BB:

I was aware of the footsteps coming up the stairs from a few flights away.

Heavy footed, solid, occasionally taking the steps two at a time. It was likely to be a man. There was no faltering or slowing of pace… He'd been here before. He knew where he was going.

The footsteps were getting louder. He was coming to the top floor.

I silently got up from the mattress on the floor and stood by the door, I closed my eyes to focus on what I was hearing in the hallway. He was just outside my door. There was a knock, but it was for next door. I heard Sarah greet him and invite him inside.

I relaxed a little and went back to the mattress. I had my journal open with a picture of Steve Rogers lying on the page. Before leaving the States, I went to the Smithsonian to learn more about him. Turns out I could read about myself too, not that it did much good. It was just words about two people I knew nothing about. Just fragments and images here and there gave me the sense that I really did have a history with him… I just couldn't remember it.

I stared at the page. There were random notes of things that I remember Steve saying on the Heli-carrier as we fought. Then there were the questions, so many questions. Strangely, the one thing I did know was that Steve's mothers name was Sarah, that came to me this morning, but there was no image with the name, only more questions.

I stared at the page, hoping for an answer to come, any answer; just something to piece my mind together. Instead the low tones of a man's voice distracted me, putting me on edge. I could hear the conversation pass back and forth between Sarah and her guest. I had vague recollections of another time and a sense of unease about a lady inviting a man into her home unaccompanied, the impression it gave, a delicate flashback of morality.

I tried to settle, but the presence of someone new on the floor troubled me. My eyes drifted between the picture of Steve and the wall behind which the conversation emanated. There were no words but tones, and the tonal changes gave the impression that whatever they were discussing had changed it was more emotive now, not an average social call.

I went back to my picture, trying to recall something from the depths of my mind, something tangible. But there was nothing, only his mother's name.

A cry came from next door, the tone was too high for a man. It was Sarah…

Listening intently, I sat up right, the picture of Steve still in my hand. I glanced down, it silently whispered to me 'She's in trouble, do something.' Was it my subconscious or my imagination of what I thought he would do?

Her cries continued but the tone had changed. They seemed more frantic now.

I got up and went to the adjoining wall, my ear pressed against it to get a clearer impression of what was happening. In the corner of my eye, Steve's picture stared at me from the bed. 'Come on Buck.' It was like a ghost of a memory talking to me. Then something inside me switched on. Cover the arm, no weapons.

I rolled the sleeve of my shirt down then reached into the pocket of my jacket pulling out my gloves. Then went to the side pocket and took out my pick lock set, unsure as to whether the apartment door would be locked or not.

The tone of Sarah's cries had turned more into pleas now. I went over to the kitchen bench and picked up the plate that she had left, now empty and clean. If she didn't want intervention, I needed a legitimate excuse to be there.

I opened my apartment door to hear the continuing sound of in her apartment. I knocked, loud enough that I hoped it would disturb whatever was going on, but there was no pause.

I tried the door handle and to my surprise it was unlocked. I put the plate on the floor in outside the door where it would be out of the way and closed my eyes. I needed my eyes to adjust to the dark. I opened the door just enough to squeeze my hand through and touch the wall. Sure enough, the light switch was in the same position as mine.

Flicking off the light, I stepped into the flat and closed the door quickly behind me. The man pinning Sarah down on the sofa landed a heavy hit to her face. She went limp.

I moved toward him, grabbing him by the scruff of his neck with my bionic arm; lifting him up from off of her I threw him against the wall. It seemed like he had not noticed my presence as he was shocked to see anyone disturb him. He didn't move fast enough to defend himself. He had no training, no defensive skills. He was a bully who had never had to endure what he was imparting to others.

I had to be careful. I was stronger, faster. I could inflict so much pain, so much damage to the creature of a man in front of me. It would be easy, and even easier to let myself go and have my instincts take over and kill him. It would be over in seconds.

I had to fight to keep control. It had been a while since I had felt the surge of adrenaline in a fight, not that this could really be described as a fight. There was no resistance, just a coward, disorientated and scared.

With my human arm, I punched him. Once, the satisfaction was a beautiful feeling. Twice, the blood lust was growing in me and demanded more. My emotions dulled as my inner assassin started to come to the fore. I needed self-control.

Struggling with myself, I lifted him once again with my silver arm, this time dragging him to the door and out into the hallway. I let him hover over the first few steps of the staircase and allowed his own body weight to carry him down the first flight of stairs. He fell like a rag doll. He didn't even try and save himself. When he came to a halt on the landing below, crumpled in a heap, moaning and moving slowly.

I hadn't killed him. It felt almost, good.

I waited to see what his intentions were. His injuries were not serious, bruises and maybe some cracked ribs due to the fall. He wasn't incapacitated, he could still cause problems.

He crawled to the down the stairs, then after a few flights, he stood and walked gingerly down and out of the building. Certain he was not going to return I picked up the abandoned plate and went back inside.

I turned the lights back on and closed the door behind me. I looked around the room and saw the remnants of her struggle. Putting the plate on the kitchen counter I turned my attention to Sarah. I expected to see her moving, to show some kind of discomfort or distress but she wasn't. Her long brown hair covered her face as she lay unconscious, her arm limp hanging off the side of the sofa.

I went over and crouched beside her. With a cold metal finger I moved her hair away from her face to reveal the dark red blotches which would in time bloom into deep bruises. She was breathing, blood trickled from her lip where it had been split. I moved her limp arm onto her body and scooped her up in my arms, taking her toward the bedroom.

After laying her down on the bed, I pulled the covers over her. She didn't stir. I could see the bruises starting to deepen.

I went into the kitchen and grabbed a towel, in the freezer I found some ice, and made a small ice pack. I poured a glass of water and took it into the bedroom with the ice pack. I crouched beside the bed and put the glass on the floor. The light from the living room illuminated the bedroom with a soft light, just enough to see what I was doing, and the bruised tone of her skin, but not so harsh as to hurt her head when she woke.

I moved her hair away from her face again and gently held the ice pack against her cheek.

My mind moved back to the 16th February 1986, London. Her hair was slightly darker than Sarah's. Her eyes were hazel and starring wide. A tear fell down her cheek as my hand gripped her throat. I remembered how the last exhale of breathe extinguished the life in her eyes.

My hand gripped tight around the ice, crushing it in the towel, creating a cracking noise as it disintegrated into smaller pieces. The sharp cracks of something physical breaking in my hand shocked me out of my memory. As shards of ice slipped from the towel, I was relieved to see her still laying there, breathing. I had had enough of killing…

I stayed with her, icing the bruises and wiping away the blood. When she started to stir, as soon as I knew that she would wake, I left.

Leaving the light on in the living area, I took the door off the latch and closed it behind me.

I went back to my mattress. Opening my notebook, I slipped the picture of Steve back inside its pages, then on a fresh page I started to write.