Winter of the White Wolf

Chapter 36 - Umbra

The soldier spared a moment to glower at the security camera across the hallway before he forcibly hauled Sam's unconscious form a few steps further and around the next corner. Why were these people so set on trying to manipulate him? Was this a test of his cognition? His awareness? Were the incoming calls from Rhodes part of the same ploy? How did his operations in Symkaria play into this, or were such conversations merely there to try and confuse him further and distract him from his mission?

He carefully leaned around one of the shining metal support columns to get a better visual on the next section of the compound he had to contend with. Unlike the prior areas of the building and their glass-lined hallways, there were no tribal-clad women in sight but he knew even if he couldn't see them, they were still there. They were almost certainly on the other side of what he assumed was one-way glass a short distance away, while others observed his movements through the security feed of the cameras high overhead.

He would have been content to utilize the slim phones as projectiles to take out the cameras, but the option seemed purposeless when they were the only two readily available objects he had on-hand that could potentially be used as offensive weapons. They weren't knives, certainly, but he was confident he could throw them with enough force to serve the same purpose if needed.

The opening to the next room was a little over two stories high, and judging by the wide layout and spiraling black and silver metal sculptures surrounding the outer walls, the room likely acted as a lobby of some sort. His instincts insisted he was getting close to the front of the building and whatever awaited him outside, though he was unclear why he felt so certain that was the case. Had he been briefed on this location previously? He didn't recall seeing blueprints of the interior layout, yet he maintained a latent level of familiarity with it that he couldn't explain. Those instincts appeared to be all-but confirmed when he caught sight of a sprawl of warm light up ahead that held all the promise of daylight.

That being as it was, he still didn't have much of an idea of where he was, specifically. By what the locals and Sam were wearing, he assumed it wasn't a cold climate, but that offered little in the way of details. If what Sam and Ayo had said about their present location was true, if they were in Africa, in Wakanda, he could only extrapolate on what would greet him outside.

Why had the woman's contact information been in that phone Sam claimed was his, anyway? He recognized her from her contact photo, but he felt like it was deeper than that, though he couldn't place where. Based on the words she'd spat at him in Russian, he suspected she was either a prior handler, or one in-training. He didn't pretend to know the details, but he was certain she intended him to respond to her commands, and was aggravated when that approach had been ineffective.

And he wasn't altogether certain why he hadn't. Was there a nuance in the pronunciation she somehow misspoke? How did any of that work, anyway? He felt like he should know, but he didn't. He just knew it was dangerous to his mission.

The soldier knew if she tried again, one of the phones in his pocket would end up embedded in her forehead before she realized what was happening.

He anticipated opposition, certainly. But HYDRA wasn't going to let him escape simply because he'd gotten lucky and taken a high value target hostage. He was still perplexed at Rhodes' implication that Sam was somehow acting as Captain America now. When had that happened? It was no wonder they wanted their precious agent back alive.

He only wished he knew more about the layout of the surrounding buildings so he could better account for where their snipers and defenses would be holed-up and lying in wait on rooftops and windows of nearby structures. He had to assume that their approach would be twofold. The first wave would be intended to wound and disable him and thereby rescue Sam. The second wave would ensure they could get a handler close enough to ensure further compliance.

At least in the next skirmish, he'd be sure to secure a weapon. It had been a tactical oversight to assume Sam Wilson was armed. It was ridiculous he wasn't.

Amateur.

Once he felt confident the coast was clear, he pulled himself back around the corner so he could prepare out of sight of his unseen aggressors.

The soldier spared a glance to Sam Wilson's limp form as he slumped the man haphazardly against a wall. He had intended to keep him conscious as both a protective measure and to ensure he was capable of answering further inquiries, but he would have to modify his approach now. By the amount of blood on Sam's face and the way the bones around his nasal cavity, orbital, and upper jaw were crushed in, he was uncertain if he'd obtained brain damage that would make further attempts at speech an impossibility, but at least he had stopped asking those incessant questions with their manipulative undertones. The way Sam had regarded him was strange and disconcerting. It was as if he was playing a game of his own, but he was making no attempt to obfuscate his maneuvering: only his ultimate goals remained unclear.

Considering their most recent confrontations, animosity or aggression would have been the most likely reaction. So why this instead?

What was he missing?

And why had he been so quick to strike out at Sam? His reaction had been guttural, not calculated. It was surprising the hostage hadn't died from the impact alone, because he certainly hadn't concerned himself with the relative strength of the blow when it happened.

Why had he held back without even realizing it? Had HYDRA embedded something in him that weakened his resolve around his captors?

He regarded his hands briefly, taking note that his knuckles were bruised and bloodied, likely from where they'd connected with one of Sam's zygomatic bones. He didn't think it was his own blood, and he didn't much care. What he did care about was the fact the fingers on his right hand trembled slightly. There could be many reasons to explain the subtle movement, but there was a latent familiarity to it that told him without words that he'd recently come out of cryofreeze.

That explained a lot.

After the soldier confirmed Sam was unconscious but still breathing, his attention returned to the lingering weight in his back pocket. He deliberated for a moment before he pulled the silver-plated device out again, regarding it with narrowed eyes.

He'd claimed a similar device not days before, but it was smaller, with a cracked screen and a reverse side layered with an assortment of colorful geometric stickers. He wasn't certain what to make of this particular phone, however. Most he'd been given for missions were meant to be burners, not high-tech smart devices like this.

The right side of the phone's gunmetal silver casing was smooth and pristine, while the left side was covered in faint scuffs and scratches. He looked to his left hand and the strange new black and gold-etched fingers, wondering if it was to blame for the asymmetrical blemishes.

The phone's contact list had an active call and messaging history as well as portraits and contact listings for a number of people, including three from the lab. Strange. He scrolled through the names and faces, trying to make sense of how everything fit together and coming up with only vague guesses at best. He put names to faces, and in other cases he simply documented them for future consideration: Ayo, Banner, J. Rhodes, Sam, Sarah, Shuri...

One in particular caught his attention.

It said simply: Steve

His target.

He regarded the man's face and was uncertain what reaction if any it solicited.

He felt like he should remember it: but he didn't.

It was like a shadow of someone he once knew. Or thought he did.

It wasn't the first time he'd seen the face this week, not by a long shot. But the expression in the small circular photo was one he'd only seen sparingly, and never directed at him.

The expressions he'd seen directed at him were… they were more like those of his hostage, he realized.

He wasn't sure what to make of that.

The soldier couldn't be sure why he'd retrieved his target from the water. Why he'd gone against his better instincts and every bit of training and mission-prioritization he had and stuck around nearby thereafter to ensure he was retrieved by someone other than HYDRA.

It wasn't as if someone would have just found him, he reasoned. If he wanted to be able to interrogate him at any point in the future, it was important he survived, and his chances with those grave, seeping wounds were low at best. Without outside assistance, his target was likely to succumb to pneumonia or sepsis, which would have allowed him to complete his mission. That had been his objective, hadn't it?

He didn't understand why he'd been able to change his mission parameters, but the pivot felt significant. Correct. Yet he remained just as certain that these actions would not be deemed permissible by his handlers.

So of course when no one initially came for his target, he'd obtained a cell phone and jacket from someone that looked to be of comparable height, mass, and build who was eating a wrapped nutrient bundle on a bench nearby.

The soldier called 9-1-1 himself, directing the dispatcher to the emergency situation nearby.

After the ambulance arrived and he felt confident they were not agents, he maintained ongoing surveillance of the transport vehicle by motorcycle and then by a way of a series of buildings across from the hospital to ensure an optimal chance for recovery.

Sam Wilson stayed overnight at the hospital that first night, back when he assumed he and the soldier's target were allies. Late on the second day, his target had regained consciousness and made expressions similar to the one on the portrait in the cell phone. That same night, after Sam had left, the soldier had spotted some armed men staging nearby to finish the job. So he intervened, collected their belongings, and dumped their bodies in the river before returning to his post.

He intervened the consecutive nights until they stopped coming for his target and started coming after him.

The agents HYDRA sent after him were different. They relied on the element of surprise, which was a viable approach if their senses and training were at least as good as his were.

They weren't.

The trained handlers deployed in his wake no doubt intended to bring him in for further enrichment. But he'd spotted them long before they were able to get within range to subdue him.

He'd shot them in the throat just to make sure they couldn't speak any words of compliance against him or anyone else, and dumped their bodies in the river too.

On more than one occasion, the soldier snuck into the hospital room after hours when his target was asleep, just to get a closer look at the status of his recovery and retrieve medical supplies with which he could tend to his own wounds. This was of paramount importance since he could no longer rely on his handlers to manage his ongoing collection of wounds. If he was impaired, he could not protect his target.

So he retrieved medical books as well, and summarily returned them once they'd served their intended purpose.

He sometimes regarded the sleeping face of his target, curious to see if the visual elicited anything in him like it had in the days prior. Strangely, it was as if as his target's face healed, the more that unexplained connection and passing recognition faded.

It found it curious how his target's wounds appeared to heal at a similar rate to his own.

He maintained a rolling perimeter of approximately six city blocks until his target was finally discharged five days later. Three days after that, the soldier deemed him sufficiently capable of fending for himself.

And that was the last time he'd seen him, this figure called Steve Rogers who was a presence but nothing more.

He didn't know if they would cross paths again, but it was unsettling to consider the opportunity might have passed without his knowledge.

He remembered a little over a week ago when his mission objective had been to eliminate Steve Rogers.

And then his mission priority had been modified to protect Steve Rogers until he sufficiently recovered.

He had a different mission now, but he did not want to be made to forget either mission.

Why had they permitted him to remember? Had it been an oversight?

The soldier's thumb hovered over the "mobile" symbol, debating, all the while his nerves insisted this wasn't the time to indulge paltry curiosities that were likely staged at-best.

As he lingered, he caught a glimpse of his own warped reflection along a metal support column. It wasn't clear or mirror-like, but the frosted clarity of the blurred figure was enough to draw his attention. He wasn't sure what to make of it. Someone had obviously cut his hair, changed his clothes, and even replaced his left arm, but why? Why were these changes desirable upgrades?

Then he saw them: a pair of silver tags dangling from a chain necklace around his neck.

He knew he didn't have time for any of this, that he should keep moving, focus on his plan and the necessary contingencies, but he couldn't help himself, couldn't put aside the curiosity of pulling the nearest slip of metal up to his eyeline to inspect it and run his ever-so-slightly trembling thumb over the embossing:

JAMES B BARNES
12557038 T41 42 O
R. BARNES
3092 STOCKTON RD
SHELBYVILLE IN P

He knew what they were, but he couldn't connect why he had them, or how he'd gotten them. He hadn't been wearing them before. He was certain of that much.

The soldier couldn't shake the feeling that the words and numbers were supposed to mean something beyond the rubric of raw data they represented, but he couldn't connect with them.

The strange blue, black, and gold cape he was wearing was another oddity he was uncertain about. Like the dog tags, he knew he had not been wearing it previously, but he also didn't find himself inclined to discard it either. He wasn't able to identify the reason for the judgement, but he didn't fight it.

Why would they have dressed him with such things? He didn't understand much about clothing. Such decisions had always been made for him, with concrete function and maneuverability deemed paramount. Straps allowed others to adjust his clothing for optimum weight distribution and to conceal his neck as well as the vulnerable seam that divided the flesh of his shoulder from his tactically superior arm. They also ensured armaments and ammunition remained close against the body for easy access while engaged in combat.

To be placed into clothing with only four lower pockets was wholly unoptimized. Did the cape serve a secondary purpose he was yet unaware of?

What benefit did the reduced length of his hair serve to close-range or long-range warfare?

So many questions.

The soldier tucked the dog tags back inside his thin, pitifully unprotective charcoal grey shirt and returned his attention to the phone and that blond-haired face and the expression on his prior target he recognized, but didn't understand. It was the same expression he'd recently observed on various placards and displays in the Smithsonian exhibit as well.

He concluded if he ended up needing to use the phones as projectiles, which seemed likely given his limited options, then this might be his only opportunity to inspect the digital contents of the phones. Therefore, it would do more harm than good to delay the inquiry further.

With focused intention, he carefully pressed the "mobile" symbol and then moved his finger to hover over the "end call" the moment he heard anyone on the other side pick up.

Instead, all he heard was a series of three tones proceeding with a woman's pre-recorded voice, "We're sorry, you have reached a number that has been disconnected or is no longer in service. If you feel this is in error, please check the number dialed, and please try again."

The tones repeated, as did the voice's instructions while the soldier stared into the device.

He ended the call.

Inconclusive.

He went to the calendar app in the phone and regarded the month and day with nearly as much confusion as the year: 2024. Like Sam's claim.

He pocketed the phone and pulled out the black leather wallet from his back pocket and folded it open. He was met with a face that he subtly recognized as the one from back at the Smithsonian, though the hair was different. The one that bore a striking resemblance to his face, but not. The soldier that died on February 1, 1945. That regardless of his certainty surrounding the current date, he knew was moored in the distant past.

He examined the Military ID first. James Buchanan Barnes. Armed Forces of the United States. Army. Rank: E7. Issue date: 03/10/2024. Expiration Date: 03/10/2029. Blipped: Yes.

DOB: 03/10/1917

Inconclusive.

His trembling thumb shuffled through the insurance cards, credit cards, and the cash, noting they shared the same pattern of dates as the ones in Sam's wallet, but the name of JAMES B BARNES instead. Any connections his mind sought to make were quickly overturned as not only unlikely, but impossible.

Weren't they?

When he was nearly ready to put the compilation of plastic and paper documentation away, he spotted a small slip of folded white paper at the bottom of one of the divided sections and he pulled it free. The thin, printed strip was about half the length of his finger and its clean, typed font read:

- Your difficulties will strengthen you. -
- Lucky Numbers: 4, 9, 14, 22, 26, 28 -

He regarded the words and numbers quizzically for a moment before slipping the paper back where he'd found it and pocketed the wallet. Like the phone, he was certain it was not the same wallet he had previously, the one that contained cards, identifications, and cash from other wallets and purses he'd tactically compiled over the last few days.

He looked back at Sam's unconscious form and frowned. Could he be telling the truth about any of it? The implications of even part of it being true were cause for concern.

The sight and smell of fresh blood reminded him that needed to get moving, to finish planning out his next steps as well as his contingencies. He flexed the fingers of each hand, testing their responsiveness, and honing his solemn focus.

The renewed promise of combat on the horizon stirred something deep within him, dragging up even more questions he didn't have answers to alongside a very particular sensation in the pit of his stomach that sat with him like an anxious passenger. It was as if his original clarity of purpose had been washed away and where it once stood, a gaping void remained. An emptiness. Yet some part of him knew it was still better than the alternative HYDRA planned for him.

The soldier knew he couldn't allow this train of thought to fester and override his primary mission.

He had to escape at any cost. If that meant Sam Wilson died or that he was forced to end his own life: so be it.

He would not, could not, allow HYDRA to reclaim and reset their asset.

This time, he vowed he would not hesitate to kill anyone that stood in his way.

Author's Remarks:

I loved reading all of your theories, and two of you were particularly close to the initial mark (if you go with Shuri's idea of trying to "carbon date" when a particular set of core memories might be originating from...).

I also wanted to just slightly… sliggggggggghtly pepper in some of his specific personality (I think "humor" might be too generous...). Among other things: the man misses his pockets. And he also returned the medical books he "borrowed" from the hospital.

It's not time-travel as we know it, not really, but if you look at Bucky in a certain light… it's *almost* a little hint of a flavor of that... which should prove interesting moving forward…

I hope it also explains a bit more about some of the soldier's actions in these last four chapters, and draws in some empathy for his plight as well as some bonus head canon from me on events that occurred offscreen between movies.

I hope you enjoyed the little breather, because do I have some action for you just around the corner...

I'd like to toss thanks to Cookies_With_Milk on Ao3 for some great conversations about Winter Soldier-era Bucky (I can't tell you how much I was internally screaming to be sitting on some of this and other story moments for months), and to mschramcj on Ao3 for asking me about my head canon for Bucky's dog tags, because that spawned a whole separate *thing* with my creative muses, and so isn't the last we're going to hear/learn about them...

This is a living, breathing story, and I want to thank all of you for such wonderful thoughts and conversations. I'll say it once and a hundred times more: your comments, kudos, and encouragement continue to be a light in the darkness, especially during some particularly difficult IRL weeks here. Thank you for offering me a little oasis with your words and support. *hearts*