2
Year: 2019
Bucky didn't like the pity as much as he didn't like being alive.
Since the moment he stepped foot into the tower, he had been looked down at like he was either scum or a pity party.
He didn't like it.
He wasn't a damaged puppy or a victim of abuse, like they all said.
He was a killer.
He was a terrible man who deserved to have died when he was young. That's what he would've told you if you asked him what he deserved. But no one ever asked.
No one asked how he felt.
So he spent months the same way he was right now: alone with his thoughts.
He was in his room, a room with so much comfort that he thought it was hilarious that anyone felt he was deserving of it. He sat on the edge of his bed, his elbows on each of his knees, and his hands ran through his hair as he stared down at the floor.
His eyes closed tightly together as his chest grew tight.
His emotions were always all over the place. One second he didn't feel deserving of life or love or redemption. But then the next he felt like he didn't deserve to have been tortured or brainwashed.
He should have died - he should be dead. He shouldn't have died, he should have been born in a different life where he could have lived his life to the full.
Steve was probably the only good thing that even came out of it. His best friend.
His throat tightens, as does his metal arm over his scalp.
It took a bit after he was taken in, for his mind to put things in piece by piece.
His memory came back little by little, and with each one, his psychological state only got worse.
People don't know what it was like to witness the things he did.
He remembers the war, the Nazis, and Hydra.
He had been one of them. He remembers when The Holocaust happened; he remembers killing a family and a child, and he remembers the exact moment he pulled that trigger- killing JFK. He remembers it all. He remembers a different lifetime - not this.
Everything was different.
He felt robbed. Robbed of life, robbed of innocence.
But then today something happened that pushed him over the edge - finally.
He had been hanging out with Steve in the compound kitchen when it happened. Steve was showing him some throwbacks on Spotify, to maybe try to shake him up with some good memories, when a particular song by Ella Fitzgerald came on.
Bucky had gone ghostly pale. Next, he saw the image of her in his head.
He started to remember his little apartment, that was more like a room. He remembers his small iron stove where he draped his jacket. He wore his suspenders over a tight white shirt and his flat Italian hat was tucked under his left arm.
He remembers looking over at her and their eyes meeting.
He then remembers the sound of her voice, then her name, and then every single beautiful aching memory in between.
He remembers wanting to marry her.
Steve had gone silent the moment Bucky said her name, and by the look on his friend's face, he knew that it hadn't been a dream. She had been real. And he wanted to find her, he wanted to chase her down. He didn't even care anymore that she was probably over one hundred years old by now, and most likely had already passed. He needed to find out about her.
Did she have a family?
Steve didn't get in the way when Bucky asked Tony for help on finding her. Steve didn't get in the way when Bucky found an article saying that she had died at just twenty-one years old by a gunshot to the brain, around the same time he had been deployed.
Now, he sat for eight hours straight, pulling on his hair and staring at the floor, feeling numb.
I don't deserve this, right?
He was angry at himself for allowing Hydra to do what they did, even if he had no control over himself.
How could I have been so weak?
He remembers every curvature of her body and the sounds she had made. He remembers the taste of her kiss. She had been his baby, his innocent girl, and now decades later, just when he remembers their time together (a literal lifetime), he finds out she was dead.
She had been murdered.
He pulls tighter on his hair as he remembers every bad thing his metal arm has ever done and every life it has taken. He knows he's convinced himself enough that he is worthless, and there isn't any going back to the boy he once was. He would never again be the boy that would always make a joke out of a situation. The one who always smiled and was happy.
Not anymore.
Because just when he thought there was a bright light, a slight chance of something good happening, it was taken away from him just like that.
And not by just any shooter - a Hydra agent. Something he was now a former of.
He might as well have pulled the trigger himself.
To make matters worst, the world was fighting a virus, something the earth's mightiest heroes could do nothing about.
The emotions overwhelm him as he vomits all over his floor, right between his feet, in utter disgust.
It didn't take him too long to clean up, and after not much longer, he passed out on his bed. Nightmare free.
Beacon Hill, MA
The little boy runs through the town in a hurry, hitting a middle-aged man on the arm, catching his attention. The little boy appears to be crying as he grips his hand to his chest.
A heavy fog engulfs the semi-busy street of Beacon Hill, Massachusets. The streets are lined by small coffee shops, a post office, and small boutiques. More young couples and high school kids walk down the sidewalk. It's your ordinary tight-knit community.
A man kisses his wife on the steps of a furniture store. Some kids leave the local theatre in groups. People watch as the boy runs past them. Still panting, the boy turns the corner onto another street, which looks like an ally. The side street is empty, the fog appearing to become thicker in the air.
The boy cries in pain, clutching his hand tighter to his body, stepping in puddles. The white wrap around his hand becomes soaked in red blood and it's visible. Clumsily, he tumbles onto the sidewalk head first, gasping desperately for air. He turns onto his side as he screams, going into a fetal position.
His scream echoes out into the night.
Just a mile away, a fifty's style diner is lit up by a blinking neon sign in bright red color: Pough's Delight.
People sit around the semi-crowded restaurant, scattered about in different seats. A young couple sits by the window, and a few older people sit on the stools lining the counter. Some talk among themselves, happily, while other's attention remains on the TV displayed in the top-right corner.
The TV is an older Sony Wega CRT set, but somehow the audio resonated well, keeping everyone's eyes set on it.
A tv reporter speaks as an image of burning buildings, rioting, and people laying on the streets are shown. The bottom right of the screen reads Chicago.
"At this time, it is still hard to tell how, and when, help will arrive for all of us here in the US. Most of us trying to continue to live life as normally as possible. Chicago, and most of the Midwest, is finally seeing some of the same horrors we saw earlier last year in the middle east and France. The virus continues to spread farther east, people are trying to resort to their own means of protection. It is unknown when the presumed city of sanctuary, which they call The Capitol, will finally be open to the public, which is promised by the president, and its co-founders politicians - Micheal and Beth Y/L/N. Until further notice, we warn that anyone that sees a sign of someone with the symptoms, to please report it to their local authorities and to stay safe. This includes—"
A brunette, late teens, in a white and red cheerleading outfit that reads BULLS, sits on one stool. She drinks a vanilla milkshake. A blonde boy, tall and pretty, wears a varsity jacket. He's around her age and he's sitting right next to her, his arm draped around her shoulder; possessively.
Her eyes linger on the television, and she looks afraid.
"You'll keep me safe, right?" Despite her fear, she maintains a strong tone in her voice.
"If I don't?" The boy asks, playfully. The girl smirks as her boyfriend nuzzles his face into her neck.
"Imma Hold it against you. Asshole."
"They say it's still too far from the east coast. It hasn't even touched Pleasant Valley yet, and everyone's secretly hoping it goes there and stays there - in that hell hole."
The girl chuckles.
"You're just saying that because Emily Guinevere moved there last summer and you hold a grudge. Even so, when it gets here, I want to get the biggest penthouse they have behind that sanctuary wall they're building. Imagine it. You and me, in a big bed, all day, all night; safe." The boy picks at his straw with a snarl as the girl continues, dreamily.
"Pretty sure they already have that one saved for their weird daughter." He says under his breath.
"I heard a rumor that the reason she still lives at home is because she went nuts and almost tried to stab her last boss, and to avoid bad tabloid, her parents insisted she just stayed home with them. Didn't want to ruin their perfect reputation by risking her being seen walking out of some psycho house."
You hear it all as you refill the white mug under the expresso machine. You briefly look down at your white top and blue apron. You had a tag on the left side with your name on it. You finish up the beverage with a snarl, sliding it across the counter to the older man who then nods you a thank you.
"It's why she dropped out of college and can never get a job anywhere. Rumors at the Bulls says she used to eat her lunch in Mr. Ike's classroom all through senior year. I don't remember her much, I was a Freshman when she graduated. She's lucky she's a spoiled bitch with rich parents. They probably treat her like a princess. My bet is that she'll be the last to die, without working a day in her life for it."
Your grip tightens on the pocket of your apron, and your head snaps up to look at the couple. You don't realize your manager is standing off to your left until she nudges you to get your attention.
"I need you to clear tables. I have to run out for a few minutes." She tells you.
"Got it, Susan." You say.
She gives you a glare.
"Call me Mrs. Thompson, or I'm sending you back to dishwashing duties."
Susan leaves.
You wipe down the counter, and it's evident on your face how unpleasant you find your job. Yet, you continue to wipe, your eyes scanning around the diner until you're once again met face to face with the local varsity couple.
You catch the end of the girl's elbow with the wet towel. The girl gives you a dirty look.
"I'm sorry." You say curtly.
The girl stares at you for a hard second before speaking up.
"That's fine."
You continue to wipe and your name tag is clearly visible to the girl. The girl's face drops dramatically, her eyes drifting back to your face.
"You're Y/N, Y/L/N."
You smile, sincerely.
"It's fine. It's not the first time I've been referenced to as a spoiled bitch in the third person. People see what they want to see."
The girl gapes slightly.
"I didn't — I don't—"
You want to add something when the entrance to the diner opens wide.
The bells above the door ding obnoxiously.
You're shocked to see none other than the guy you had been crushing on for the last two months. You couldn't help it, he had a nice smile.
Your eyes linger longer than necessary on the attractive man. Your head snaps back to the girl who was still talking, but you couldn't hear a thing she said.
"It's fine, don't worry about it." You say, brushing her off.
You watch the man as you step away from the couple. You were still in a daze.
The host grabs two menus and leads him and his friend to a table.
Will, your coworker, grabs your shoulder from behind playfully. You turn around only for a moment before going back to cleaning the counter. Will was funny, and probably the only genuine friend you had.
He was in his early twenties, average height, had brown hair, and matching brown eyes.
"You know, staring is rude." He says.
"I wasn't staring. I was gazing. Briefly."
"It's a pity. And you've only been nuts about him for the last few weeks. Every single time he's walked in here, you look like you've seen a damn ghost."
With an eye roll, you pick up your wet towel and walk towards the kitchen in the back.
Will follows behind like a puppy.
"Shut up. I have tables to clean." You say.
"Looks to me like you'd like to do way more than clean his table. If you know what I mean."
You roll your eyes.
"Seriously, Will. Stop."
"I don't get why you don't just say hi?" He smirks, standing in the door of the kitchen with arms crossed.
You toss the dirty rag into the trash, walk past him, and then grab a clean one off the dish cart.
You make your way around the counter and to your first dirty table near the window.
You hover in close proximity of cute-guy's table, but trying not to make it too obvious. You pick up on his and his friend's conversation.
He's giving his friend advice on ordering the pancakes.
The blueberry ones.
You smile.
You're finishing up the table when his arm hits his silverware off the side of the table. You bend down quickly and hand it over to him.
There's a long pause as he takes it from you.
"Thanks." He barely gives you a second glance. You clear your throat, a bit embarrassed.
"It fell. I'll get you a new one." You say.
He nods at you, looking down at his menu. You, flustered, walk back towards the kitchen.
Will stands there, smirking. You want to punch it off his face.
"Nice, the old oops-you-dropped-something move. Classic."
"I swear to Lucifer, William if you don't shut -"
You're abruptly cut off, as a loud commotion from near the register catches your attention and everyone else's in the Diner.
You groan.
At the counter stands your mother: early fifties, in a tailored and expensive women's suit, short hair at her shoulders, makeup impeccable, and yelling at the hostess.
"Shit." You say under your breath.
You toss the new wet towel and utensil in the kitchen sink and walk over to where the hostess stands. You could tell the poor girl was intimidated.
You take a deep breath when you approach the scene.
"Mom."
Your mom's shoulder's relax drastically.
"Thank God, Y/N. I need you to come with me."
"Mom, I'm working, I can't just leave. Unlike you, I need this job."
Your mother walks over to you and gives you a stern look. You knew that look, it scared you more when you were a child, but it still set you off the same way. She grabs your forearm tightly.
"You are coming with me. Now. Your dad's already outside waiting."
Your brows furrow together.
"Dad? What's going on?"
Your mom is reluctant to answer for a moment. She goes from angry and afraid in a second. She looks around the restaurant and then back to you, as if looking for something.
"In the car."
"Mom-"
"Now."
You look over your shoulder at Will. He looks at you sympathetically. A couple of the customers also watch, including the cute customer.
"Fine. Just let me put my apron back first."
"No."
You're stunned. At lost for words, and not in the mood to argue, you nod politely and follow your mother out the door. The door dings once more.
You arrive at the car - a black Tahoe. Your mother gets inside but you're still outside, the car door open and waiting for you.
"Mom, please tell me what's going on."
"Get the hell in, now." She says.
Your father sits in the driver's seat, a light blue dress shirt hugging his shoulders, his right hand tightly around the steering wheel.
"Now!" He says, his tone louder than your mom's.
You swallow nervously and there are fresh tears in your eyes.
You get in and buckle up your seat belt. You meet your father's troubled eyes in the rearview mirror.
"It's here." He says.
"What are you talking about?" You ask him, fearing you already knew what he was talking about.
"The Virus." He answers.
Your mom doesn't turn around when she speaks, "It's here, they saw a boy running. But someone picked him up. We don't know who yet. All we know is that it wasn't enough time."
"What do you mean, not enough time?" You ask.
"The Society; the wall that was supposed to build a safe place for everyone to live until there was a cure. The place half the country is expecting to be finished by now-it's not."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning we have to get out of Boston. We need to move closer to The City, we need to finish our plan, so we can all be safe. We're taking you there now." Your dad explains.
"But I'm not ready, I'm not prepared, I don't even have anything packed yet. You guys said it wouldn't be here for months, even a year. If at all. Everyone said we were safe here. That The Capitol was just precautionary."
"Yeah, well, we were all wrong." He says.
Your hands start to shake and you are visibly shaken. You stare out the window of the car as your dad pulls out of the parking lot. You see a young woman kissing a young man outside of one of the local theaters. Your gaze falters.
"Are we going to warn everyone?"
"We will. Not tonight, though." Your dad says.
Your gaze snaps to your father's in the mirror again.
"They need a chance, they need to prepare just as much as us." You retaliate.
"Yes, but we don't want chaos, either. We need you safe first."
Your life was always something that you tried not to take too seriously, or maybe you put so much effort into trying not to care that you ended up caring too much.
Your first car was a rusted little Jeep that had hundreds of recalls. It was so old it didn't have aux feature, so you would settle for any college alternative rock station. It was in that said car, when you were waiting for the skies to finally open up into a downpour, that the first drop of mention of the killer virus came on the radio. You remembered being afraid, but then everything had also made sense. Your parent's secrecy made sense. They explained it all to you that night in detail.
You understood their intentions for the wellbeing of the entire world, and it was something the media and your peers always misunderstood.
It's why you had no genuine friends, and why you had formed such a tough shell.
Screw them if they didn't like you for who you were, or that they never even gave you a chance. That's what you always told yourself, but you knew deep down that it hurt deeply. You were like all of them. You enjoyed binge-watching the best of the best tv shows, and you were even part of a fandom. You loved music, you loved to sing, and you were an extroverted introvert. You had a sense of humor that always made yourself laugh.
On your eighteen birthday, you got a tattoo of a little cobra on the back of your neck. It had no meaning. You just got it for the sake of having it, because that's who you are.
You were carefree, and you loved too hard.
It's why as soon as you and your parents got home to pick up some things you had no business knowing about, you quickly snook out to run to the drugstore down the street. You took caution on your way there.
Walking down the snack isle, you smite to yourself. You wanted some snacks for the road, something for your mom and dad. You got your dad's favorite, a Toblerone, and your mom's, a bag of skittles.
Pausing, you almost consider picking up the Avengers theme skittles, eyeing Captain America's a second longer than was necessary.
You had to stay focused. The surrounding people did not understand what was happening, but you did. It made you feel selfish for it.
You tucked the snacks into your bag and went around the house so no one could see you had sneaked out. That was the plan, until you saw your front door slightly ajar and an unfamiliar car parked out front.
You felt something deep in your stomach that you couldn't place. Immediately, you knew something wasn't right.
Slowly and afraid, you got closer to the door, being sure to make no noises as you did so. You were half expecting you would need to enter your house to find out what was going on, but you stumbled back slightly in shock when you realized you didn't have to look very far.
The scene in front of you was out of a horror movie, and you wanted to scream and tell the man standing in your living room to get away from your parents. Luckily, you knew better than that.
There they were on a chair, their hands tied behind their backs and and their feet tied together. They had a black blindfold over their eyes.
Your mom was sobbing, and your dad was deadly silent.
What shocked you the most was that you recognized the man. Tt was the same man from the diner, the cute one, and he had a gun pointed straight to your mother's head.
There was a skull with tentacles on his upper left chest that hadn't been there before.
You knew that pin. Everyone did.
"Where is it?" He had an American accent. His voice was thick with demand and authority.
"I won't tell you." Your mother snarled through heavy tears.
"Where is the damn reserve? Your people won't survive, anyway. We've had this under plans for years. It was always in the plan of Hydra to take over The Capitol and make it ours. We will be the survivors. Dirt and grime like you should fend for yourselves," he shifted from feet to feet and turned the safety off. The click sent a shiver through everyone in that room, "Now tell me where it is?"
"No!" Your mom yelled and that must've struck a nerve in the man, because in a blink of an eye, he moved his hand just an inch over to the left and shot your father straight through the head.
Tears were running down your face and you fell back. With another bang, your eyes went up to the sky and you started gasping for breath. You knew very well that that second shot was for your mother.
Quickly, and as best as you could through heavy nerves and heavy breathing, you backed away from the door and towards the side left of the house. You couldn't let him see you. In the back of your mind, you knew he knew you had to be around somewhere.
He knew they had picked you up. He knew about you.
To the best of your abilities, you crawled yourself as far as you could from your home and closer to your neighbor's. You found yourself crawling around their backyard. You tried your best to ignore the emotional pain you were feeling so you could save your own life.
You crawled under the bushes and made your way closer to the white siding of your neighbor's home.
You had to ignore the agony you were in and the sharp sobs racking through your chest.
You had to run.