Disclaimer: I don't own Bucky. I'm not sure why I'm still saying this, because it's pretty obvious and I've already said it about ten thousand times. But Собака is mine, and so are the police officers, and Enrique. (SPOILER ALERT)


WINTAH SOLDAH


I spent the next week or so hiding in the shadows. I didn't search for work like I usually did. I only spoke when I needed to, and I made sure to keep Собака out of sight. He was a good dog though, and he would usually stay seated if I left him with some food. I think he understood, a little bit, the importance of keeping low, especially after almost being dragged off that day. I have to admit it: I really liked that dog. A lot. He stuck with me like no one else had in a long time. All he asked for in return was a few tacos and tummy rubs.

I didn't mind having to stay low for a while. I needed time to process what I had learned at the museum, and maybe conjure up some new memories.

Even though I kept quiet, I slaved day and night to find a way to get out of the country. I wasn't welcome. I was a gun-wielding, knife-throwing, grenade-tossing murderer with only one purpose: kill. At least that's what the papers and news channels said. I did find it quite interesting and almost amusing that I was living (more or less) peacefully among the same people who viewed me as a terrorist who shot everything in sight. I suppose that was the real terror of a true terrorist: they lived with you and shined your shoes and ate your food until one day it wasn't your food they were after. Your neighbor was your killer.

I couldn't blame them for wanting me dead.

Yes, dead. Of course dead. You don't give a terrorist a trial. Anyone willing to kill the innocent for a wicked cause doesn't deserve a trial. Anyone who gets called to get me will come in with loaded weapons and orders to kill on sight. As they should. However, I knew that wasn't a terrorist. I had been used. I hadn't done anything willingly. But I knew what I did, even if it was while under their control; I did it all the same. I still didn't want to die yet; my will to live and be something outside of a tool was greater than any thought of the justice that should be thrust upon me, even if I didn't fully deserve it. If anything, I would find the people who caged me up and took me apart and reassembled me into a killing machine, and I would give them the justice that they did deserve.

Despite this, I still felt guilty. I kept telling myself that it wasn't really me—I was James Buchanan Barnes, a simple soldier who happened to fall under the control of a group of Nazis. I told myself this as many times as I told Собака to be quiet, but every time I did I would remember standing over a body with my hand on their throat, gazing out of the automaton that I had become as I choked them lifeless with my one good hand.

Ha. My one good hand.

As if I could just wash off the blood and it wouldn't be a murder weapon.

After about a week or so, I started to reintroduce myself to the public. I took more odd jobs, smiled frequently to throw off the scary killer vibes, and waved at people as I walked past. I maintained a friendly personality, which wasn't in itself a ploy, but it was part of one. To seem less like the man that the paper described. All the while I was figuring out how to get out of America without alerting everyone that I was.

Fortunately, it isn't difficult at all to find ways to make my exit. Most of them wouldn't work, though. Car was out of the question. The chances of getting pulled over by a policeman, who would undoubtedly recognize me, were too great. Also, I had no license, and more importantly, no car. On top of that, a quick look at a map of America told me that unless I wanted to drive through Russia (Russia was the las place I wanted to be) or Mexico (I was there once on a mission, and half the people I saw there probably had more kills that I did), I wasn't going anywhere. Boat was an idea, but it took too long. It would give people far too much time to figure out who I was. Plane was preferred. Unfortunately, after only a few minutes of research, I learned that it wasn't as simple as getting on the aircraft and waiting till you touched down. There was a series of tasks that you had to complete before you could even buy a ticket. Then they scanned you in every way possible to make sure you weren't a terrorist.

Apparently, back in 2001 there was an attack on America by a group of terrorists, who hijacked four passenger planes and crashed three of them into various buildings, killing everyone in the planes and thousands more in the process. The fourth crashed into a field and killed all the passengers in there as well. After that, the security in airports was increased exponentially, and as the years went by and more threats were made, the efforts to keep the planes safe were only doubled.

Consequently, you had to have a passport, which was acquired using various forms of proof of identity. If you had a bad record with the law or didn't have a drivers license (ha), you weren't going anywhere. On top of that, if you managed to get a ticket, they patted you down, scanned you, and put you through at least two different metal detectors. Occasionally they even made you strip down to make sure you didn't have anything under your clothes that the scanners couldn't get. Then they searched your luggage, backpacks, shoes; the list went on. They didn't allow liquor of any kind, foods, and definitely not any firearms or knives. Pets had to ride on separate planes altogether. The list went on.

Immediately, I knew flying legally was not an option. Even if I left my weapons, Собака, and managed to get ahold of a passport and ID, and got through the metal detectors, as soon as they frisked me they would feel the metal of my left arm or force me to take off my shirt and see that: whoop, we have an America's most wanted in our airport. Sitting down on a third class airline was not an option.

I kind of missed having an extraction crew.

I also discovered that it's just as hard to get ahold of your own plane, much less run off with it. You still had to have a license, the planes cost an arm and a leg, and most of those planes weren't meant to fly over the ocean. A storm could knock one of those things right out of the sky. I may be a physically enhanced super soldier, but I would not last in the middle of the ocean.

I decided that the only way was to hitchhike.

Not that that was any easier.

I felt something warm on my feet. I looked up from my notebook and my thoughts at Собака, who had just laid down on my dirty boots. He yawned as I reached over and scratched him behind the ears. He licked my hand, then rested his head on his paws and drifted off to sleep.

I smiled at him. I knew this dog would follow me wherever I went, and I would do pretty much anything to keep him out of harms way. He was my best friend. My only friend.

Then it hit me.

How would I bring him with me? If I planned to hitchhike on a plane, how could I bring him? I glanced back down at my dog, illuminated by the faint light of my pocket lantern. He snored softly, his paws twitching. I bit my lip. There had to be a way. I'd find a way.

I rested my head against the brick wall of the alley, notebook still open in my lap. Then I heard police sirens heading my direction. I quickly switched off the lantern and stuffed it into my backpack, shoved the bag into a trashcan, pressed the top on firmly, then curled up as close to the wall as possible. They probably weren't after me, but I couldn't take any chances. The sirens got closer and closer. I held my breath.

"They aren't coming for me," I thought. "I've been too careful."

Собака whined and stood up, his head low. Red and blue lights flashed across the alley walls, and the sound of the sirens echoed loudly as I heard brakes skid to a halt. Собака barked, and I tried to grab at his collar, pulled my legs out of view.

"Собака!" I hissed. "Lay down!"

Car doors opened and slammed shut. Собака nipped at my hand. Loud footsteps came running toward us. Suddenly, bright lights blazed in my face and I shrunk away, letting go of Собака's collar and covering my eyes.

"Put your hands on your head and get on the ground!"

I ducked my head low and raised my hands in the air. It was very possible that they didn't know who I was. If they did know, they would have shot me already, and it would've been a SWAT team, not just the police.

"I said put your hands on your head and get on the ground!"

A foot struck me across the face and I fell sideways into a trashcan. I covered my head with my arms and shut my eyes. A knee planted itself on my back, pressing me into the ground. Air squeezed out of my lungs. I could hear Собака growling and barking. Someone yelled, "Calm that dog down!"

Собака let out a shuddering yelp and went quiet. They had Tasered him. I sighed in relief. I thought they would shoot him for a second, and then I'd have to rip some heads.

"Sir, you have the right to remain silent," the man on my back said. He grabbed my right wrist and clapped a handcuff over it. My eyes shot open. As soon as he touched my left hand, he'd know for sure who I was… I yanked my left arm off my head and buried it under me. Immediately, my right arm was twisted and the man shoved my face into the ground.

"Give me your hand, sir!" he shouted. "Give me your hand!"

I didn't move. I didn't really have a choice either way.

"Sir, I'm warning you! Give me your hand!"

I wriggled my arm further underneath me.

Something cold and hard pressed into the back of my head. A gun. I froze.

"Give me your hand!" the man screamed.

"What did I do?" I shouted. "What did I do?!"

"Give me your hand!" he yelled.

I gritted my teeth. I couldn't get out without resisting arrest, which was illegal, and I couldn't get that gun away from my head without giving him my hand, which I really didn't want to do. I had to make a choice. I huffed.

"I'm giving you my hand," I shouted. I started to pull my arm out from under me, and the gun was removed from my head and replaced with a fist; someone punched me hard in the head, twice. I was a super soldier, but this guy was probably twenty pounds heavier, and obviously had training. My vision clouded slightly, and my jaw went slack. The man grabbed my left wrist and yanked it behind back, handcuffing it and placing the gun to my head again.

"You are being arrested for the illegal distribution of drugs to underage citizens!"

What he said ran through my brain a few times, and then I laughed. It was a sarcastic chuckle, and the man on my back was clearly surprised by it.

"Drugs?" I said, my voice muffled. "Sir, you have the wrong guy. I haven't touched drugs once in my life."

He hadn't noticed my metal arm. Thank God.

"We'll see about that," the man said. His weight lifted from my back, and I sucked in oxygen. He was heavier than I thought. The gun never left my head as I was yanked to my knees. I kept my face down out of fear that they would see me and recognize who I was. However, I wasn't about to not defend myself against these claims of my selling of drugs.

"Sir, you can't arrest me. I have never touched, used, sold, or given away drugs ever, nor will I ever endeavor to do so," I said loudly, but calmly.

"Wow, this one went to school at some point," someone muttered.

"Get a dog to search me," I said. "It won't find anything."

"You better hope not." The man gestured to another officer. "Get the K-9."

I sat still, wishing that gun muzzle would move. It did, and was replaced by a dog's muzzle. The dog growled softly as he sniffed every inch of me. His cold nose touched my face and I tried not to smirk. It was just like Собака. Then I grew worried; what if the dog sniffed out my gun in the trashcan? Was Собака even alright? I didn't move as the dog completed his search. It barked an all clear and circled its handler, panting happily.

"See?" I said, still keeping my eyes on my knees. "No drugs."

"Maybe," the man said, sounding skeptical. "Why are you here at this hour?"

I tried not to sound disgusted. "Seeing as I have nowhere else to live, I figured this place would be a nice place to hang for a night or two."

"Oh," the man said, slightly embarrassed. "What's your name?"

Now there's a question I hadn't been prepared to answer. For a split second, my mind blanked. Only one name came to mind: Bucky. I couldn't say that. I had to think of something else.

"Sebastian Stan," I said, without skipping a beat. Despite my split second of confusion, I was trained to handle interrogation easily. Now I just hoped I hadn't accidentally chosen the name of the man they really wanted. I had no idea where I got that name.

"ID?" the man questioned.

"My wallet was stolen a few weeks ago," I said, thanking God I had left it in my backpack. "I don't have a drivers license."

"Do you know who stole it?"

"No, sir. If I did, I'd have it back by now."

"Mind if we check?"

"Do I have a choice?"

The man responded by quickly frisking me.

"He doesn't have a wallet," the man said to the other officer. He turned back to me. "This your dog?"

I turned my head and looked at Собака, who was laying on the ground, muzzled with another wire noose around his neck. I gritted my teeth.

"Yes, sir. He is," I said, probably a little more sharply than I should have. "Can you let him out of that?"

"He attacked us."

"You attacked me. He retaliated."

"Fair point," the second officer muttered to himself. The first man elbowed him.

"Where were you yesterday at 9:00 PM?" the man asked me.

"I was buying tacos from the taco truck near the 7/11," I replied. I had been. And I did tonight, too. Собака and I had breath to prove it.

"Okay, sir. I'm very much inclined to let you go." The man holstered his gun. "But before we do, we're gonna drive you on down to the taco truck and see if they can vouch for your alibi."

I praised the Lord internally. I had been to that taco truck so many times, Enrique would know me on sight. (Yes, the taco-truck man's name is Enrique. He speaks mostly Spanish. I can understand every word he says. I'm not sure why. No preguntes por que, por favor.)

"Yes sir," I replied.

"Please get in the car," he said.

I stood up, walking to the car. The man kept a hand on my neck the entire time. I made sure to look at my feet as I stepped into the vehicle.

"What about my dog?" I said, looking at Собака.

"We'll bring him in the other car. Get in."

I sat down, still keeping my head low. I just had to keep my head down till they talked to Enrique, and then I'd be free.


WINTAH SOLDAH


A/N: I had some extra time away from school today on account of puking as soon as I got there (thank you random sickness), so I finished this chapter. The twist with the police was not actually originally planned, but of course I just went nuts.

Mellia Bee, I used a bit of your language idea here with the Spanish. I know, so basic, but it will get more interesting. He never learned Spanish as a kid, or at least not that he remembers, and he was never required to use it on a mission (I don't think), so I figured what the heck. But trust me, it'll get better. 😉

If you guys see any grammar mistakes, let me know. If you have time, please review. I want to know if my story is being enjoyed or needs some plot holes fixed. Plez. Assist meh frends.

P.S.: (I was really proud of myself I only had to use google translate to make sure I got the wording right on that phrase. Tenth grade Spanish class is paying off.)