Something had been bothering Bucky since early that morning when he'd gone out for food. He wasn't sure what it was. He couldn't put it into words. Neither had he seen anything that he could say with absolute certainty was wrong. It wasn't like the last time. There wasn't some man that shouldn't be there. It was vaguer than that. It was just a feeling. A feeling that there was something there, just out of sight, something dreadfully wrong, something dangerous.
At first he thought it was just paranoia. He'd had another nightmare last night. That sometimes left him feeling on edge. But it didn't abate as it usually did; it just grew as the day progressed.
By the afternoon, he decided. Whatever it was, even if it was only his imagination, he wasn't going to stick around to find out.
He headed back to the motel. Some instinct told him he should just run now and not go back. But he'd left his backpack there along with the notebooks. And he wouldn't, he couldn't, leave without it. Losing another piece of himself wasn't an option.
The motel was a seedy, rundown one. At night, it was loud, with noises from blaring TVs and loud arguments, seeping in through the paper-thin walls. But it was cheap, out of the way, and obscure.
Bucky jogged up the outdoor steps to the second floor and hurried to his room. As he put the key in the lock and turned it, he already knew that he had made a horrible, terrible mistake. He should never have come back.
Maybe he heard something, maybe he only sensed it, but whatever it was he knew instantly he wasn't alone. He shoved his shoulder against the door hard, knocking back whoever had been standing behind it.
Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw someone else coming at him from the left. He grabbed the man by the wrist and twisted. There was an ugly snap and a needle dropped from the man's hand.
Then something hit Bucky from behind. If he hadn't moved just a fraction, it would have knocked him out. As it was he stumbled into the room, his ears ringing. He forced himself to dodge, knowing that another attack would follow the first one closely. He was right. A Taser swung down, right where he had been standing a split second before. He grabbed at the wrist holding it, kicking out behind him as movement caught his attention. Someone else was attacking from the other side.
As Bucky pulled the one man towards him and punched, he shot a look around the room. A jolt of dread ran through him. There were at least ten men in the room, and several of them were closing on the door, blocking off the only escape route.
He ducked under another Taser and rolled towards the doorway but someone tackled him to the ground. Several, vicious, quick punches knocked the man off of him and Bucky flipped to his feet but already two more men were on him. He whirled, kicked, grabbed and slammed one against the other.
"Longing." A cool, clear voice spoke. It was loud, but not shouting. There was command in the voice, authority.
As the word reached him, Bucky stumbled from shock. He lost concentration and a fist thudded into his jaw. Pain shot through his head and he could taste blood, but he shook it off. He needed to stop it. He knew, instantly, what was happening. It was engrained so deep within him, its thorns latched on so tightly, that he couldn't separate it from the rest of him.
"Rusted."
Another punch sent Bucky staggering. But he stopped a third, flipping his attacker onto the floor.
Bucky pushed himself off one of the walls, using the momentum to avoid two men and buying himself time to look around the room desperately. The man speaking was in the far corner, surrounded by three more men. Could he get to him in time? Could he fight his way through?
"Furnace."
The word burnt in his mind. Pain, fire, agony. Memories, threats, nightmares. Everything was blurring. He couldn't go back. He couldn't lose control again. He couldn't become nothing once more.
A jolt of searing pain ran through him as a Taser met his back. He fell to his knees.
"Daybreak."
No! He screamed in frustration, in terror, in rage, in exertion, and kicked backwards, knocking his attacker off his feet, but another man had jumped forward and was now holding him around the throat, trying to push him to the ground.
He was at a severe disadvantage. His attackers only had to keep him down for a few more words. Time was on their side as were the numbers.
"Seventeen."
But it wasn't going to happen. He wouldn't let it happen. Not again.
He used all the momentum he could muster to jerk forward, pulling the man over and to the floor. Then, in less than a split second, he reached out and snapped the man's neck.
Not matter what it took; he was going to get out of here which his mind his own.
"Benign."
He jumped to his feet.
"Nine."
He looked around desperately. Sometime during the attack, someone had thought to slam the door and lock it. He'd never make it through there.
Another man lunged forward and Bucky dodged, throwing his own punch directly at the man's throat. The would-be attacker fell to the ground, making ugly, gurgling noises.
"Homecoming."
No! No! No!
He knew he was running out of time. He could feel it. That ugly, dirty thing inside him, twisting tighter and tighter, making it harder and harder to breakaway.
Bucky parried another blow and grabbed the man who'd tried it. With all the strength he had, he lifted him up and threw him through the window.
"One."
No!
Bucky didn't think. He didn't hesitate. He just threw himself through the shattered window. Shards of glass caught on his skin, cutting deep. He banged against the railing outside, caught it, and then leapt over to the hard concrete below. Blood ran down from a deep gash above his eye and his body ached as he burst into a run. But that didn't matter. All that matted was that when the final word was spoken, he wasn't there to hear it.
