Jacques had no idea where he was going. He was following Captain America, obviously. He was back among the Frenchmen who survived the factory, slogging away somewhere in the middle of their column. But he had no idea what would happen to him if he continued to follow the captain.

Jacques wasn't a soldier. Would he be welcomed onto a military base? He was a citizen of an Allied nation. So that must have counted for something. But then, giving it another moment's thought, perhaps France was not an Allied nation. Not France as it was now. Now, it was Occupied France. And Jacques wanted no part of that. Did that make him un-French?

"We must ask for transport back to Marseilles," one of his fellows, Guy, was saying to their small of band of French survivors. "They should be able to do that much. Or get us a little closer than we are, I should think."

"What are the forces like at the coast?" said Claude. "We can hardly walk back into France by land. And they surely would not allow a ship of known troublemakers in to port."

This talk by his countrymen annoyed Jacques. Talk of how careful they had to be when returning to their own homes, the land they were born to. None of them should need permission to live in the homes that were theirs by rights.

Eugène said, "We must plan for the possibility that we cannot go back to Marseilles. The city is lost to Germans now. It will not be possible for us to just go back there."

Guy scoffed. "Where else is there for us?"

Guy was the oldest among them. Old man leader of the old man club of which Jacques was the youngest. The other men looked to the four of them – Guy, Claude, Eugène and Jacques, in that order – for leadership and reassurance. Where Jacques could adapt and work within the means of his situation, Guy was more rigid. He'd lived through much of the Great War as a young man (or near enough), and so he was more familiar with the soldiering life. Unfortunately prone to thinking like the proper soldiers from England and America.

Often Jacques wondered if Guy was perhaps too attached to France. He fought and defended the country in a resigned sort of way. As if it were an obligation – which perhaps it was an obligation of the citizens to defend their homes – that he did not particularly care for. Guy fought because it was expected of him. He was told he had to, and he accepted that responsibility. He clutched at a home that had twice betrayed his loyalty now. There was no heart left in his fight. It was all burned away. Still, he carried on.

A soldier, indeed.

"We can regroup with the British," Claude suggested. "They must be planning an invasion. We can help. We have intelligence after all. We can give them everything we know about this HYDRA if they let us help plan a counterattack in France."

"If this Captain America is taking us to the army that created him, then surely they have the resources to help us," Eugène agreed.

Guy was shaking his head. "We do not have time to dawdle in London and haggle with the English."

Where would following Captain America take Jacques? What would his options be once they reached these Allies? His countrymen were already talking about securing transportation back to Marseilles, about continuing on in their mission to evict the Germans as if nothing had interrupted it. Ludicrous!

Jacques wasn't so sure that was what he wanted to do. Liberating France was something he wanted, of course. He would always want that. But he couldn't say that he was in a hurry to return to that place. Not right now. Perhaps liberating France would not be best accomplished by being in France.

Did that make him a traitor? Could one betray an occupied nation? Was it good to betray an occupied nation? Jacques's head filled with these thoughts as he marched along the path. There was no use speaking any of these thoughts aloud to the other old men. They would hear no word against France. Guy would never entertain the idea of not immediately attempting to return to their homeland. Old as they were, they were becoming set in their ways. But not Jacques. No, he was flexible and adaptable. No point bashing one's head against an obstruction in the hope that it could be moved. Better to flow, as the river does, around such an impediment.

More and more, his fellows felt like obstructions.

It was better to leave them to their unlikely scheming. Jacques offered no opinions, even when asked directly. Instead, his mind was drifting toward Sergeant Barnes and his former cellmates. After all they'd lived through in the camp, Marseilles's liberation seemed almost small-minded. The scope was too small after all they'd seen of HYDRA. Jacques wanted to hear more about what Captain America knew about this HYDRA division than he wanted to hear news of his own home.

What a relief it was when Jim Morita came jogging toward them.

"Frenchie!" he called.

Jacques and all of his companions looked at him.

His face fell. "Oh. Yikes."

"He means me," Jacques said to his countrymen. He met Jim halfway. It was as if Captain America had recued him from another imprisonment.

"Sorry about that," Jim said. "Wasn't thinking."

"It is alright."

"Thanks. Jerry's got another roadblock up ahead. Cap's planning an attack, but he wants someone he knows with Barnes. Would you mind watching the guy?"

Jacques was already shaking his head. "Of course not. Lead the way."

"Alright. OK. C'mon."

They went on.

The group of them were perhaps earning a bit of a reputation, Jacques thought to himself as they passed by slowing and stopped vehicles and dead-eyed survivors. Having spent most of the evening in the company of Captain America, the rest of the survivors were regarding them differently. Just how it was different, Jacques couldn't quite say. But spines straightened just a little bit when they saw some of the men who had occupied Jacques's cell together in one place.

"He's just here in the truck," Jim was saying.

He walked quickly. Jacques had to do a funny little jog to keep up, but their destination was obviously marked by Captain America's massive form. They were assembled at the back of a canvas-covered truck which had already stopped and pulled itself over to the relative safety of the side of the path.

"Hey, thanks for doing this," Captain America said before Jim and Jacques had even properly reached the group.

"You are welcome," Jacques replied automatically.

"Falsworth says we're looking at an outpost of about fifteen guys, but they may have some good supplies. We want to get as much as we can, especially any first aid supplies, food, or water. Running low and there's still a long way to go," the captain said.

Jacques tuned out a bit as he glanced into the back of the truck. Sergeant Barnes was nestled among some very useful-looking supplies in the back of that truck. Jacques walked around the group and climbed over the tailgate to get a better look at what was available.

"Uh, what?" said Dugan.

The group of them were staring at Jacques. He smiled as politely as he could at them. Held up a comically small brick of Amatol. "These could be useful."

They looked from Jacques to Captain America.

"Show me," the captain said.

So he did. Using some scraps, odds, and ends, Jacques showed them how to make handy little explosives. They'd work much like grenades. Or distracting little mines that could draw a man to come and investigate.

"Best to use them now," Jacques told the captain. "You have them stored on this truck insecurely. Some engine vibration and some nearby copper could be dangerous."

The captain bugged his eyes a bit at the Amatol's proximity to Sergeant Barnes. He had Jacques pass the Amatol out of the truck, and then had some of the walking wounded prepare the handheld explosives the way Jacques had explained. After they had a decent little collection, the captain took Jacques's former cellmates and a few others to deal with the roadblock. The walking wounded assembled extra grenades until they ran out of material.

Jacques sat in the bed of the truck with Sergeant Barnes, the canvas flap hiding them from view. The sergeant didn't move much. He laid on scavenged tarps with the captain's leather jacket over him. His skin was burning, and he did not respond to attempts to get his attention. Pulse was weak and thready in his wrist: A tired heart. But he did not look to be in danger of aspirating. The vomiting fit must have been well over then. A distant part of Jacques's mind warned him that the sergeant might be carrying some contagion that could be spread, but the more dominant part of Jacques's mind wasn't so concerned about it. So be it, if it was contagious. It wouldn't be the worst that had ever happened to him.

How sad that such gentle creatures should suffer this much.

"How's he doing?" Dugan asked much later.

"Not a word," Jacques reported. "You were gone longer than expected. All is well?"

The man shrugged as he clamoured into the back of the truck and fussed over the sergeant. "Little fuckers were dug in pretty good. Coupla Limeys got a few holes for their trouble. They'll be alright. Medics patched them up. We got a little more aid supplies. Fair amount of food. Some more guns. Not much else."

"A decent exchange," Jacques said.

Dugan nodded his head once. "Yeah, not so bad."

"He's OK?" came the captain's voice from outside the flap.

Dugan put his head through the canvas and shouted, "He's fine!"

When Dugan retreated inside the truck, the captain face appeared. Apparently, he was not satisfied with anyone's report until he got his own visual.

"Bucky?"

The sergeant stirred but didn't awaken.

The captain frowned. "Fever?"

Dugan nodded. "Yep," he said, popping the last letter.

"No puke?"

Jacques shook his head. "Not since I've been here."

"Alright. Let's get rolling again," the captain said. He looked none too happy about it, though. To Jacques he added, "Will you stay with him for now? Dugan, with me, if you don't mind."

"But I just got in here!"

The captain's eyebrows arched.

"OK, OK."

Jacques was left alone with the sergeant again. It wasn't great company, to be honest. Besides the groan he made when the vibration of the truck's engine started up again, Sergeant Barnes made no noise for the longest time. It was perhaps a good two and a half hours after the clearing of the German roadblock that the sergeant roused.

Blinking like something new-born, he said, "What's going on? Is that you, Frenchie?"

Jacques smiled at the sergeant. "It is. We're riding in a truck. Just us at the moment."

"How'd I get here?"

"Gabriel and Corporal Dugan carried you."

"Uh."

"Do you require aid?"

"No?"

"Are you asking me or telling me?"

"Both?"

Jacques laughed.

"Feel like shit. You probably can't tell, but I'm trying to lift my head up right now. It won't go."

"Unfortunate."

The sergeant breathed softly through his nose.

"Not so sure it's a good idea to lift you head anyway," he said in his most comforting tone. "I do not think your heart could bear the gravity."

"Oh. OK. If you say so." Barnes closed his eyes for a long while. "Why do I feel like this?"

Jacques hummed. "How exactly do you feel?"

"More exhausted than I ever have in my entire life. Everything is loud and bright. My body feels like it weighs a tonne. Can feel my pulse in my bones, and it hurts."

"I'm afraid that this is normal for a man who has experienced torture to the degree that you have."

Barnes closed his eyes again. "Be nice if it'd stop."

"In time, it will," Jacques said lowly. "Allow yourself to rest. We'll look out for you in the meantime, Sergeant."

He was watching Jacques with fever-bright eyes. Maybe a bit of influence from HYDRA's drugs was still in those eyes, too. "But I—"

Jacques shook his head. "You have done more than your part. Allow us to have a turn. Rest now, while you can."

Because, he knew, when someone lived through something horrendous, the heavy sleep didn't last for long. The relief didn't stay. The mind was never happy just to have survived. It cannot leave well enough alone. It will go back, and live again and again the things a man wished he could forget. His mind would no longer be exclusively his. The prison in Krausberg had fought and clawed its way inside, helped by the little doctor. It lived there now, too, inside of him. Just like it would for all of the men that survived it, all the men that were marching behind this truck.

Marseilles was no longer Jacques's Marseilles. Could he still belong to a place that no longer existed? Where was he from now? Maybe Jacques was Austrian now, having been unmade and then re-forged in that prison just like Sergeant Barnes had. Maybe all of them that had been imprisoned together were changed. Captain America helped them raze the factory, but every last one of them carried it with them in their hearts and minds now. None of them were from France, or England, or the United States anymore. These men were from Krausberg, and they always would be until the day came that they finally learned to put it well and truly behind them. If they could.