It, no, he, ITS eyes snapped open, closing just as fast when the sun was too bright. He, it, he had a headache and its, his, its clothes were soaked in dried blood. His blood? It, he, didn't know. From the way his, its, legs and ankles roared and itched, probably his, its, own. A voice in the back of its head insisted he take over now, that there was no danger to its mission-which was nonexistent-and begging it to let him out. Mission parameters: there was no mission. No mission?
It let the other voice take over.
He jumped into action, tried to hide itself among the dumpsters, shivering from blood loss as his legs were slowly healing. They tried to kill him, tried to get rid of him, because he was making himself too much for them to handle. They weren't as brutal as Hydra, weren't as controlling, unwilling to give up an asset like him.
No. Couldn't think like that. Couldn't give his other self a foothold to take control this time. He hated losing control, hated the aftermath that came with it, hated when he had to beg to regain control.
A black van suddenly drove up, swiftly backing up and almost hitting him if he hadn't dove to the side quickly enough. People jumped out, and his alter clamored to take control, but he tamped it down, not willing to lose control again just when he had just took himself back. He focused more on his alter than the others in the van, and so they grabbed him, trying to drag him into the van, and he finally fought back, punching somebody in the face, kicking another in the gut and slamming him against the dumpster, coming to life in the fight. Somebody threw down a grenade, and it went off, deafening and blinding him. He struggled to regain control of the situation, fighting to open his eyes and clear his vision, and shook his head, trying to orient himself again. He was shoved back into the van before he could fight, and his mind shut off as his actions became automatic.
He woke up later in another alley by a different dumpster, memories of a scrawny blond kid scratching at his brain. He didn't think about that, instead realized there was a crashed and exploded van not ten feet from him. Remembered his last moments before losing control. The van, the fight, the grenade. Then the Asset took over, fought back, crashed the van, and barely made it out before it exploded, evidently jerking himself back to his body and knocking him out.
He sighed. Things were getting complicated again.
There was nobody around, obviously, so they were either dead or had run off to a safehouse somewhere. He hadn't seen anything in the van that was useful for surviving, and even if he had it would be blown to bits by now. They had only found him because of the trackers that Phantom had apparently put in him. He tried to remember where, and a memory popped through the fuzz. Right after the torture, four needles in a robot chair, and he had freaked out, breaking the restraints and robot arms. Then he had dissociated after they fixed it, barely feeling the needles or the drill.
Right arm, right calf, left eye, left ear.
Ugh. That's going to hurt.
He started with his calf, finding exactly where the bump was in his leg. It was slippery with blood, though, so that made it rather difficult to find. But as soon as he did, he dug at it with clawed fingernails, gasping occasionally at the pain.
Memories flashed in of the van. He dug harder, frantic, finally finding and pulling out the tracker chip. He crushed it in his metal fingers and threw the pieces out across the alley before starting in on his bicep.
The chip there was deeper, harder to get at than the one in his leg, and he had to stop afterwards and breathe through the sharp needles of pain. He was still using his right hand, his flesh hand and fingernails, to dig at his skin, but he would have to reach across his body to get the ones in his ear and eye. No way he would be able to do that.
Alright. Use the metal claws, then. Not the best option, but effective.
He scratched at his ear, stopping a few seconds in to check his progress and breathe. He didn't want to scream so nobody could find him, but he might once he started scratching in deeper.
He started up again, lasting longer before coming back with bloodied claws and shaky breaths. He swallowed heavily a few times before continuing, a soft groan escaping once.
He heard cars passing the alley, and his heart sped up, remembering the van again. He clawed at his ear with renewed vigor, not stopping as his breathing turned heavy and he finally found the tracker. That went crushed and thrown across the alley.
One more. Come on, you can do it. You have to.
He breathed in deeply. Once. Twice. He flexed his fingers on both hands, curling them up so tightly the knuckles turned white, and relaxed.
Finally, he reached up towards his eye and steadied himself. Then, in one fluid motion, he ripped the front part of his eye off and crushed the tracker. There was a muffled scream, obviously coming from him.
He panted, shaky and whimpering. But it was done. His face burned from the pain of using his claws, but at least they wouldn't find him now.
No. There was one more, wasn't there? He was sure there were trackers in his arm. There were trackers in the old Hydra arm, so Phantom would be stupid to not put trackers in his one.
A van pulled into the front of the alley. Black, windowless. No front plates. Not good.
He tried to stand up, escape the only thing on his mind. He frantically pushed himself up, using the dumpster way too much. He unsteadily half-walked, half-crawled to the back of the alley, and wrenched himself behind the dumpster.
The arm had to come off. That was what was leading them to him. He couldn't be captured again no no no no-
He began ripping at the arm with his right hand, using the wall of the alley to chafe at the metal also. This arm wasn't as strong as the Hydra arm, so after a few moments, pieces began breaking off. He put his hand at his left shoulder, breathed deeply, and started pulling with all his strength. Not that formidable at the moment, because of blood loss, but still pretty present. The metal dug at his shoulder, but he kept pulling, only letting out a whine once the skin started ripping. He felt something give in his shoulder, felt the burning fire of a broken collarbone throughout his body. His breathing turned hard and fast as the pain shot through his arm and spine.
He waited until it let up to try again.
This time, he went in with all the grace of a bulldozer, and nearly screamed when the arm finally came off at the shoulder. He ripped it apart, bracing it between his knees, and crushed all the trackers he could find. There was a beep from somewhere in the alley.
"It stopped working. He's crushing the trackers! But he's still in the alley somewhere, I'm sure," a man said. The person walked around the large alley, searching for signs of the lost soldier.
Without thinking, Bucky pushed himself farther into the gap between the dumpster and the wall. This, naturally, made noise, and then everything was silent. Boots crunched on gravel. He could hear the steady breaths of several men in the alley, could hear his own weakly pounding heart. Another person started walking with the first man, heading steadily toward the dumpster he was slumped behind. The footsteps stopped. The dumpster made an awful creaking noise, and Bucky nearly fell over as the metal he was leaning on was taken out from under him.
"Gotcha," one of the men said, grinning cruelly. The two hauled him up onto unsteady legs, looping his arm around one guy's neck as the other dug a syringe full of drugs from his pocket. Not again!
His legs gave out then, sending him crashing to the ground, taking one of the guys with him. At least he could still take people down in this condition, even if it was just an accident.
"He's too far gone, sir. Our tech can't fix this. Maybe Hydra and Phantom had the scientists to fix him, but we don't. We should leave him here." The needle slid into his neck and he jerked away, head held still by the man holding the syringe. The cold liquid forced itself into his veins, making him shiver.
"Did I ask for your opinion? I didn't think so." Bucky listened half-consciously as the drugs worked their way quickly through his system. They must have been...they must have been...what's the word…stronger! Stronger than normal drugs.
"They never told us his condition when they auctioned him off to us. That was their mistake. They will pay. But we can find another test subject, I already have my eye on one actually…" the man's voice trailed off as they walked away, leaving him to ride out the drugs on his own.