A Thousand Scattered Pages

by JayRain

Someday he'll put the pieces together in a way that makes sense. For now, the memories are scrawled on scattered pages in a dozen different journals: out of sequence, out of time, out of body, out of mind. Just who is Bucky? He hopes writing down the fragmented memories, as he recalls them, will lead him to an answer. It isn't always pretty, but it has to be done.

2. Memorial

Chapter 1: Memorial

I'm a ghost. No one knows I existed then and they don't know I exist now.

No weapon, but that's wrong. I am a weapon. I don't want to be that anymore. I don't know what to be, though.

Start with who I was. If that's even me.

The face is mine. The story: familiar?

Snow. Rush of wind, roar of an engine. Icy air slicing my face. I've felt this before. Stomach drops out and there's screaming. White blur, gray sky, reaching out to catch myself. Ripping, tearing, fire. Thud. Stars, darkness, biting ice, burning pain.

James Buchanan Barnes, the only Howling Commando to give his life. Howling Commandos: daring sons of bitches who took down HYDRA forces all across Europe, doing what no other regiment or team could. I think I knew their names, once. They were honored in Europe and America for their service. They're probably all dead now; if any still lived, they'd be nearly a hundred years old.

That means I am, too. How can I be that old and still look the same? Maybe that isn't me. Maybe James Buchanan Barnes is as much a ghost as I am. Maybe the man on the bridge was mistaken; he thought I was someone else. So why did his words cut through me?

Best friends since childhood, Steve Rogers and James Buchanan, "Bucky", Barnes.

Grew up in Brooklyn.

107th.

Presumed KIA in Azzano, rescued by Steve Rogers only to fall to his death.

There it is again, my insides twisting into coils. The buzzing in my head, the roar of the crowd, or is it the roar of the wind as I'm falling again and again. If I close my eyes I see the snow and the eternally gray sky and I realize I haven't ever been warm since that day.

First rule: no witnesses. I'm surrounded by hundreds of witnesses and I think I'm warm. I can't stop staring at the face that is my face but isn't my face. I blink and he's still there. People pause, skim, keep walking. I'm standing here staring. I'm obvious. They see me and they know me. One exit through to a special exhibit gift shop. Stay calm.

Just move. Get out of here.

Next stop, Brooklyn.