"Endless dark, dark buries alive
Who makes it out of here?
Endless dark black, no light at all
Endless dark and darkness outside
But in me a storm rages…"
Kolnidur by Jonsi (translation to English)
He was only ever on the run once.
Tehran, 1978. His handlers were caught in a riot, pulled out of the vehicles and beaten to death. A major inconvenience for HYDRA; it took them almost ten days to send a team to Tbilisi to retrieve the Asset. As for the Asset, without orders to kill, he went incognito, travelling by foot, train and boat, seeking refuge in safehouses memorised long ago. The Asset was off the grid for a week, showing up at the bakery in Tbilisi, malnourished, but otherwise in peak condition (they set the dogs upon him to test his battle skills after prolonged period without kill orders; the two Rottweilers fell to the ground upon launching themselves at him, their bellies slashed, spilling their guts). In his debrief in back at the Siberian base, the handlers and officers congratulated themselves at the Asset's ability to return to them safely. He remembers watching them as the cryo pod frosted over, indifferent to them drinking smuggled champagne, yet acutely aware of his starved body.
And then he remembers nothing more, save for being electrocuted into wakefulness again.
And again.
And again.
And after all that time, of countless reawakening, he was on the run again. From the people who want him dead, from those who want him alive. From his friends. From his past.
But how long and how far could he really run?
He survived the first few days of the helicarrier crashing into the river by living rough and not sleeping…afraid of what he would wake up as if he did. The fourth night, he woke up, curled up behind a dumpster behind a warehouse at the port. He was still …him when he woke up.
Not the Asset.
No.
Bucky.
He was still Bucky.
Sleep had not brought the Soldier out.
And yet his mind was running through seventeen different ways of incapacitating, immobilising and even killing the dozen or so crew onboard the ship nearest to where he was.
He did not kill anyone on the ten day voyage to Lisbon. He hid out in the depths of the engine room. He was discovered the third day, by the Japanese chef who knew everybody by name in the ship's crew but could not place his face. Bucky told him he was making his way home after losing a job in the States. Chef took him on, frowning at the fluent way Bucky spoke Japanese, not asking anything more (there were more sad stories onboard than he could care for), grateful for having someone who would understand him without having to repeat his order in six different languages.
Bucky worked in the galley, washing dishes, keeping out of everyone's way.
He ate his meals quickly, almost greedily.
Chef said Bucky ate as if he would forget to do so in the next meal. Chef also placed another helping of the grilled chicken on Bucky's plate.
Bucky cried later that night, tears falling on the soap bubbles in the greasy sink. He has never gotten a second helping of food until that day. Not as the kid in Brooklyn, the soldier in Europe. Certainly not as the Asset.
Every night of sleep was the spin of the gun cylinder; every waking moment the trigger pulled.
But the Soldier never woke.
Not yet.
Lisbon was crowded with tourists and easy to disappear into. He saw Sam Wilson twice, going the opposite of where Bucky was going.
So, Steve was looking for him.
He decided he did not want to be found.
He went to the airport, knocked over a dark – haired tourist, apologised in German. The tickets he had in his hand after he walked away from the tourist was for Bucharest, the passport Greek, the wallet full of Euros, more money than he had ever had in his life.
Half the money in the wallet paid for a month's rent for the flat he found. Another half, for food. He passed a church went inside and looked at the cross. He remembers praying in a Brooklyn church, but he cannot remember any prayers.
He does. He just feels unworthy of uttering the words, asking for forgiveness. There is none for the likes of him.
The Silver Knife Church had a soup kitchen and large hall beside it where people were walking in with their bags of old, unwanted clothes. Bucky picked several items and a blanket, dropping a few more notes into the donation box nearest to him.
The nightmares returned on the first night in the flat, as if it had waited for him to be truly alone before striking.
That night, it was the family of six in Bolivia. When, he cannot remember. For what, he never knew. He heard their screams …
Woke up screaming.
Three weeks of nightmares.
Of hiding.
Of torment beyond what his mind could handle.
He stopped eating, hoping starvation would claim him, but the serum coursing through him kept him alive by sheer will. Sleep often came late, unannounced.
He spent his time looking out the window, into the sky, wondering…
Never a time when his mind was empty.
Despair.
Weapons and combat training.
Screams.
Steve.
Battered bodies.
Hunger.
His ma.
Little girls who were his sisters.
Knives glistening in darkness, blinding in the light, stained dull red.
Sometimes he cries.
Sometimes he just stares at the sky.
The Soldier remains silent.
Silent.
Waiting.