicycle bell to warn pedestrians of his approach. It all seemed so very, very different to the life he had lived. And yet, at the same time, there was something very familiar about it, too. A dichotomy he could not reconcile, he tried to put it out of his mind.

One thing he had learnt, over the past few hours of waking nightmare, was that the more you tried to put something out of your mind, the more loudly it clamoured for attention. The root beer and music were bad enough, but the loudest was the tall, blond man who had broken his arm then let himself be beaten in turn. The man's words resounded around the Soldier's head, an infinite echo that could not be stopped.

You know me… You're my friend… I won't fight you… Your name is James Buchanan Barnes…

"No," he whispered to the echo. "I don't know you. And if I see you again, I will complete my mission. Now leave me alone!"

As if on cue, lights flickered to life within the building he was hiding beside and radio music sang out from a window that was opened by a couple of inches. Whilst the too-chirpy radio DJ gave a traffic report, the Soldier inched his way upwards, to peer over the sill. The room he looked into was a reception, neat and tidy with just a couple of magazines on the coffee table in the centre of the room. The receptionist hummed to herself as she cleaned out and refilled the coffee machine, completely oblivious to the man watching her at the window.

It was time. The Winter Soldier moved around to the back of the building and found another window, this one opening up to a small examination room. The lock on the window gave him no trouble, and he slipped into the room and took up a position behind the door. There, he waited. Waiting was something he was good at. Sometimes it took a lot of patience to catch his prey and complete a mission. Hasty action could lead to missed opportunity. Sometimes you had to hunt your prey, and sometimes you had to wait for your prey to come to you. This was one of those times.

At nine o'clock exactly, a man walked into the room and went straight for the white coat hanging on the far wall. He didn't hear the Soldier step up behind him, and only after he'd donned the coat and turned did he startle in surprise. To his credit, he did not cry out. Perhaps he sensed it was too dangerous to do so. A smart man.

"Who—who are you?" the man asked. He lifted a hand to nervously push a pair of spectacles further up his nose. When his eyes fell on the Soldier's cybernetic arm, they widened, causing the glasses to slip again.

"I'm the man you're going to help," the Soldier said. He indicated the arm held against his chest. "My arm is broken. You're going to fix it."

"If your arm is broken, you need to go to the hospital."

"I can't. No insurance."

"I can't help you. You need a doctor."

"You're a doctor."

"I'm a veterinarian!"

"Close enough. Humans are animals too, right? And I'm betting you're just as qualified as any doctor out there. Maybe more so." He took a step forward. The veterinarian stepped back. "I know you want to help me. You work with animals. People who work with animals are generally good people. I also get the feeling you value your health."

"Are you threatening me?!" the man squeaked.

"Yes." The Soldier dropped his pilfered backpack onto the floor and fixed his eyes on the vet's face. "Here are the terms. You fix my arm, and I'll leave. You forget you ever saw me, and I'll never need to come back. Try to call the police, and I'll kill you here and now. Speak of me to anyone, ever, and I'll come back and make the rest of your life worse than death. I don't want to be here, and I don't want to hurt you, but if you leave me no choice, I will. Comply, and you will never see my face again. Do you understand?"

The man swallowed and nodded.

"Good. Now, call your receptionist to the door but don't let her in. Tell her you're not feeling well. Cancel all of your appointments for today. Get your cup of coffee from her, then send her away. If you tell her I am here, or try to alert her in any way, I will hurt her. And that will be on you. Understand?"

Another nod.

The Soldier stepped aside as the man walked in a dream-like trance to the door and called the secretary over. She expressed surprise over the cancellation of appointments, concern over his health. A dutiful employee. It would have been a shame to hurt her.

"Take the day off," the vet said. "But would you mind doing the medication rounds for me?"

"Me?!" The Soldier could hear the surprise in her voice. "But—"

"Yes, yes, you'll be fine," the vet assured her. "They're all repeat prescriptions, the owners know how much to give. Everything's been paid for, just drop them all off and then take the rest of the day for yourself. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Err, okay."

"Coffee," the Soldier hissed.

"Oh, and, um, could you bring me a cup of coffee before you go?"

"Of course, I'll have it for you in just a jiffy."

When the coffee finally materialised, the vet accepted it and shut the door with great reluctance. He turned to the Soldier, and held out the cup. "You, um, wanted this?"

"That's not for me, it's for you," he told the vet's pale, clammy face. "You look terrible. Drink, then we'll get started."

"Um, okay." The man sipped the coffee and grimaced. Either it tasted bad or was too hot. "Whilst I'm, um, drinking, why don't you take off your shirt? I'll need to do an x-ray to know where the break is, before I can, um, attempt to set it," he hurried to explain when the Soldier glared at him.

Never before had it taken so long to take off a shirt, but he had a broken arm to work around; an arm that was now so painful that even the slightest touch caused his body to tremor in agony. A sheen of sweat coated his forehead before he was through taking off the shirt, and a wave of dizziness was trying its best to fell him. He fought against it, and won.

"That's, um, an impressive arm," said the vet, eyeing up the cybernetic limb and the scar-tissue surrounding it. "How did that happen?"

"I was a soldier. There was an accident."

"Oh? Where were you stationed?"

"Do you know what the word 'classified' means?"

"Um, yes?"

"Then don't ask any more pointless questions." He propped himself against he edge of the bed. "Are you ready to begin?"

"Yes, yes, of course. Let's get started right away."

The vet was hasty but professional. The x-ray was over with quickly, showing two different fractures on his right radius bone, along with what the vet suspected were tears within both collateral ligaments.

"I'll need to administer pain relief and antibiotics before I try to set it, and then I'll have to put it in a cast to—"

"No cast," the Soldier told him. "Set it and sling it."

"But without a cast—"

"No cast."

The vet threw his hands into the air. "Fine. But you'll only make it worse. The arm needs to stay still, even the slightest movement could cause it to set incorrectly. Don't blame me if it's no better in three months."

"I won't." Three months? Was that how long it took for broken arms to heal? It seemed a very long time. Injuries he had received in the past mended much faster than that. Bruising faded within hours; cuts and burns within days. He suspected it would not take months for his arm to mend.

"Very well. Wait here for a moment, I'll go and get the medications I need."

The Soldier stared at the x-rays on the light box as the vet rattled around in the drugs cabinet. He'd never seen the inside of himself before; never needed to. How easily his arm had snapped! If the human body was so fragile, why hadn't his commanders given him two cybernetic arms? Why hadn't they outfitted him with cybernetic legs, too? If they could give him one arm, why only one? Why not a whole body? Why not just make people out of cybernetic parts to begin with? Parts were fixed faster than bones. Parts did not bleed. They did not doubt. They did not hurt, inside or out.

"Here we go." The vet returned with two hypodermic syringes. "Something to help with the pain, and something to help fight off infection."

The Soldier eyed the long, wicked silver needles, and felt an unpleasantness inside. It might have been fear. He'd never felt fear before, but he thought that if he could, this might be what it felt like.

"No drugs," he said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"No drugs."

"Look, I can see you're in pain, and that will make it much harder for me to set the arm. I need it relaxed."

"It will be relaxed. I will make it relaxed. But no drugs."

"But—"

"NO!" The Soldier lifted his cybernetic hand and, without moving his gaze from the doctor's face, smashed it into the light box, shattering it. The light fizzled out, bringing a surge of anger to the Soldier's mind. "Do you think I'm stupid? Do you think I don't know what you use to euthanise animals? Do you think I'm just going to trust that you aren't injecting me with a lethal dose?"

"I—I would never—"

"I don't care!" he snarled. "No injections. I'll take whatever pills you've got for when the pain gets bad. But if you come any closer to me with those needles, I'll stick them in you."

The vet swallowed and hastily put the syringes aside. The Soldier relaxed. Just a little. Though his body had proven resistant to many sedatives in the past—much to the irritation of his handlers—he was willing to take no chances. He was weak. He knew it. He could sense the weakness within him, even though he was no longer hungry or thirsty. He was still exhausted, still in pain, with chills and hot flushes coming in alternate bouts. Weakened, he might succumb to a sedative. He could not afford that. Better to be in pain than at the mercy of another.

"I—If you lie down, I'll try to set your arm now," the vet offered.

The surgical bed was too short for a human, his legs dangled off the end of it, but the Soldier complied, an ill feeling in the pit of his stomach. Perhaps this was a mistake. This man was nothing like those who had tended to his physical wellbeing before. Always, in the past, he'd had confidence in his doctors' abilities, even when he hadn't liked what they were doing. Though the things they did to him often caused him pain, they did them with confidence, to make him better. Stronger. This veterinarian had no confidence. He was a bundle of nerves. A confidently issued command would have made the Soldier feel more relaxed right then. That was all he truly wanted; to be commanded once more. To have uncertainty removed.

"Without the painkillers, this will hurt. A lot," the vet warned him. "I should tell you, I've never performed a closed reduction on a human before. Not even one under general anaesthetic, much less one fully conscious and without any sedation or pain relief. I strongly recommend we abandon this and you go to a hospital. I'll drive you there and pay for your treatment myself, if necessary."

"No hospitals," the Soldier instructed. "Perform the procedure."

The seconds of agony caused by the vet pushing the mis-aligned bones into place stretched out into what felt like an eternity. The soldier couldn't help the pained cry that escaped his lips; he'd learnt long ago that suppressing a howl of pain didn't lessen the pain one bit, so instead he'd tried to accept it. This was a very different pain to the one he usually felt, and it left his skin damp, his body shivering, the hand of his cybernetic arm opening and closing in unconscious spasm. His vision blurred, dizziness struck, and if he hadn't been lying down, he probably would have passed out.

Then it was over. The pain was still there, but it was a numb sort of pain. It was manageable. The veterinarian propped a cushion behind the Soldier's back, bringing him closer to a sitting position.

"I'll need to take another x-ray. I need to know that the bones are aligned now. If not, we'll have to do it again."

The Soldier merely nodded, and allowed the vet to take the x-ray. Whilst he waited for the image to fully develop, he closed his eyes and slipped away to another place.

Flash.

"How does it feel?" asked a reedy, accented voice.

The Soldier raised his metal arm and held it out in front of him. Once, twice, three times he flexed his hand, opening and closing to a fist. A single word escaped his lips.

"Fine." Then, another thought. "When can I go home?"

A face appeared in view, a pudgy, squashed-up face adorned with wide, circular spectacles. The face subjected him to a rather sympathetic expression.

"Don't you remember? You are home. The accident… I'm afraid it has affected your mind. You are lucky that you weren't more severely brain-damaged."

The Soldier looked around at the room. It was dark, the shadows deep and black like ink on a dirty page. This place was cold, and it smelt of damp. This was not his home, and he said as much to the face.

"So confused! Poor boy. Don't worry. There are gaps in your memory, caused by the accident. We will fill them."

"With what?"

"Knowledge! The most important thing in the world. More important than strength. More important than power. For what is strength and power without the knowledge of how and when to use it?"

"But… I don't belong here." A thought came to his mind, blossoming like the trumpet of a daffodil opening to the warm embrace of the sun. A thought so deeply ingrained that it came out without conscious thought. "My name is James Buchanan Barnes. Rank, Sergeant, assigned to the 107th. My mom's name is—"

"Ach, nein, nein!" The squat little man threw his hands into the air before turning to face a man in a long white coat. "How long did that last?"

"Eine tag."

"Improvement, at least. Six hours longer than the last time."

The Soldier watched, afraid, confused, as the face came closer. "You are the Winter Soldier. You are an elite Hydra operative. Early on in the Second World War, you were sent deep undercover, to infiltrate the American infantry. For two years," a pair of fingers came up to emphasise the point, "you were successful in your mission. When we finally brought you home, the Americans were so convinced you were one of them, that they 'rescued' you, taking you from us before we could deprogram you fully. Since then we have recovered you and tried to restore your memories… unfortunately, our initial programming seems to have been a little too effective. You have so fully assumed the identity which we programmed into your mind, that you truly believe you are an American soldier. If you remember only one piece of information from this iteration, remember this."

Flash.

The Soldier opened his eyes and found himself looking at yet another white coat. The vet cleared his throat, then held up the x-ray. With a shaky hand, he pointed out the fractures which had now be realigned. "It, um, seems to have worked. I still think we need to put a cast on—"

"No cast."

"Okay. Then, if you'll sit up, I'll put your arm in a sling. You need to keep it immobile for as long as possible. The arm will be weak for quite some time; if you use it, the bones will break again."

"I won't use it." Unless I have to.

The sling was awkward, and the Soldier had to settle for draping the jacket he'd pilfered over the shoulder of his broken arm. He turned to look at the vet, and heard a voice inside his mind issue an order. Cover your tracks. Leave no evidence of your presence.

"I'd like to give myself an injection of a painkiller," he said, turning for the medicine cabinet. "Which one is it?" The vet told him, and the Soldier reached for another bottle. "What does this one do?"

"It's a mild antibiotic."

"And this one?"

"An anabolic steroid. Not something you need, I think."

"What about this?" he asked, holding up another bottle.

"A strong sedative."

"How much of this would I need to make me sleep for a couple of hours?"

"I… I couldn't say."

"Approximate."

"Probably about half of a syringe."

The Soldier filled the syringe a quarter of the way full, then turned towards the vet. The man's eyes widened in understanding, and he made a dash for the door. But the Soldier's reflexes were too sharp; he caught the animal doctor by the collar and swept one of his legs from beneath him, lowering him to the floor. There, he stuck the needle into the man's arm, injected the fluid, then hauled him up onto the bed.

"Why?" the man demanded, his glasses skewed on his face, his short brown hair dishevelled in the scuffle. "I helped you."

"I know. And by way of thanks, I've given you your life." The Soldier put the syringe aside and picked up his backpack. "You'll sleep for a couple of hours, if your approximation was correct, and if you didn't lie about the contents of that bottle. By then I'll be long gone, and nothing but a dream to your mind. Forget that dream. Forget it, and speak of it to no-one."

The vet's eyes flickered closed and, in a rare moment of compassion, the Soldier turned him onto his stomach, so that he would not swallow his tongue, or vomit upon waking. That was something he had learned long ago. Turn an unconscious man face-down, if it won't injure him to do so.

Why his commanders had given him that information when he only ever worked alone, he did not know, but he did not dwell on it either. He left by the window and closed it behind him. The good thing about a cybernetic arm was that it left no fingerprints. Just one less piece of evidence to wipe away.