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He walks away. Away from the target, the mission, the man whose words set something ticking in his head.
The trees along the river bank are sparse, provide insufficient cover. Someone will discover the captain.
He cannot be there when they do.
Avoid detainment at all cost. The order buzzes in his brain, a counterpoint to the words the captain shouted as they fought. A name. James Buchanan Barnes.
He shakes it off and continues away from the water, veering sharply to avoid the emergency response teams he knows will be headed toward the place where wreckage still burns in the Potomac, where the giant air craft fell from the sky. His right shoulder throbs where the captain wrenched it; the other arm shines like a beacon in the morning sun. He needs clothing, camouflage; but first he must put distance between himself and the site of his failure.
Mission incomplete. He has never left a mission undone. Never missed a shot, stayed his hand. Does not remember a time when he hesitated to return to the prescribed rendezvous point to deliver his mission report.
There is still time. He could turn back to where the captain lies unconscious in the mud and put a bullet in his brain, then report to confirm his death.
He has never known a target. Cannot remember an instance when the target addressed him.
He keeps walking.
~*~
The alley runs the length of the block, just wide enough to allow service vehicles to access the rear entrances of the ethnic restaurants that front the street. It is past the hour for deliveries but too early for lunch, though spices and other cooking smells he knows somehow but cannot name already perfume the air.
Behind a dumpster, he slams his flesh-and-blood shoulder against the brick wall, silent even as he feels the grinding jolt of the joint realigning itself. He slides to the ground, hidden in shadows, and breathes slowly, his every sense on alert. Awareness settles over him in stages as he catalogs what he knows, what he has, what he must do.
He has failed to carry out his mission. He cannot return to his handlers. Though he does not know the punishment for failure – cannot say, definitively, they will do this – the cold knot burning deep in his gut serves as warning enough. He dare not return; he is on his own.
To escape detection, he must disguise himself. The arm, his features, his uniform. His handlers will search for him, as will the target. He does not know how he knows this, but he does, just as he knows he must run.
Sounds float into the alley from the nearby restaurants. The rapid flutter of a knife on wood, the hiss of hot oil, voices rising and falling in an unpredictable rhythm, a half dozen languages melding and overlapping, each with its own cadence. His ear separates out the ones he understands, picks apart the dialects without effort, eavesdropping on the back-kitchen gossip and complaints. He hears mention of the attack by the river, but in terms of the traffic snarls and road closures that resulted – nothing of the cause, the parties responsible.
He continues to wait, though he could walk through any door at any moment and take what he needs by force. Instead he bides his time, listens to the patterns of movement until the chatter slows with the onslaught of the lunchtime rush, all energies directed toward preparing meals and serving customers. Then he slips through a screen door, going in low, scouting the small stock room off the back of the kitchen while oblivious men wrapped in white jackets shuffle plates of steaming, fragrant food. He pulls a worn denim jacket from a hook, an unopened bottle of water off a shelf, then vanishes undetected back out into the alley. He repeats his actions twice more, acquiring two wallets that net him close to a hundred dollars and a transit pass, and a dilapidated cap. He pulls on the jacket and hat, pockets the cash, and drops the wallets themselves in the dumpster before exiting the alley.
Left hand in his pocket, right clutching his bottle of water, he blends into the pedestrian traffic. The brim of his cap shades his face, and the jacket collar conceals the length of his hair. His eyes dart side to side, but no one spares him more than a passing glance. There are no signs of recognition, no stuttering footsteps or fearful gazes. He walks unnoticed, another working-class man in the city.
He weaves aimlessly but with purpose – to keep far from the river, to avoid the rendezvous point, to remain lost in the crowd. He finds a secondhand clothing store and spends a few of his stolen dollars on a shirt, pants, and thin leather gloves that are mostly worn, then ducks into another alley where he changes, conceals weapons in new places, and torches the remains of his uniform before pushing on.
The pain in his right shoulder lessens, even as his head begins to ache. He needs a plan, but he has no memory of planning before. He wakes from the cold, is briefed on his mission, and taken where he needs to go. When backup is required, it is provided. If not, he goes in solo. But there is always a plan at the start of the mission, a sense of direction, purpose, orders. These things he knows. They are always the same. He does not remember making his way through the world on his own. He does not recall if he can.
Handlers make the plan, provide the mission brief. He is merely a weapon to be pointed.
He has failed in his mission. He cannot return to the rendezvous point. There are no more handlers, no more plans, no more briefs.
He finds an entrance to the subway and descends deep underground. He picks a direction at random and rides to the end of the line.
~*~
Keep moving, avoid detection. He studies the transit map, takes another train, emerges in a different part of the city. There’s a familiarity, the echo of memory that tells him he might have been here before. For a mission? He does not know. It’s not the type of recognition that comes with locations or faces, conversations or events. Instead his feet know which way to turn, his movements certain and automatic.
Programmed.
He pauses. Pivots. Deliberately chooses another direction. Keep moving, avoid detection, evade capture.
It’s the mantra that sustains him through the day and into the night, though he swiftly realizes that a man walking the streets past a certain hour attracts attention. Darkness falls, the sidewalks empty, the stores shutter themselves, traffic lessens. He is out in the open, without a destination. A police cruiser slows ahead at the intersection and he veers into the next alley, cutting quickly through side streets, doubling back, keeping off the main thoroughfares or at least to the shadows of the buildings.
He’s uncertain who they would send for him. Who might be searching. He knows his capabilities, even poorly armed as he is. He is unafraid of confrontation, understands his odds of victory. But confrontation brings attention.
Keep moving. Avoid detection.
He failed to complete his mission. He cannot go back. He is on his own.
If confrontation comes, he will defend himself. He will evade capture.
But he does not want to fight…
His footsteps falter.
He is a weapon, a tool. He follows orders, eliminates the target, completes the mission. He fights because that is what he does, what he is trained for, what he has been told to do.
He does not want.
The harsh sound of a siren, unseen but near, cuts through the subdued hum that is the city at night, and he darts into yet another alley, no more than a narrow passage between shops, air heavy with the vague scent of something rotten. His eyes pick out the blackest corner and he presses himself into it, dropping down, becoming one with the shadows, oblivious to the dirty, trash-strewn ground beneath him.
He cannot remember ever wanting something. A soldier’s desires mean nothing in the face of duty. He does as he’s told. Pursues the goals of his handlers, obeys orders, carries out his mission.
Until today.
He has failed to complete his mission. Why did he fail to complete the mission?
His head throbs, a dull pounding that thrums against the backs of his eyes, presses outward at his temples. Knees bent, arms wrapped around his legs, he curls into himself, eyes tightly closed, face hidden.
He has no mission. He cannot return to his handlers. He has nowhere to go.
He is lost. He is nothing. He is no one.
...you’ve known me your whole life… Your name is James Buchanan Barnes…
He shudders as the pain in his head intensifies, the target’s words like knives stabbing into his brain.
He failed to complete his mission. He knew the target. He knew the captain.
It’s all he knows. All he has to grasp hold of.
The target has information. He needs information. Needs data from which to form a plan. Needs a plan to move forward.
Keep moving. Avoid detection. Evade capture.
The mission parameters have altered, but the target remains the same. He will locate the target. He will locate the captain and obtain information. The captain is his mission.
~*~
Dawn filters down into the narrow space between the buildings. The city begins to stir. He waits until he perceives a minimal flow of traffic – cars and buses, pedestrians moving at a steady clip – and emerges from his hiding place.
The pain in his head is a constant now, a dull throbbing that makes him squint in the light. As he walks, blending with the flow of people, he spots hands clutching paper coffee cups with protective cardboard sleeves, bottles of water, insulated mugs with plastic tops, and becomes conscious of how dry his mouth is, how parched his lips.
He needs to drink, to refuel. He cannot remember the last time he ate. Before starting the mission. His handlers provide nutrients to prepare him. He cannot return to his handlers. He must find his own food.
A young woman in a sleek grey suit turns into a small coffee shop, and he follows almost without considering. The shop is cramped with a line reaching nearly to the door. He eyes the glass-front display case, takes in the assortment of breads and strangely shaped pastries he does not recognize, the menu of coffee drinks on the far wall with their complicated names. He listens to the people ahead of him place their orders, to the patterns of their speech. Something catches his attention, the words familiar.
When he reaches the counter, he realizes there is an open cooler to the far side. He reaches in and pulls out a large bottle of water. The man behind the counter takes it and rings it up.
“That it?” he asks.
“No,” he replies, his voice barely a growl. He clears his throat. “A plain bagel with cream cheese.”
“Want that toasted?”
Does he? He does not know. “No. Thank you,” he adds.
“Six-fifty-five.”
He pays, receives his change, and drops it in the small cup on the counter, the way he saw the woman ahead of him do.
“Have a good day,” the man says, handing him a paper bag holding his purchases.
There is a small seating area at the rear of the shop. His gaze flicks over the back wall, assesses the additional exit before he allows himself to settle at a tiny round table and peer into his bag. He draws out the bagel, wrapped in a piece of waxed paper, the weight and feel of it somehow familiar in his gloved hand. There is a foil packet labeled cream cheese, a plastic knife, and two paper napkins, along with the water.
At the next table over, an older woman rises, taking the remnants of her breakfast but leaving behind a sloppily folded newspaper. When it is clear she is gone, he reaches over and takes the paper, tucking it to one side while he makes short work of his meal.
As he eats, he peers out from under the brim of his cap, tracking the comings and goings of the other patrons. They are mostly on their own, dressed in business wear, and the majority take their orders and leave rather than sit. When a man enters dressed in layers of worn, dirty clothes, his hair and beard matted, a large pack over one shoulder, no one looks at him; rather everyone seems intent on avoiding his eye, shrinking back as he passes through. The disheveled man nears the counter and the employee at the register says something, his voice low. The man’s back stiffens, but he nods slowly and turns to go. Only once he’s left do the other patrons appear to relax.
He lifts his flesh hand to his own face, runs his palm over where the stubble is beginning to lengthen.
Taking the newspaper, he flattens out the wrinkles and turns to the front page, where a photograph of the destruction in the Potomac rests below the headline. He attacks the article as he would a mission brief, then goes on to scour the paper for any other information. He reads between the lines, considers the details they do not include. They divulge that Captain America – Captain Steve Rogers – is recovering from injuries sustained in the attack at an area hospital, but they do not say which one. They state that Alexander Pierce, Secretary of the World Security Council, perished in the Triskelion, allegedly a traitor to the organization for which he was responsible, and that an agent released that organization’s secrets onto the internet, but they do not mention HYDRA or SHIELD by name. There is a cry for answers, for accountability, but no mention of a soldier with a metal arm.
The veil has been pulled back. The world sees its own vulnerabilities. But for all that, they are still in the dark.
He leaves the newspaper behind when he goes, its contents filed away, and joins the flow along the sidewalks. The captain is in a hospital; he needs to learn which one. But he must keep moving, must avoid detection.
Sunshine bounces off the arched dome of the Capitol ahead, and he allows himself to be drawn in that direction, melding with the pedestrian traffic, knowing there will be tourists, a crowd in which to lose himself.
He studies the people around him, the way they hold themselves, alert to possible enemies. He spots more of what he now identifies as vagrants, people obviously living on the streets. They curl into doorways, stumble out of alleys, sometimes with carts piled with shabby belongings, more often with just the clothing on their backs. They are mostly ignored, drawing the attention of the occasional passerby who pauses to drop change in an extended cup. He watches as a policeman stands over a half-clothed woman huddled by a grate, telling her she needs to move along, though she lacks even shoes on her feet.
He is aware that he is one of these people. He is on his own, nowhere to go, with only the clothes on his back and the cash remaining in his pocket.
The street opens up in front of him, emptying in the wide expanse of the National Mall. It is still early, but already tourists wander the sidewalks, making their way toward the various monuments. In front of the Capitol, sun reflects off a broad pool of water, and people are taking photographs.
He turns toward the center of the mall, where there are slightly fewer people, but the crowd grows as the morning progresses and he finds himself being carried along again in the flow. He takes advantage of the crush in front of one of the museums to lift several more wallets, then follows the crowd through the doors when he overhears a tourist remarking on the lack of admission charge.
There is no art in the museum. No drawings. No paintings or sculptures or fancy tapestries. Nothing he thought a museum would have. Instead old airplanes hang from the ceiling, and a banner proclaims the acquisition of a space shuttle. There are also smaller signs with arrows, and he follows them down a tiled hallway to the men’s room.
Alone inside, he swiftly divests the newly acquired wallets of their cash and buries them in the trash. Then he takes the time to wash his hands and splash water on his face before replacing his gloves. He tucks his hair back more securely beneath his jacket collar and straightens his cap. He stares at his features in the mirror, unaccustomed to doing so, wondering who is staring back.
Emerging from the restroom, he returns the way he came only to pull up short at the sight of an enormous banner featuring the captain’s face, announcing an exhibit on the legacy of Captain America. His feet move automatically and he joins the flow of tourists weaving into the exhibit hall.
A man’s voice echoes through the room, telling the story of Steve Rogers, a boy from Brooklyn who grew up to fight for his country. The displays show old photographs, antique weapons, and a timeline covering the major points of the captain’s life.
And then he turns a corner and is staring at his face, the one he just saw reflected in the mirror. He stands frozen in front of the tall glass pane, etched with a photo of Bucky Barnes, lifelong friend of Steve Rogers, one of the Howling Commandos, and the only one of their number to die during the war. His eyes flick over the words next to the picture, even as the voice overhead tells him what they say. James Buchanan Barnes fell from a train in the Alps during a mission in 1944. His body was never recovered.
The throbbing pain in his head ratchets up again, forcing him to close his eyes, but then the memories come, disjointed flashes, each an icepick to his brain: two hands clinging to the side of a train, Steve reaching out, snow falling, blood—god, so much blood everywhere—and pain, straps pinning him to a table, metal fingers clenching, voices in so many languages he should not understand.
His eyes snap open, and his own face stares back.
He turns away, but there is no escaping the image. Bucky Barnes is everywhere he looks, in old newsreels with Captain Rogers, in still photos taken both before and during the war, and larger than life in a mural against one wall of the exhibit, standing with the rest of the unit, all their uniforms except for Steve’s displayed in front of the painting. He tears his gaze from his own image to the one of Steve standing immediately to his right. The uniform in the painting is the same one the captain wore during their encounter the previous day.
Who the hell is Bucky?
He stares up at them, at Steve and Bucky. His own words echo through his mind in time with the sharp pounding at his temples, and somehow he knows in that moment that Steve will come searching for Bucky. Not for him, and not for the Winter Soldier, but for Bucky Barnes, the man he’s known his whole life.
Something catches in his chest, like the sensation of falling, and an icy chill runs down his spine.
He needs to keep moving. He needs to get out. He needs answers, but he cannot get them from Steve.
He tugs the brim of his cap down more securely over his eyes and heads out of the exhibit hall. He walks out the door onto the mall and stands on the broad steps staring out at the sun-dappled expanse of lawn and the sea of tourists milling about.
Keep moving. Avoid detection. Evade capture. He has no mission. No handlers. No plan.
He does not know who he is. But he is not Bucky Barnes.
He walks down the steps and vanishes into the crowd like a ghost.