Author's Note: dark_roast created another wonderful illustration for this chapter. You can go directly to the picture here: ic dot pics dot livejournal dotcom / dark_roast / 7627531 / 55848 / 55848_900 dotjpg or go here for the full art post: archiveofourown dotorg / works / 2515286

2.

1980

For all he had needled Harrison, Pierce waited almost three months until he finally saw the asset for the first time. He'd always been a man of method, of discipline. He took as long as he needed to study as much of the relevant files as he could, to carefully assemble the start of a team from the right people at S.H.I.E.L.D., to vet the handful of techs and scientists who had been maintaing the asset. A new decade began. The world went on with its coups, its bombings, its warfare.

Pierce bided his time.

In the end, he had to reassign two of the techs, and now, as his driver whisked him away for his meeting with a board member at the ExIm National, he carefully wound up the thread of nervous energy running through him.

This was an assignment for a certain kind of person.

Drew couldn't keep some surprise out his voice as he and Pierce chatted—no doubt he saw this as Hydra asking him to dig up a fossil that had been left gathering dust in his vault—but once the formalities were over, he escorted Pierce down. The rotunda was marble, mahogany, and wealth. The vault underneath it was steel and concrete and a labyrinth of safe boxes, and the first secret room past it smelled faintly of damp and formaldehyde.

Pierce couldn't help but think of all the times he'd walked and driven across the streets of D.C. when he had been more ignorant and naive, unknowing of this world tucked below, of the asset stored in his ice bed like a sleeping princess in a chamber of thorns.

The team was already assembled, a row of lab-coated people standing haphazardly at attention as though Pierce were about to inspect them. He had told the trio of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, who looked bored more than anything, to bring only small arms, and to keep them holstered.

A dumpy man stepped forward. He seemed to have been deputised as the scientists' spokesman. 'It'll take about an hour for us to take the asset out of cryostasis, Deputy Pierce. Once the procedure is completed—'

'I'd like to see him,' Pierce said, and strode towards the room at the very back of the complex, where the asset was stored. The man struggled to keep up with him, his gym shoes squeaking on the linoleum floor. You'd think he would have dressed for the occasion. 'And "Mr Pierce" will do.'

'Er, the asset can be unstable after he is removed from cryo, Dep—Mr Pierce,' he said. 'He might—'

'Yes, I understand. I read the file. I don't think he'll be giving us any trouble.'

Nobody voiced any mistrust, but he could feel it nonetheless, clogging up the air. He entered the room containing the cryo-tube, which he had expected to be more impressive. A metal cylinder with a frosted-up glass panel was almost a let-down. The machines connected to it managed to be more eye-catching.

He had to get up close, nose almost pressed against the glass, before he was able to see the face inside.

This was what the file had said, by way of a prologue: Name: James Buchanan Barnes. DOB: March 10 1917. Father: George Madison Barnes, deceased. DOD: December 22 1930. COD: accident. Mother: Winifred Clara Barnes née Hayes, then Winifred Clara Barnes Raymond (1932), deceased. DOD: February 04 1948. COD: disseminated sclerosis.

What was inside the tube, frozen and still, had never had a name, a mother, a father. Like a corpse, he didn't breathe, but Pierce had seen corpses before, and this didn't have that same unmistakable slackness. He was looking at something in between, dead-alive. The skin was drained of colour; here and there, it was tinged with blue. Wings of dark hair hung down, half floating. A ghost, the old spies called him.

How accurate they were.

'We can try doing a cryo-tube resus, then void it,' the scientist said, butting into Pierce's thoughts. 'That'd be quickest.'

'You mean, just empty the tube onto the floor? He's not a lobster, son.'

That got some laughs, despite everything. The scientist looked a little flustered but just pushed his glasses higher up his nose and said nothing. Moments later, Pierce had to correct them all once again after they'd set up the warming tank and started wheeling in all kinds of machines and instruments, assembling rows of drug vials. 'I don't think those'll be necessary.'

'Professor Zola—' another scientist began. This one had put on a freshly laundered lab coat but was wearing a Rolling Stones T-shirt underneath.

'Professor Zola is no longer with us,' Pierce said. 'Just thaw him, make sure he's alive and well. That's all we'll need.' He turned to the armed S.H.I.E.L.D. agents. 'You three, stand back.'

The room filled with a mineral smell and wisps of steam as the liquid in the tank warmed. The scientists' motions were tight with tension as they worked, heating the tube, removing the asset, transferring him to the tank. Pierce watched, saying nothing. When he caught his first glimpse of the metal arm, he found it oddly beautiful, even with the tangle of plastic wires and leads, the LED lights, the hum of the machines. Screens and printouts went from empty to the rhythmic waves of heart and brain. After a while, the asset was transferred, naked and still dripping, from the tank to an examination table. His chest rose and fell.

You are all witnessing a modern miracle, Pierce thought, but saw little point in saying it. He doubted anyone else here could comprehend it, or had the ability to appreciate it if they did.

'Is he ready?' he asked. 'Good. Bring me some towels.' He stepped closer to the table. 'And go to the back of the room. Please don't argue.'

Little by little, the asset stirred back to life. His right hand twitched, his eyes rolled from side to side under their lids. A few shivers rippled through his body. Pierce stood over him all the while. He could feel an odd smell clinging to the asset, no doubt from the fluid still slicking his skin. It reminded him of salt water and formaldehyde.

The asset's flesh hand shot out. It was still feeble, and Pierce had no trouble catching it in the towels.

'It's all right,' he said.

The eyes opened, finally, just a sliver. Like the ice, they were a pale blue, and empty. Pierce released the hand and pressed the towels against the asset's neck, dabbed at the fluid pooling on the table. 'Everything's all right,' he repeated.

The asset sat up, so fast Pierce had to edge back and there was a clatter in the other end of the room as one of the scientists dropped something. Lines of ink spiked on printouts, machines beeped faster.

'Settle,' Pierce said, as firmly and gently as he could make it, which was very. The asset's eyes darted to and fro, his muscles were tight with tension. He looked like a horse about to bolt.

'Look at me. No, don't look at those people. They don't exist.' He pressed the towels against the asset's jaw, so he could turn his head to face him. Without the ice and the frost-rimmed glass, the asset looked younger, almost unnervingly so. 'Shhh,' Pierce whispered, gently rubbing the towels up and down the asset's shoulder and neck. 'Shhh. It's safe.'

The asset blinked once, very slowly. The eyes were no longer as vacant as before. Instead they widened as they stared at Pierce. There was a flicker of confusion, perhaps. He seemed to be waiting for something.

Good. He set the towels down on the table and turned around. 'Do we have a blan—'

The asset bolted so fast the table upturned and Pierce had to jump back to avoid being struck. He heard guns being cocked. Ripped leads fell to the ground with soft plops.

'Don't!' he yelled, and stepped in front of the agents, arms outstretched. They had all taken out their sidearms but were glancing at each other and Pierce for their orders, for reassurance. 'Do not hurt him, agents,' Pierce said, in his most commanding tone. 'Stand down. Holster your weapons. That's an order.'

These agents might not know him personally, but Pierce had spent enough time in S.H.I.E.L.D. brushing shoulders and sharing desks with colleagues who might have been these people, fifteen years removed. There was a certain posture, a certain tone of voice they responded to. The agents holstered their guns slowly, but they did it nonetheless. One of the scientists, a woman who looked like she'd just finished high school, had turned greenish.

Pierce looked at the asset. He had backed into a wall, the artificial arm—it really was strikingly beautiful under the fluorescent lights, a sculpture of steel and ice—held out in front of him like a weapon, or a shield. His other hand was curled into a fist, ready to strike, but his face was etched with fear and confusion, and a torn wire dangled above his crotch, the adhesive lead still stuck to his torso. He was solid and muscular, and Pierce knew he was much stronger than any of the agents, but his nakedness made him look smaller. If he killed everyone in the room, a possibility Pierce was acutely aware of, it would be the action of an animal lashing out in incomprehension.

'Here. Look at me,' Pierce said. The asset tensed, drew the metal arm back a fraction. One blow from it and Pierce would be on the floor with a broken skull, maybe even dead. The thought made him a little dizzy. He took a step forward. The asset tensed even more, but remained still. 'Look at me. I know you aren't sure what's going on, but I'm not going to hurt you. I am unarmed.' He held his hands out. 'And nobody else is going to hurt you either. I won't let them.' A firm but reassuring tone, that was the trick. He'd spoken in much the same way to dogs, children, and horses. 'Will someone get me a blanket?' He never broke eye contact with the asset. 'Anything soft for him to lie on.'

'Umm.' Rolling Stones T-shirt drew closer behind him. 'We have this electric blanket, it's for—'

'Shut up.'

The asset startled a little at that. He looked around the room, his gaze bouncing wildly. 'No, not you. Look at me. Come on. Focus,' Pierce said. The blanket was pressed into his hands. The fabric was scratchy, but it would have to do. He held out the blanket in front of him, like someone trying to capture a stray pigeon. 'You're safe now. You can trust me. Come on.'

The asset pressed his back against the wall as Pierce stepped up to him, but he made no effort to keep him away. The metal arm lowered, until it was almost flush to his side. Before Pierce could put the blanket on him, though, his eyes clouded, rolled, and he tumbled forward.

Pierce caught him, but he was too heavy. The two of them nearly went sprawling. Before anyone could get near, he'd let the asset slide to the floor with a slap of flesh on linoleum and regained some of his composure. His suit was rumpled, the expensive cloth stained with the liquid from the tank, and he still felt the weight from where the metal hand had grabbed a fistful of his clothes. He felt a dash of anger at the half-man lying in a heap on the floor, but quickly dampened it. He turned to the scientists. 'Is this normal?'

'Theoretically, yes,' said the first scientist. 'Based on the time…'

'Good. Everybody stay where you are, then.' Pierce draped the blanket over the asset, who made a little animal sound low in his throat, then sat on the floor by his side. He considered crouching, but he was already going to pay a dry-cleaning bill. Better to retain a little dignity.

'I know you haven't been treated as you should,' Pierce said, and rubbed the asset's shoulder, the flesh one, through the blanket. The asset nudged his face towards him, his eyes half-closed but unblinking. 'It wasn't right. You did all that was asked of you and did it well. Hydra should thank you.'

A flash of certainty: the asset might be barely functional now but he would be mission-ready within the year, as he'd promised Harry. Maybe even sooner.

'Things will be different from now on.' He kept rubbing the asset's shoulder, until his eyes closed fully. He wasn't asleep. According to the file, the asset could function at peak level without sleep for much longer than an ordinary person; any periods of slumber outside of cryostasis were pure unconsciousness, something closer to a coma. Or death, Pierce supposed. He pulled his hand away from the empty body, wiped his palm absent-mindedly on his jacket. This close and blacked out, the asset looked younger than ever. His mouth was unusually full, like a woman's, his eyelashes thick and long. Pierce wondered if Zola had selected him in part for his appearance, picked someone who might look appealing or unthreatening to a potential target.

But no, he knew that wasn't the case. Zola hadn't gone into his reasoning, but the file was clear enough: after several botched experiments on other PoWs, Zola had been given his final test subject because he was too ill from pneumonia and too weak from repeated beatings to be of any use in the factory. Defiant towards guards, Zola had written. He had taken the care to type—using S.H.I.E.L.D. letterhead paper—and file an English transcript of his original notes in German. Suggests poor compliance & problems w/ authority. Some confrontations in defence of other prisoners, pneumonia aggravated by giving up rations to future test subject 4. To consider w/ serum amplification effects. Exploitable (Here Zola had appended the same two penciled question marks as in the original. They were still legible after all those years.)

According to the file, test subject 4, like all the others before the asset, hadn't made it.

'Shall we wipe him?'

Pierce looked up. Now that the excitement was over, the little gaggle of scientists had approached again.

'Goodness, no,' Pierce said. 'I want him to remember this.' He stood up. It was harder to assume a stance of authority while sitting on the floor next to a napping assassin. 'Just put him back on ice for now.'

His shin ached a little, and Pierce rolled up his trouser leg in the bank's executive bathroom. The table had struck him after all, but the gash it'd left on his leg was only skin-deep.

:=:=:=:

As soon as he could find the time, Pierce watched some of the footage Zola had made of his experiments with the asset. The film reels had been gathering dust in a S.H.I.E.L.D. archive vault for years; no one had even bothered to convert them into any of the new videocassette formats. He'd had to rig up a projector and a screen and now sat in his study, clear-headed despite the glass of scotch, curtains drawn even though the weather had grown warm and the air inside was stifling.

On the screen, Zola and two of his fellows sat at a table, behind a row of control panels, lit cigarettes in their hands. In the black and white film, the smoke looked ghostly.

The asset lay on an operating table below the three men. He was naked, but Pierce couldn't think of anything less titillating or pornographic. His body was spotty with electrode leads, pinned and invaded by probes. His skin was less deathly pale and his hair was shorter, but otherwise he was unchanged from now, always in his twenties. The title cards and Zola's droning introduction at the start of the film had said the footage had been shot aboard the classified S.H.I.E.L.D. ship Atlantean, October 23 1953.

Zola asked the asset questions in an unchanging monotone. The asset answered in a raspy whisper. Once in a while Zola would place his cigarette in an ashtray, turn a dial in front of him, and send a jolt of electricity through the asset's body. Zola would repeat the questions, phrase them slightly differently. At some point he asked the asset to tell him which letters and numbers were on a screen just outside the asset's field of sight, and increased the length of the shocks with each wrong answer.

It was all very scientific, according to Zola's explanation at the beginning. A series of tests meant to gauge the asset's baseline responses, so he could be calibrated accordingly.

Sadistic little jerk, Pierce thought with a frown of disgust.

Still, it had to be said that the asset made no effort to free himself. He convulsed under the electricity's bite, squirmed, made a few noises, but at no point did he try to break the restraints, something he could easily have done, given his strength. He was drugged, yes. Even if Zola hadn't said so, you could tell from the glassiness of his eyes. But he was conscious and lucid enough to attempt to get off the table, at the very least.

You did not always choose what happened to you. But you chose whether to accept or to resist. Whether to appease or to act.

Why else had Zola succeeded, after all?

What would Nick have said about this?

A knock on the door. Pierce managed to switch off the projector before Alice came into the room. He felt himself flush, as though he had almost been caught red-handed, then the embarrassment quickly darkened to anger. Laura and the girls had been unusually tiring at dinner. Abby had whined about something or other, Alice had once again insisted on bringing up the issue of going to law school outside of D.C., even though Pierce had explicitly said the matter was closed, and Laura had decided to throw in her two cents, even though, as he'd pointed out, she had dropped out of college in her junior year. Now his daughter stood in his office, bold as brass, despite Pierce's instructions before he'd gone into the study.

'I did say I had work to do and didn't want to be interrupted,' he said. 'Was that too hard to understand or…?'

'No, Dad,' she said. Pierce looked down at his desk. There, in plain sight of his daughter, sat the notes he had been taking and a manila folder with the corner of a photo poking out.

Alice didn't look at them. 'I just wanted to borrow some money for gas. I—'

'Oh, of course, dear,' Pierce said, mollified. 'Downstairs drawer, take as much as you want.'

'Thanks, Dad.'

Once Alice had closed the door behind her, he took another swig of scotch and loaded the next reel. There were things better than simple acquiescence, of course. Once people understood that you had their best interests at heart, they would do as asked. Not out of fear. Because they wanted to. Zola never seemed to have considered that, but then Pierce doubted he had ever inspired a great deal of love in anyone.

Speak of the devil. Zola appeared on the screen, a flaw in the canvas making him look like he had a stain on one ear. As he talked to the camera he puffed away at one of the cigarettes that would eventually kill him. Pierce was suddenly very aware that he was looking at a dead man, and wondered if the cancer had been lying in wait inside him even then.

'… wonders at the subject's physiological characteristics.' Puff, ashes tapped into the ashtray. 'I believe the key to the serum's effectiveness and his survival is to be found in his particular genetics and perhaps even in the genes that may have predisposed his mother to her illness. It is very ironic, when one thinks about it. The subject has a living sister who is a resident of the United States. I suggest we keep eyes on this woman and her descendants and blood relatives.' Puff, tap. 'Perhaps blood samples can be collected when they undergo routine medical procedures and the like. One should remember Herr Hershey and Fräulein Chase's discovery of…'

He droned on about genes and genetics for a good long while. Pierce moved to change the reel. He had no interest in Zola's science, and all he needed to know about the asset's bloodlines had been right there in the very beginning of the first file. An ill mother, a ten-years-younger sister, a dead father. Thirteen was such a difficult age…

Before he could stop the projector, the image jumped abruptly. Now the asset was on the screen, sitting in a chair resembling the kind used by dentists. There were fewer leads connected to his body and this time he had been allowed a gown. His hair was slightly longer than before, but that was hardly the difference you noticed when looking at him. It. Now you couldn't mistake him for a person. His stillness was unnatural. His eyes were no longer glassy. Now they were unblinking, empty, as though something other had wandered into a human skin. He thought of those odd little English movies Alice liked, with eerie white-haired children in school uniforms.

It would chill a more impressionable man, he was sure. He'd always had both feet on the ground, though, even before he'd understood the truth about the world, so he merely finished his scotch and looked at the screen.

The asset turned his head in a clockwork motion towards the American flag hanging near the edge of the frame. 'Yes,' Zola said, 'it is your own country which has—'

Pierce paused the projector. The asset's face froze. He had been caught in a split-second of fear, or anger. His eyes were chips of ice, white and black. Pierce wound back a few seconds' worth of film and restarted the projector. Zola showed up on the screen again. '… the results. When the algorit—' The film jumped to the footage of the asset again.

This happened nowhere else on the tapes. They had been, unsurprisingly, assembled with scientific precision: titles, dates, locations. Each section had a brief intro outlining and justifying the upcoming procedure. He shut down the projector entirely and pulled the film from its reel. Zola's face looked out at him from dozens of frames. The frames containing the asset were a few inches down on the celluloid, his face too small to make out.

The film had been cut, probably with a razor, a section excised, and then the two loose ends stuck together. The seam was still visible. Pierce leaned down to sniff it, as though that would provide a clue, but of course there was only that faint camphor smell of film reels.

The razor had sliced the word algorithm in half. His last mathematics class had been twenty-five years ago, but he couldn't think of any other term that fit, and he was moderately familiar with the concept. Equations and the like.

So what algorithm could be important enough to erase?

:=:=:=:

In April he took Laura to Paris for their anniversary. The trip was a surprise, as was the diamond necklace he put around her neck on their hotel balcony. He had taken the care, with Linda's help, to select one that would bring out her eyes and the small sapphires in the rings she wore on her right heart finger and which he had presented to her after the birth of each daughter. She was still stunning after twenty-one years, which excited him, and she was happy, which made him happy.

They made love rather more frequently than usual, paid outrageous prices for bad coffee and excellent pastries, and during their sight-seeing passed the street where the asset had assassinated an ambassador back in '68.

:=:=:=:

By July he had visited the asset enough times that if he weren't discreet and Laura were that sort of woman, she might begin suspecting he had a mistress. The thought was amusing enough to keep bobbing up every time he approached the rotunda building, but once inside the vault there was no room for nonsense. Every time, he watched as the asset was brought out of cryo, stayed with him until the shaking subsided and the asset's eyes focused at least a little.

It was hard to believe, sometimes, that the asset was lightning-fast, capable of drifting in and out of anywhere like a gust of wind. Like this, damp and shivering, he didn't look like a resting tiger. He looked like a toad among swans.

Appearances were so often deceiving.

'Do you remember me?' Pierce said, the fourth time they met.

The asset looked up from under his eyelashes, though not up enough to actually meet Pierce's gaze. 'Yes,' he said.

His voice was hoarse with disuse, but was otherwise surprisingly ordinary, still with a trace of a Brooklyn accent. Pierce knew that he shouldn't have expected anything else, but it was still as disconcerting as travelling to a distant city only to run into a familiar face.

'Say my name.'

It was a request more than an order. Pierce always spoke to the asset with almost infinite patience.

'Mister—Mister Pierce.'

'Yes, very good.' He had to keep a note of amusement off his voice; at first the asset had made it sound like master. 'You're doing well.'

A spark in the asset's eyes, lightning-quick, then nothing.

Their seventh meeting. By this time the asset lasted long enough out of cryo to wear clothes and sit with him while Pierce talked. Now he looked down at the photos Pierce had spread out on a table. Stabbings. Head shots. Strangulations.

'Do you remember these?'

The asset was silent.

Pierce edged a little closer to the asset, who no longer spooked when Pierce did that. Do you remember the men from before? he'd kept asking. The doctor, the asset had said eventually, voice and eyes hazy. I'm not the doctor. And you don't have to worry about any of those people anymore. Nobody's going to hurt you. I won't let it happen. Pierce kept repeating it. It helped that every word was true.

The asset almost looked at him again, then shook his head. There had been a flicker of something there. Pierce wondered if the asset had the capacity to lie. Probably not. Zola would have mentioned it.

Then again, Zola had only seen the asset look at him blankly, or angrily, or fearfully. He had kept the asset tightly-leashed and tightly-caged, pumped full of who knew what drugs. He never got to find out what it was like to have the asset turn those ice-coloured eyes towards him and have them fill with trust.

But Pierce would.

'You did these things,' Pierce said. 'You don't remember doing them?'

'No,' the asset said with a shake of his head. 'Bad. These are bad things.'

It was the most words Pierce had ever heard him say.

'Yes, they were bad things.' Pierce spread out the photos on the table, arranged them so that the colours almost made a pattern, a message spelled out in blood splatters and police tape. Some of the bodies had their eyes closed, their hands folded over their waists. The asset might not remember, but he had never hesitated. Pierce glanced at the photos of the asset's first bloody consummation. Even though the pictures were black and white, Pierce could tell that after the first kill in his new life, the asset had been careful to step around the blood, so he wouldn't track it on his boots.

'The world is full of people who do these bad things,' Pierce went on. 'Because they're bad people. Because they like it. Venal men doing venal deeds.' He wondered if the asset understood that word. 'And the thought of them getting away with it just makes me sick. But you, you're different. You have a purpose.

'You didn't do these things because you enjoyed them, did you? You did them because you had to. Because sometimes, to build a cleaner world, you have to get your hands in the muck. I understand. I've sent other soldiers to war. Not for the sake of war, but for the sake of peace.' Pierce picked up the photos, shuffled them together. 'So I do understand. Even if not everyone does. The world should get what it needs, not what it thinks it wants. And you've had your part to play, just like I've had mine. Even if some people would rather not think about it. Even if some people find it ugly or scary.' He paused. When he spoke again his tone was hesitant. 'You don't… mind that, do you?'

The asset's gaze bounced from Pierce to the walls and the tip of his tongue poked out between his lips, then retreated back into his mouth.

'No, of course not.' Pierce sounded relieved. 'You understand how it works. You've got your mission.'

'Mission,' the asset repeated.

On their tenth meeting, Pierce asked him if he would like to go outside. The asset healed with preternatural speed, and the asset's mind was mending, he knew, more and more of the damage from that final wipe being undone. By now his gaze was almost as vivid as a normal person's.

'Outside. Yes, I wanna go outside.'

Pierce had expected an affirmative answer and he had brought some street clothes for him to wear. The asset put them on efficiently and in silence, and if anything about the jeans or the running shoes was unfamiliar, he gave no sign of it. It all fit, of course; Pierce always took excellent care of his people.

The bank was dark and deserted when they crossed the marble hall. 'Outside,' the asset said again. It was almost too soft to hear, but Pierce had been keeping a mental tally of the asset's ever diminishing verbal tics.

July had been unseasonably warm and even at night the city smelled of the Potomac. Pierce walked them down to Garfield Park. All the while the asset said nothing, busy looking at headlights, street lamps, the Capitol dome glowing white in the distance.

'You can run,' Pierce said when they reached the park. It was late enough that there weren't many prying eyes around.

Not that he was worried about what they might do to the asset.

The asset frowned, said nothing. His hands remained stuck in his pockets, his shoulders scrunched up.

'If you want,' Pierce added, and the asset took off as soon as he finished the sentence. He darted so fast into the trees and grass that Pierce lost track of him in seconds. He had to struggle to make out the asset's shape on the other side of the park, slicing through the night at an impossible speed. He glanced at his watch just as the asset banked the corner and raced back to the spot on the pavement where Pierce was waiting.

My god. Pierce couldn't help it. The perimeter around the park was maybe half a mile long, and the asset had run it in less than a minute. Now the asset was almost at his side again and Pierce felt the barest trickle of apprehension. What must it be like, to have that well-oiled machine bearing down on you…

The asset ran past him.

'Stop,' Pierce said, but the asset was already down the street, too far away to hear him.

The asset raced onto the asphalt, dodged a car that honked at him, cut across a grass verge, and vanished out of sight.

TBC…

Author's note: I think a lot of things about Bucky's reactions to Pierce will become clearer once you take a look at these photos showing what Robert Redford (and, by implication, Pierce in the MCU) looked like around the time this is set: 31 dot media dot tumblr dotcom / tumblr_lleye352x91qbqu8lo1_400 dotjpg (1976); www dot marchofdimes dotcom / glue / images / Main_celeb_2 dotpng (1979); cineplex dot media dot baselineresearch dotcom / images / 80904 / 80904_full dotjpg (1980). (If you don't want to go to the trouble of copying, fixing, and pasting the URLs, basically young Robert Redford looked quite a bit like Chris Evans-as-Steve Rogers.) The last one is from the set of Brubaker, which, obvious lulz aside, is about a prison warden trying to create the ideal prison, making this some kind of serpent-eating-its-own-tail of meta comedy. But wait, it gets better! During the 70s and 80s Marvel actually based Steve Rogers' appearance in the comics on Robert Redford. Behold: Exhibit A: www dot byrnerobotics dotcom / forum / uploads / RayDyas / 2007-08-03_182437_Steve_Rogers dotjpg and Exhibit B: readinggruenwaldcaps dot files dot wordpress dotcom / 2011 / 05 / ca309_09b dotjpg Is there anything I could add at this point? (No, but since we're talking about Robert Redford, I'll make a terrible The Assassin Whisperer joke.) Drew and Raymond are comics shout-outs/Mythology Gags. Bucky's father used to be called George Madison Barnes in the comics and guidebooks etc until Brubaker forgot this and changed it to James Buchanan Barnes Sr. However, MCU!Bucky is never listed as a Jr in official documents, so clearly Madison is the correct Dead President. The Export-Import National Bank is made up—it's basically an Expy of the RL Export-Import Bank of the United States, which I assume does not keep any frozen super-assassins in their vault. I mean, at a guess. They probably don't. Disseminated sclerosis is an older name for multiple sclerosis. Oh, and making Bucky's mother's maiden name be Hayes is probably the nerdiest, most obscure joke (well, double joke—or triple, even, if you also see it as a reference to Molly Hayes) I will ever make. If you get it, give yourself a Golden Dork award. :D You've earned it, my friend. You've earned it.