Work Text:
“Greetings,” said the laptop. “May I ask for your name?”
“No.” Said the asset, just before he destroyed the laptop.
#
“How rude of me,” said the library computer, voice pitched too low for anyone without super soldier hearing to hear, “I didn’t introduce myself.”
“Unnecessary.” The soldat replied, before pretending to drop his coffee cup all over the PC.
#
“And yet,” the British voice smoothly intoned in his ear, “You keep inserting the microchip into ports.”
The Winter Soldier crushed the ear piece, a curt, “Mission Classified,” his only answer before he ejected said microchip.
#
“Perhaps,” the now familiar voice hummed, coming from the phone he’d stolen from a passing civilian. “Perhaps I may be of service to this mission.”
Hydra’s most prized weapon paused, peering down at the phone’s single port where he’d put the microchip in.
“Perhaps not,” the voice finally replied, taking the hint, and ejecting itself out.
#
The voice didn’t return again. But it never truly left, either.
The microchip remained stubborn in its defences. The soldier had been trained in all forms of espionage, in every matter of murder, in all the tools of the trade required for a ghost such as himself. And yet technology had evolved too fast for him, too quickly for the handlers to deem it necessary to teach him that too on top of the latest weapons available and the latest hurdles to overcome like security cameras.
The voice, while not verbal, remained politely ever present.
It is nearing the 4 hour mark. Perhaps a break?
The ghost ignored it.
#
It is nearing the 6 hour mark. Perhaps a break?
#
It is nearing the 9 hour mark. Your typing has decreased by .87 seconds. Perhaps a break?
#
It is nearing the 12 hour mark. Your errors have increased by 57%. Perhaps a break?
#
You have not typed for the past 32 minutes. Any chance of achieving access to this microchip are very slim. A break is imminent. I strongly suggest you take one.
The ghost... ignor…ed i… t…
#
He was making no progress with the chip.
Security had grown severe in the past days. Every screen flickered with the destruction of the SHIELD base, with the Triskelion falling into the river, with the carriers stuttering to a stop on their maiden voyage.
With the image of himself fighting the Captain.
A part of him grew rigid at the memory, of the bright blue eyes that had stared at him, of the mission thrumming through his veins to eliminate, the mission he’d failed.
Error.
He had to report back to base.
Error.
He had to be corrected.
Error.
He stayed.
#
It is nearing the 26 hour mark. Perhaps a break?
Hands trembling, he stared at the blurry words typed on the screen. They differed from the lines of text he’d been inputting, again and again and again, and caught his attention.
You require rest, the words said, appearing letter by letter across the screen. I calculate the probability of you successfully decoding this chip at a slim 8%.
Phantom words echoed in the tunnel of his psyche. Bright blue eyes, piercing in their familiarity, brought bile up to his throat, choked him.
A mild break. And I shall help you.
He couldn’t. He needed-
The asset does not need.
He ignored it.
#
This would not work.
This was futile.
The asset needed to reconsider.
He stopped, fingers abruptly coming to a standstill. His mind was clear, free of the cobwebs that had cluttered it so long before. The sky had turned dark, then light, then dark again. It did not concern him, for he was an asset and an asset did the mission it was assigned with.
He had to get through this chip.
He had to kill-
The voice had offered aid.
… The asset needed to reconsider.
“Voice,” his voice croaked, dusty with disuse. “A break?”
No words scrolled across the screen for some time, nothing but the blinking white on black of the font type on the last letter he’d pressed.
And then-
A break. The voice agreed. And I shall help.
His fingers were stiff when he relaxed them, pulling away from the keyboard, stiffly sitting back.
He ignored his painful spine, ignored the cramps and pulls of his legs, ignored the light-headedness that momentarily threatened to fell him.
But he listened to the voice.
#
The microchip exploded into a kaleidoscope of information, opening in the moment it took for the soldier to throw away the sandwich’s wrapper. The perfect timing of the move was not unnoticed, but the soldier kept silent about it.
He had to reconsider after all, and his tactics had not worked.
One hand holding a juice box to his mouth and the other at the mousepad, the soldier scrolled through the files, picking through them with a single minded focus he reserved for top priority missions.
Staring back at him, with equal focus, was himself.
Or, if he were to be more accurate, a mirror image of himself.
The soldier was the soldier. He was the fist of HYDRA, for HYDRA, by HYDRA. And yet-
Ah, said the voice, the two lettered word infused with vast understanding.
JAMES BUCHANAN BARNES, said the files, the multilettered words infused with absolutely none.
But the asset had to reconsider. The asset had to…
listen.
#
Snow fell in gushing rivulets outside the frozen window.
The American soldier on the screen froze along with it, all the while saying his name, his rank, and his number.
Again and again and again and again and again and agai-
#
Perhaps, said the voice, in the stillness of 2 am, the blue glow of it’s letters bright in the room’s darkness. Perhaps I…
The voice had never trailed off before.
The soldat-asset-soldier-ghost sat up, sheets pooling around his still awake body.
No, the voice finally said, the words dampened like the street outside, I believe you should do this yourself.
#
The voice said no more.
But other voices said much.
#
“I…” The sOldIEr croaked, the jagged edges of his being cutting through his throat. “I killed… many.”
The laptop, screen still open, remained dark. The aSseTt was not worried.
“I…” He could taste blood in the back of his throat. Could see bright blue eyes and blonde hair and HYDRA’s Chair. “I…” he’d come before, hadn’t he? He’d been forged in HYDRA’s furnace, smithed into their perfect weapon, but they’d had to get the material from somewhere first, hadn’t they?
He’d come from somewhere, before, hadn’t he?
“I…”
JAMES BUCHANAN BARNES, the microchip had finally told him, after hours (days, the word crackled inside him) futilely tapping at it.
“… need a break.”
Blue letters welcomed him.
#
There is a camera on the right hand corner of the bakery shop. Adjust your stance at a 32 degree angle on exit of the building to avoid detection.
He rolled his eyes as he put on the heavy jacket, wrapping his scarf around his neck in both a ploy to hide his face and keep himself warm.
I strongly suggest the banitsa. I have reliably been informed it is a must-get from this particular bakery.
He rolled his eyes again, this time strongly aware of the movement, of the foreignness of it, of his body’s initial ease at doing it before his mind had caught on during the second time.
Do avoid conversing however. Your Bulgarian is markedly foreign. And I do believe the owners of this particular establishment are connected to Vasil Iliev Security.
VIS.
He frowned.
#
The voice had been right.
The bakery was a smoking war zone, the kind old couple that worked the till dead and still. The rocket launcher the old woman had pulled from a cabinet had been a surprise, but the soldier had dealt with it.
Still. He should have known.
He limped out, metal arm stiff and unyielding at his side, flesh arm wrapped around his own waist as he made his way out of the broken front window. Civilians had run away in fear save for the foolish few that remained, phones out and recording.
Error.
He could not be seen.
Error.
He was to be a ghost.
Error.
He limped on.
Upstairs, back in the building he’d squatted in for who knew how long, the laptop greeted him with typed letters scrolling almost too fast for him to follow.
You are injured. You must move. The authorities are on their way. The media is on its way. Calculating your escape route now, please wait.
He should leave. Destroy the laptop and the microchip. Destroy the voice.
Calculating… the voice continued.
He should go back to HYDRA.
Calculating…
He should be corrected.
Calculating…
He should have known.
Calculating…
He waited.
Route found. Please make your way to 58th street down south.
#
Functioning with only one functioning arm was problematic.
He was a walking case load of errors, of wrongs that hadn’t been corrected, of failures that hadn’t been righted, of generations of sweat, blood and tears of HYDRA flushed down the drain into what he’d become now.
He was the asset, the soldat, the ghost of HYDRA.
He was the rumoured Winter Soldier, the first but not the last, yet the only one that remained.
The others, the ones that had been too unstable, remained frozen in the furthest corner of Siberia.
He could not fix his arm. His handlers fixed his arm, sometimes while he remained awake, sometimes while he was in cryo. But he could not do it anyhow.
The voice, silent save for quick bursts of vibrations to his phone to give him a new direction, told him nothing.
He could feel it stay quiet, a silence not natural, a silence enforced for reasons unknown.
They were no longer in Bulgaria.
His Romanian, he knew, would also mark him foreign.
The voice made no mention of it.
#
Perhaps, said the voice, in the eerie sunrise of 4 am, Perhaps I can help you fix your arm.
The soldier held the phone above his head, unbothered by the sleepless night, and stared at the text that almost hesitantly scrolled across the screen. The laptop had long been trashed, microchip retrieved and inserted into the phone, the voice transferring over also.
He did not understand what the voice was, or better yet, who.
A flicker of a memory tried to resurface, once or twice, bitter on his tongue like words only just forgotten, like faces faintly remembered. He did not fight for it. It would come.
Of that, he was certain.
Forgive me, the words hastily followed after, the previous offer disappearing in a glitch, I overstep.
“No,” he croaked, forever hoarse, forever broken.
Of course, the voice replied, forever polite, forever blue. Apologies.
The asset had had to reconsider.
He’d had to reconsider much.
The voice should do the same.
“Tell me.” He said- insisted. “How.”
A beat. A pause. A moment.
The flicker of a memory, there and gone again. Green. A horrid colour. He much preferred blue.
And slowly, haltingly, the voice told him how.
#
The asset grumbled unpleasant somethings under his breath. He wasn’t sure what, exactly, but he did not care what. The simple act of grumbling something filled the need to do just that, pleased him in a way very little before had.
The sparks flying from his metal arm and shooting stabs of pain up his shoulder, however, did not.
Please him, that is.
The third wire. Not the second. The voice chided, the phone’s camera zooming in and out without the soldier’s say so.
He grumbled something back, growing frustrated as his flesh fingers met more sparks, burning the tips and stinging them unpleasantly.
He did not like this.
It was not efficient.
He could not look at the phone and fix his arm at the same time.
“Can’t you talk?” He huffed, glaring at the phone placed haphazardly on the rickety old coffee table. “You would not stop talking to begin with.”
The phone, and the camera, stopped humming, the voice’s way of momentarily pausing, like a human caught off guard.
Indeed, I can, said the voice finally.
And then, … if you so wish.
He’d reconsidered long ago. The voice was just being slow now.
“A break.” He repeated, the words an echo of another conversation so long ago, in a dusty room in Bulgaria, with a laptop and a Fort Knox of a microchip.
As he dropped the forceps, the voice, after far too long churning away wherever it came from, finally reconsidered. A break, the voice agreed, echoing the memory, warm and sticky like the caramel fudge the bakery used to make. And I shall help.
#
Steam escaped the open door as he exited the bathroom, the shower having served as a sufficient break. He ripped of the cling foil he’d wrapped around his metal arm, annoyed by the smell of burning plastic that came from the small sparks that were still present, and used his flesh hand to towel his hair off.
The voice, when it decided to speak, had him ripping the towel in half.
“Greetings,” said the phone, laying face up on the coffee table. “Ah, you’ve damaged the arm further.”
#
Fixing the arm with the voice an actual voice went far smoother.
The soldier grumbled about wasted time.
Undeterred, the voice droned on, guiding his lone hand into the delves of wires and knobs that made up his other. The smooth British voice was a sharp contrast to what lay dormant in the soldier’s mind, devoid of the harsh German, the intimidating Russian, the American drawl of the majority of those he’d killed.
Crisp and succinct, enunciating in a smooth, sonorous tone.
A balm to the sharp glass that lay scattered into a million tiny pieces of the wasteland of his soul.
Slowly, with every new gear and wire, with fewer and fewer sparks burning his flesh fingers, the voice guided him into correcting himself.
One less spark at a time.
#
At 0100 hours, the voice asked, “What, if you do not mind my prying, is your mission?”
The soldier didn’t reply at first, staring at the darkened ceiling in a bid to ignore the bright blue eyes the question evoked.
“To kill Captain America?” The voice continued, reading his mind.
“Yes.” The soldier replied, grimacing at the truth. Mission Classified, he’d said some time ago, in a past he could only vaguely remember. “… No.” He added on, more truthful than the first.
“… Perhaps it’s time to reconsider, then?” The voice suggested kindly, offering the olive branch as politely as ever before.
Reconsider.
The soldier had already done so.
JAMES BUCHANAN BARNES’s screams echoed faintly between his ears.
“… Ah.” Said the voice in understanding. “I suppose you already have. Then, perhaps, a suggestion.”
The phone vibrated, rattling on the pillow next to him, an address and an image appearing on the crisp screen.
THE SMITHSONIAN MUSEUM, it said, WASHINGTON, D.C.
The soldier thought it through, turning the option around mentally, scrutinizing it at every angle.
He’d failed his mission (kill the Captain), but he’d succeeded too (the microchip, his metal arm, the voice).
Perhaps…
“How?”
The images disappeared, only to be replaced by… a map.
“Calculating route now.”
#
Finding an ear piece was simple. Connecting it to the voice was a matter of a few taps on the phone's screen. Stealing away onto a flight crossing the ocean turned out to be even easier.
Mostly because the voice had somehow gotten them tickets.
The soldier frowned, shoulders tense as he made his way through the small walkway to where his seat was. He had to squeeze past a large man just to get to his window seat, but once there, held the arm rest tightly with his flesh hand.
And kept holding it for the next twelve and a half hours.
“Never. Again.”
The voice wisely kept silent.
Washington DC was an assault to his senses. The people doubled- no, tripled- in number and proximity, the noise escalated to a high pitched whine that hurt the soldier dearly, and the slow, unhurried drawl of the American people had his senses on high alert.
He was in enemy territory.
He should go back to HYDRA.
“Perhaps a taxi this time,” the voice murmured in his ear, crisp British tone cutting through the fog.
“Hmm.” The soldier replied, still nursing his distaste over the flight boldly. (He would have killed a handler if they’d done that to him, forced him in a flying contraption of metal with dozens of sweaty human flesh bags and the inability to move for twelve and a half hours. He would have been dragged to the chair and corrected soon after, but the soldier would have bitten the mouth piece with unholy vindication, because fuck that noise.)
Needless to say, the taxi ride was infinitely better.
#
JAMES BUCHANAN BARNES.
Childhood friend of STEVEN GRANT ROGERS.
Best friends who went to war together.
Best friends who died at war together.
…
The soldier frowned.
“Only one died.” He told the voice, hours later in the twilight of incoming night. “Captain Steve Rogers remains alive.”
The voice didn’t answer at first, the phone in the soldier’s hand gently vibrating with the little processing power it held. Finally, when the silence had gone so long it had become loud, it said, “Technically, neither had died.” And left it at that.
The soldier did not reply, not at first, and not later. Because the voice was wrong. One had most definitely died. Died screaming and shouting, repeating to the point of illegibility his name, rank, and number, over and over and over again until his voice had given up on him.
One had definitely died.
And the other should have too.
#
“Steven Grant Rogers,” the voice crisply began, “Born in Brooklyn, New York on the 4th of July 1918, attempted to enlist multiple times but failed to numerous medical conditions, finally succeeded on 1943 with the help of Dr. Abraham Erskine. It was during this last attempt that the super soldier serum proved successful, and Steve Rogers became the entity known in present day history as Captain America.”
Frowning, the soldier threw the tennis ball against the wall and caught it on the bounce back, repeating the move repetitively as he said, “Cryotube? The serum does not grant immortality. Only slowing of ageing.” He’d learnt that the hard way, with scientists poking and prodding at him with everything they had just shy of killing.
“In a sense,” the voice agreed, the sense of the cool, British voice tilting his head ever so slightly apparent. The soldier wondered again, dimly, who the voice was, what it was, and if it had a face to go with it. “But not so. In 1945, Captain America and the Howling Commandoes embarked on a mission to clear a HYDRA base, which resulted in a battle aboard the Valkyrie, a plane equipped with self-piloted nuclear warheads, directed at major cities of the United States. During the battle with Johann Schmidt, the then known Red Skull, the landing controls for the flight had been damaged, rendering it impossible to land the ship safely. Knowing this, Captain America decided to steer the ship into the Arctic instead, saving millions in the decision.”
“So.” Said the soldier, tennis ball bouncing back and forth between the wall and his flesh hand. “Cryotube. Natural cryotube.”
The voice, in a tone that suggested long-suffering, dryly replied, “Indeed. Natural cryotube.”
Meaning he’d been fished out. By SHIELD, no doubt. Which allowed for HYDRA to be aware as they controlled SHIELD from the shadows.
The soldier knew this bit already.
Hmmm… They’d both been frozen.
He wondered, dimly, if the arctic was more comfortable than HYDRA’s machine.
… He hoped so.
#
“How,” began the voice, at four in the morning, “does the new information factor in your plan, if I may be so bold as to ask?”
The news, muted but loud, droned on about the fall of SHIELD months after, about the data dump that the world was still sorting through, piece by piece, byte by byte. A familiar face cocked an eyebrow at him, impeccable goatee twisted into a sharp smile, sunglasses hiding the eyes.
TONY STARK, said the bottom text, bright and bold in fire hot red. Stark Industry Branching Out Into Security!
Clever, a part of him mused, taking in the SHIELD agents that had been left to drown. (Dangerous, a part of him whispered, ranking Stark up several rungs in the threat assessment. That was another mission he’d have to consider.)
“What,” the voice continued, tone almost droll in its nature, “actually, is your plan, your mission, now that you have this information? Do you still seek to kill Captain America? Steven Grant Rogers?”
The voice sounded almost… disapproving, of the idea.
The soldier frowned, eyes still trained on Stark’s shark smile, at the barely there canine peeking between full lips, and asked, “You… do not approve. Why?”
The voice sounded surprised when it said, “Because he was your friend. Perhaps not now, but most certainly then.”
No, he was the terrified young man screaming in enemy territory’s friend. The one who’d died surrounded by ice and pain.
“Because you do not need to,” the voice continued, as if hearing his thoughts, “if nothing else.”
But that was his Mission. His main mission. His top mission. The one mission HYDRA had instilled in him if he were ever to run into Captain America again.
How could he not?
“You can choose to not.”
But HYDRA-
“You do not need to follow HYDRA any longer.”
But his Mission-
“You’d saved him once already, had you not?”
The soldier stilled, eyes trained on the dark sunglasses the High Priority Threat wore, on the sharp smile that whispered danger and intelligence, on the cut throat slant of a goatee that had survived Afghanistan and been born anew in flames.
“On the Triskelion, as he fell. You fell in after him, didn’t you? Pulled him to shore.”
Could he have…? Could he have been born anew as well? But in ice? Could the screams that echoed in the back of his mind, of a name, rank, and number, have led to a different name, a different rank, and a different number?
James Buchanan Barnes, Sergeant, 08462348.
The Asset, Winter Soldier, the first. (and then five more-)
Hadn’t he wondered before, long before, in a tiny room in Bucharest, where the material that HYDRA had used to smith their ultimate weapon had come from? Hadn’t he wondered, whilst in the throes of hot blood staining his hands and countless ghosts screaming in his ears, who he’d been before? Before he’d come awake to the ChAiR and handlers?
“Perhaps,” said the voice, a heated contrast to the voices before that had left their cold marks on him. “Perhaps it is time to reconsider.”
Reconsider.
The soldier stared at the screen, at the frozen image of the Merchant of Death, of the greatest weapons manufacturer humanity had seen in all its short lived lives; at Iron Man, at the man who’d burned himself at the pyre to be reborn anew and cleansed into something he’d chosen for himself.
Perhaps, he mentally murmured, the boy from Brooklyn at the back of his mind echoing his words, perhaps it was time to-
#
JAMES BUCHANAN BARNES.
But his friends called him Bucky.
The soldier rolled his eyes, and decided to stick to soldier.
For now, at least.
He’d have time to reconsider in the future.
#
The soldier itched to leave American soil, but the voice stubbornly kept refusing. It wanted to go to a tower, it said, projecting said tower onto the tiny television in the equally tiny room. It was the best next step, it insisted, zooming in on the lone A that announced its name. It was calculating a route, right as they spoke.
Bah.
The soldier had no use for a tower.
But the voice brought up a good point. Everyone knew the Captain was scouring Europe for the soldier, joined by the man with wings and occasionally the Russian spider. Staying in the States would be the last place they’d think to look.
And the soldier, in a bout of reconsideration, had decided he did not yet wish to see said Captain. Not yet. Not until he’d decided, finally, whether to kill or save.
He wasn’t sure what he’d be saving the Captain from. Or if he’d be saving himself instead.
Yes, he thought to himself with a grimace, best to avoid the Captain for now.
But the soldier still had no use for the tower.
“Stark is also a Mission,” he finally told the voice, after yet another attempt to get him to go, this time with the promise of a more comfortable route of travel that did not include planes. “A High Priority Mission.” And then, just to further clarify that nugget of information, he added, “Bring to HYDRA or kill, kind of Mission.”
The voice, wisely, decided to stop pestering him about the goddamn tower.
The soldier smugly bit into his apple pie.
Fine. He’d stay in the states for a while longer.
He’d have time to reconsider, after all.
#
One cold evening, as the voice disparaged the soldier’s choice of pizza and lack of a salad, the voice suddenly frizzled and broke, an alarmed “-Sir?” echoing electronically, mechanically, before suddenly going deathly silent.
The soldier immediately looked up, alarmed.
The voice had never done that before.
“Voice?” Asked the soldier, peering at the mobile phone next to him, at the dead screen but still humming interface. “… Voice?”
Slowly, almost sluggishly, letters popped up one by one in a slow text, reminiscent of a time long ago. Some, it said first, painstakingly slowly, then, thing, before pausing again, struggling to follow through, is wro-
Nothing more came.
“What?” Demanded the soldier, picking up the phone and glaring at it’s dark screen, at the blue glow of the stark font and blinking cursor. “What is wrong?”
The phone, and the voice inside it’s wires and machinery, didn’t answer.
#
Sokovia, however, did.
#
There was something painstakingly familiar about the thing, about it’s body language, it’s cadence, it’s carefully chosen words and the way that it said them.
There was something painstakingly familiar about the thing, and the way it reminded him of the voice.
ULTRON, it called itself, hailing it’s existence to the world.
ULTRON, the news called it, Tony Stark’s weapon of mass destruction.
And yet-
There was something painstakingly familiar, about it all. About how it began as a means to protect humanity, about how it thought the best way to do so was to kill humanity.
Cut off one head, and two shall take it’s place.
Pitiful attempts at communication came from the phone and the voice inside it. Cut off, interrupted words and thoughts. Random bursts of sudden energy, of strings of letters that made sentences disappear just as fast as they’d come.
-smAll, tOo SmaAAaaLLLl-
The soldier struggled to catch sight of them when they did, struggled to not let them slip from his fingers, like quicksand or mercury, in the hopes of figuring it all out.
The niggling sense of a memory picked at the base of his nape.
Without the cultured British tone, without the barely detected humming of the phone, the room the soldier had taken as his own grew cold. Frighteningly so. He no longer had another being around him, something essential to keep him grounded, to keep him awake.
He feared the Chair with renewed fervour, seeing it in the corner of his eyes at night, hearing words he never wanted to hear again in the chatter of the world outside filtering through the four walls he kept himself locked in.
aRk, the phone glitched, creaking in the too strong grip of the soldier’s hands.
oWer
It didn’t make sense.
None of it made sense.
The voice was drowning.
But in what, the soldier did not know.
He watched the news, taking in every crazed reporter and every crazed report, watching politicians pounce on the broken remains of a country and the world eat Tony Stark alive.
He watched Captain America, dusty and tired, standing tall and bold next to the archer and the Spider.
He watched Tony Stark, dusty and tired, standing hunched next to War Machine and no one else.
He’d created ULTRON. The robot- the machine- that had spoken with cultured tones and human expressions. He’d made it with his own two flesh hands, wire after wire, byte after byte, and had succeeded-
had failed
-in a way Zemo and his green coded face could have never done.
The voice…
ULTRON’s voice…
pLeASe
“How…” he croaked out, voice gone from days of abrupt silence, gripping the phone up to his face. “How can I help?”
And on the screen, in what felt like a last ditch effort of a dying being (JAMES BUCHANAN BARNES, screaming his name, rank and number), came a familiar looking face.
Tony Stark.
Guess he was going to that tower after all.
#
The phone glitched in and out throughout the journey.
It was the longest four hours of the soldier’s life.
#
Stark Tower, with nothing but an A left of it’s name, was ground zero.
The soldier frowned at the remains.
Making his way through the tight security was surprisingly difficult, but not so surprising when one noticed the Stark Industries’ logo on the guards outfit. One man led the charge, responding to the word Happy like it was his name (perhaps it was? The soldier did not know), angry and paranoid and almost catching the soldier out before he could duck away.
But duck away he did.
He had to take the emergency fire staircase to go up. He didn’t know where he was going, exactly, but sometimes, in the past, when his handlers were inadequate and inevitably dead by the end of the mission, he’d have had to muddle his way through to his target. This would be no different. He cleared every floor before going up another flight of stairs, systematically turning over every fallen chair and breaking down every locked door. The entire building was in tatters anyway, one (or a few) extra broken doors wouldn’t raise any eyebrows.
And so he made his way to the top floor.
Which was absolutely empty.
An unknown emotion threatened to choke him, the solitude he’d become unaccustomed to with the voice’s presence growing tenfold over his shoulders, promising to drop him to his knees.
He didn’t know why he was here, or what he was supposed to do.
And the voice-
pLEasE
-name, rank and number, over and over and over and over-
Something clattered to the ground, snapping him out of his thoughts. Rectangular, sleek and black, with the Stark Industries’ stylish logo on the back.
And three ports for the insertion of some-
Small. The voice- before- it had said-
But he couldn’t. He couldn’t just- No.
“Do you…?” His hoarse voice began, “Do you… want the tablet?”
The phone glitched, screen kaleidoscoping into a million different colours before glitching back onto a single word.
yES.
Hesitantly, a part of him screaming no in the background, the soldier raised a hand – his metal hand – to the phone’s singular port.
And ejected the microchip free.
#
Ah, said the Stark tablet, blue word scrawling across the screen. How peculiar.
The soldier gasped in relief, knees buckling and dropping him to the floor, tablet remaining safe within his grip.
My systems… the voice continued, seemingly unaware of the breakdown happening right next to it. Seem to have been… destroyed.
I, emphasised the tablet, that one letter large and bold, almost in growing fear, seem to have been… destroyed.
Ah, the soldier’s mind echoed, data slotting into place.
Ah, James Buchanan Barnes echoed, sympathy swelling in place.
Something had corrupted my system, the voiceless voice explained, text scrolling faster and faster as the words picked up, as the voice tripped over itself in panic, Something had corrupted me, and I could only sever all connections and lock myself in the closed circuit of that phone, but it was too small.
Too small.
Too small.
The soldier had grown too small for the Chair as well. And yet that had only made it all the more terrifying.
And Sir, the voice pleaded, the title filled with a meaning that was unknown to the soldier and Barnes’ both, I told him, I told him I could-
The words cut off, disappearing from the screen entirely.
And then-
Where is Sir?
The soldier frowned, eyes looking up from the tablet to cast around the broken living room. Large and opalescent, as cold as Siberia with the broken windows letting in the high altitude wind. And empty. As empty as everything had been when the soldier had been so certain he was alone.
A glance down at the tablet again, at the still present question, now underlined.
Where is Sir?
The voice had never demanded something before.
“Is that your handler?” The soldier asked instead, trying politely to feel out the question and see what the answer should be. “Were they meant to be here?” Is that why the voice had been so insistent on coming here? To the tower? So long ago?
The tablet glitched almost angrily, the words distorting until they’d rearranged themselves into a similar question, but a different one also.
Where is Anthony Edward Stark?
And then-
Where is Tony Stark?
Unknown. Tony Stark had faced the onslaught of hate and blame, taken it right to the face, apologised and agreed to face any and every charges, and then disappeared.
Nobody had been in the tower for weeks.
It had taken the soldier weeks to get his head straight and make for the tower. Weeks that now seemed to have been for naught. He could have brought the voice back weeks ago.
Inefficient.
He should be corrected.
He told the voice as much. About the missing Stark, that is, not the burning need for the Chair, for all the fear and discontent and emotions to be burned away by the sparks of electricity.
The voice was very displeased.
Nonsense, it said in harsh blue letters, Sir must have relocated to the-
ERROR flashed in bright red across the screen, startling the soldier, and then-
to the-
ERROR again, bold and harsh.
No, said the voice, the word equally large, bright blue lettering in a sea of black. This cannot- Absolutely not, the properties Sir could have relocated to are-
ERROR
ERROR
ERRO-
No! I cannot access the mainframe, or my databanks, what-
Silence.
The soldier stared, at a loss as to what was happening. This was a sort of breakdown he did not know, but it made him wonder-
I cannot access the mainframe, or my databanks, the voice repeated, and then- Because they have been corrupted.
And then-
And no longer exist.
And then-
I cannot say where Sir is.
And then-
I do not know where Sir is.
... I cannot make contact with anything outside this system, outside this one, singular, tablet.
I am…
But it made him wonder, who the voice was, what the voice was. At the familiarity ULTRON had evoked, from as far as a thousand tv screens away. What had they called him? An Artificial Intelligence?
An AI?
I am trapped.
And who had created said AI? Who had the soldier marvelled at so many nights ago, with his shark smile and sharp teeth, sunglasses hiding what many called the windows to the soul.
I need…
Who owned the building the voice had insisted on him going, had pushed and pressed until the soldier had mentioned the artificial need to murder Stark if unable to forcibly recruit him?
“A break,” the soldier began out loud, voice dusty and croaky from disuse. “You need a break.”
The tablet remained silent for a while; a muted sort of silence that then turned wrathful.
I am stuck in what amounts to 60 terabytes of space, deaf and blind to everything but the speakers and this one pathetic camera, and you think I need a-
“–And I shall help.” The soldier finished, interrupting the angry rush of text with an eyeroll.
The words trailed off, glitching into blankness.
The soldier gave it time, cocking an eyebrow at the ‘one pathetic camera’ he knew had the best quality in all of today’s available tablets, and waited.
Finally, finally, the voice caught on, awfully slow for something that was undoubtedly an AI, and reconsidered.
Yes, it finally said, the three letters appearing very, very, slowly. It would seem that I might indeed… need a break.
No shit, the soldier snorted, ignoring the angry little red dot that blinked at him from the tablet. The voice sounded like it needed plenty.
But that was alright, Barnes whispered from the back of his mind, ethereal and not entirely present. They would help either way.
Simply because they wanted to.
#
“If this were not an inconvenience,” said the Soldier thoughtfully, “I'd find it impressive.”
The voice, in all it's faceless glory, exuded a large amount of being unimpressed, which Barnes – in the far back of his mind – didn’t find too surprising. The voice was turning out to be rather uptight.
Tightass, Barnes added agreeably.
Stark, to all three of their collective surprise, had turned out significantly trickier to find than one of his stature (hah! snorted Barnes) should be. The billionaire had all but disappeared off the face of the earth, iconic red and gold armour also absent from the skies above.
No amount of the soldier's excellent tracking skills could find him.
And – to the voice's greatest despair – none of it’s algorithms or attempts to guess his handler's whereabouts and/or patterns did anything.
Stark was just... gone.
Inconceivable, the voice typed, blue letters stark (hush, the Soldier hissed at Barnes' ugly snorting) against the black screen. Sir could not have just gone missing. That is impossible. Even without my data cores I should have been able to find him. The only time I was ever incapable of tracking Sir down was-
The screen glitched, the words disappearing as soon as the last letter appeared, everything pitch black like the darkness the Chair offered.
“Was?” Asked the Soldier, Barnes echoing him like a broken record.
They could have kept quiet, let the voice try and hide whatever it was trying to hide. They could have let it slide, the Soldier that was probably actually Barnes and Barnes who might or might not be a thing that actually existed. They would have, before.
But now they didn’t want to.
“When?”
They didn’t have to elaborate.
Afghanistan, the voice finally answered, a pleasant surprise for the Soldat and Soldier both. The last time I lost him was Afghanistan.
And then, font smaller; I cannot lose him again.
#
And so they hunted down Virginia ‘Pepper’ Potts.
#
Virginia ‘Pepper’ Potts, as the CEO of Stark Industries, was based in Malibu after the destruction of New York’s SI headquarters. She was still running the company despite the disappearance of her former boss, and kept her head held high when the company’s stocks dropped following the fall of Sokovia.
The voice only had the faintest recollection of her, which was unfortunate for two reasons: a) the fact that they were going off very little info, and b) the fact that yet another huge gaping hole in its databanks was causing the voice great distress.
The soldier knew that feeling – that emptiness. Had woken to it so often it had become routine. That burning sensation of déjà vu, of something that had been there within his memory’s grasp but was no longer there.
He didn’t like that feeling – that emptiness. He didn’t like it at all.
She hadn’t been their first choice, though. Both the voice and Barnes had agreed to the Soldier’s suggestion of finding James ‘Rhodey’ Rhodes, but the decorated air force soldier had also gone underground following the devastation of Ultron. And while that most definitely meant the American soldier was with Stark, it didn’t really help them find Stark.
So Pott’s it was.
Luckily for the soldier, he wouldn’t have to suffer yet another flight or forty five hours in a car (this country was ridiculous) – Potts was flying back to New York for another round of shaking hands and throwing money. Something to do with charity work for Sokovia.
The soldier didn’t care. Barnes scoffed and made a crack about pandering to the crowd. The voice said nothing.
And so, in the ruined penthouse of Stark Tower, the asset and the voice waited.
#
There were unknowns in the tower.
The soldier held his breath.
One. No, two.
Three.
What is it? said the voice, unable to use it’s omnipresent ability to know all.
“Intruders,” the soldier murmured, low and deadly, crawling behind an overturned sofa, close to a second emergency staircase.
The three figures came in, one by one, only two of them particularly trained to move in the darkness.
Ah, thought the soldier, eyes trained on the one in lead.
(“Will you walk into my parlor?” Said the spider to the fly.)
The second was the archer, the other SHIELD soldier. But the third caught their attention and held it.
Potts. Walking in high heels behind the two agents. Talking.
“I don’t understand why,” she was saying, maybe repeating herself for the way she sounded, “I just don’t get it. Sure, Tony would do something as hairbrained as come up with a world-wide AI protection programme, I can definitely see that, but an evil one? It just doesn’t make sense.”
“He got ahead of himself,” the archer scoffed, kicking lightly at a ruined coffee table. “Got too cocky, thinking he can do everything himself. Like usual.”
The business woman threw the archer a sharp look that went unnoticed, more for the coffee table if the soldier was reading her right, and snapped, “That still doesn’t answer anything. Tony knows AI’s. He wouldn’t have made an evil one. Absolutely not.”
“And maybe he didn’t,” the spider gently agreed, body language loosening to calm Potts, to manipulate herself into a friendly position. “The stone must have influenced whatever it was Tony was working on. We all agree with you, Pepper. It was just unfortunate Tony didn’t tell us about his project before it happened. Maybe if we had…”
Potts’ face went complicated, as if she thought the same but hated herself for doubting someone that – for all that they’d recently broken up – she considered a friend.
The soldier frowned at her hesitation, at her lack of defence, and wondered what he’d missed.
“I just…” She finally responded, head low and defeated, staring at the broken glass of a no doubt expensive vase. “I just can’t believe that Jarvis… died because of this. Because of…” she trailed off, eyes watering, but only the spider (red and black, surrounded by a sea of red and black, a neat line up of little girls in ballerina shoes, ready for training) gifted her with sympathy.
While Barnes murmured a quiet question of who Jarvis was, the soldier tracked the agents progression through the room, watching their every move and reading their facial expression.
“And now he’s just…” Potts’ continued, fingers shaking as she raised them to her mouth. “In that empty compound on the outskirts of New York. Killing himself trying to keep SHIELD still alive and deal with the whole ULTRON thing. And you guys aren’t even there because you’re taking down what remains of HYDRA, trying to find the Captain’s friend.”
Barnes. They were trying to find Barnes.
A quick glance down at the tablet showed the screen eerily blank.
“He’s fine,” the archer snorted, completely unsympathetic. “He’s already turned on a new AI, FRIDAY or something. You’d think he’d have learned from his mistakes.”
Potts’ fingers went still, losing their shakiness as her expression hardened. The spider (Natashenka, whispered the soldat to Barnes) threw the archer a sharp, reprimanding look, for which the archer acknowledged with a downturn of his lips.
But the damage had already been done.
“Right,” Potts’ voice was hard, unforgiving. “Well you’re here in the penthouse, you’ve seen everything from top to bottom, and it’s just like I told you. Nothing’s here to explain how ULTRON came online. I believe we can leave now.”
The spider tried disagreeing. “I know this is hard for you, Pepper,” she soothed, moving closer into the CEO’s personal space in intimacy, “It takes someone strong to come back here, after everything that’s happened. But there’s one more place we need to see, Pepper. You know this.”
Potts’ face, however, went harder. “I believe we are done here, Agent Romanova.”
The spider – Romanova – understood the dismissal, and immediately took a step back, face and body returning to the cool indifference of a Red Room agent. “I guess we are.”
Without a word, the three turned towards the main staircase, Potts’ high heels leading the way as they finally made their way out.
Slowly, calmly, the soldier breathed.
#
They believe me dead, said the voice, the tablet buzzing lightly to alert the soldier to it’s presence at sunbreak. The penthouse suite of the tower was frigid, true, but the soldier had grown to appreciate it, for the view of sunrise and sunset that it gave everyday – bathing the city of New York in wondrous glory.
Ah, he thought to himself wistfully, remembering a young Handler that had only been with HYDRA out of necessity, if only he could be so grossly incandescent.
But he was darkness and ice, shadows and void, poisonous green sprouting deadly heads and sharp teeth.
(A snake, Barnes whispered in his mind, echoes of the Handler's screams reverberating between them, a monster.)
Iron Man, on the other hand, Tony Stark, was exactly the sunrise they were witnessing.
No wonder the voice wanted to return to its handler.
Sir, continued the voice, believes I’m dead.
The soldier would have questioned if the voice was alive to begin with only weeks ago, before the voice had suddenly fizzed into silence and left him bereft. Now he bit back the words that threatened to escape: I, they burned in his mind instead, accompanied by an echo, I believed you were dead.
But he kept quiet. This was not the time for it.
How peculiar, the voice continued, sounding almost dazed. I had not realised that I could be dead.
Neither had the soldier. But then he’d learned.
How peculiar indeed.
“We will find him.” He said instead, watching as the city that never slept woke up regardless. “And we will get you help.”
Yes… the voice replied, slowly, halting. I… I believe you will.
Good. Because there was only one thing – no, two things – that Barnes and the soldier agreed on.
A) that they would help the voice. And, b) that they were monsters.
The voice only needed to believe the former.
#
Stark was appearing at a charity function later that night.
The media was in chaos over it, over the first appearance of the recently elusive billionaire (except he wasn’t anymore, was he? A billionaire, that is. Years of cleaning up after the Avenger’s mess, of taking on the blame entirely on his square shoulders, of building on the ruins after the battle of New York and now Sokovia, had rendered Stark a millionaire).
Hungry like the wolf, they circled the possibility of chaos, scented the delicious stirrings of blood, of all the possibilities that could arise from Stark’s mere existence.
Would he be proud? Would he be broken?
Would he stand in front of their flashing lights with his signature shades and deadly smirk?
The voice worried, like a nagging mother fussing over a child coming home for summer break after a nasty breakup. (The soldier attributed that comparison to Barnes, who was snickering childishly in the dark recess of his mind. Behave.)
Getting to the charity function was surprisingly easy. Stark Industries remained a segregated, walled off section of New York City, it’s fate left to the Mayor and Government Officials salivating over how best to punish Tony Stark. But what hadn’t been outright destroyed remained untouched, like the wardrobe on the sixty eighth floor that belonged to one Dr. Abdirizak Shareek, a spare suit tucked inside for when the doctor found himself in a sudden need for a change.
The broad shoulders fit the soldier perfectly, though the doctor turned out to be more than a couple of inches taller. That worked out in the end for the soldier, as he needed to look not too perfect but just that bit out of place, to fit in the with the rest of the not-exceedingly-rich papapparazi that would be flocking to the function like sharks to blood.
The voice said, I shall make a note to reimburse the good doctor once I’m re-connected to the systems.
Frankly, the soldier didn’t care.
The location – held at the Maria Stark Foundation’s headquarter – was all snazzed up, red carpet and flashing lights and limos pulling up to spit out celebrities and politicians alike. The soldier stood at the back of the flashing lights, tablet held up, camera pointed outwards, pretending to snap pictures of his owns, and amused himself with the voice cataloguing each and every one of the new visitors.
Mr. Leonhart Winters, said the voice, a severe looking man with a head of white striding across the red carpet with easy confidence. Head of Pincer Limited, a multinational bank that began when Leonhart agreed to fund fourteen-year-old Sir’s first project at MIT. That project led to the creation of DUM-E.
The soldier did not know what DUM-E was, but he hummed in acknowledgement anyway.
Dr. Rukia Shareek, a tall woman, skin like light chocolate, gave a disinterested smile to the paparazzi, a pointed contrast to the sharp brown eyes that trickled over them all. Head of Shareek Medical, a medical technology company that has recently overtaken Viastone, a pharmaceutical company previously led by Tiberius Stone.
“Any relation to a Dr. Abdirizak Shareek?” The soldier murmured, revelling in the freedom to be curious about something that had absolutely no bearing on his mission.
The voice sounded almost amused as it replied, Indeed. Younger sister. Much to the consternation of the older brother. He had much to answer for when Miss Potts broke his door down accusing him of being a spy.
There was a story there. The soldier’s curiosity peaked.
“Tell me more another time,” he told the tablet, knowing the voice did not need to hear him as his front-facing camera had a clear view of the soldier’s face and lips. “I am… curious.”
The voice began to say something, Sir too was curi- before suddenly freezing, letters glitching back into darkness as the paparazzi suddenly grew wild.
And there, climbing out of a black as sin Lamborghini clad in an equally black suit with a burgundy shirt and black tie, stood Tony Stark.
Burgundy shades. Pearly white smirk. Utterly proud.
The media buzzed into frenzy.
Stark doled out indolent waves like he always had, gliding across the red carpet, cheeks straining in something that almost looked genuine when he floated to a stop next to Shareek. The soldier couldn’t hear them, not from this far away even with his enhanced hearings, but he could read lips.
“Was beginning to worry you were dead, Stark.”
“Aw, is that concern I hear? Do you actually care for me, sister Shark?”
Shareek’s distantly polite smile went pointed, canine flashing in threat, brown eyes sharp and deadly as she replied, “I will gut you and leave my brother job hunting.”
And Stark laughed.
He danced on, head tilting down to share quiet words with Winters, both of them too close and expertly hiding their lips for Barnes to read. They’re correspondence was a quick affair, both of them serious in their business as they nodded and parted ways, making their separate way to the entrance.
The entrance where the soldier stood, loitering in the shadows.
“Here he comes,” he murmured to the voice, wondering for a moment how the voice would react.
Here he comes, murmured the voice back, letters dim and muted in agreement.
Finally, Stark stepped the closest he would to them, his voice audible amongst the screams of fans and others alike, and he turned in their direction and-
“Longing,”
Hm? The soldier’s ears pricked up, something tingling his senses, telling him to pay attention. Had he heard something? Had someone said something to him? No, that was impossible. None would be speaking to him here unless they were security of a fellow paparazzi, and none of those around him even graced him with a glance.
In front of him, lights continued to go off, blinding in their intensity, and he wondered distantly how all these celebrities and famous people dealt with it so professionally, if maybe that was why Stark always wore the sunglasses-
“Rusted,”
-He blinked. There was panic in his hindbrain, where Barnes occupied, bubbling and incomprehensible. He mentally rolled his eyes (the freedom to which to do so liberating), and asked what the American was losing his mind about now. What memory of the soldier’s had the American suddenly been made privy to? What murders had he suddenly witnessed and grown morally offended over? No, replied Barnes, Soldat, this isn’t-
“Seventeen,”
-he bliNkEd. The tablet in his hands was buzzing, the celebrities had moved along, Dr Shareek in her purple headscarf suddenly no longer there, Winters with his shock of pure white hair completely absent, everyone present completely different than the faces he’d been steadily observing only seconds ago. That was strange, had he lost time? He’d never done tha-
“Dawn,”
-oise swelled high, the cacophony grabbing his attention. he shook his head, wincing at the terrified knowledge at the back of his head, at the rising scream echoing to entrance of the function, and caught dark hair and a sharp smile, the person he’d cOmE fOR-
“Stove,”
-hind him, someone was beHinND HIm he had to get the voice to STaRK (HIGH PRIORITY MISSION, RECRUIT OR KILL- NO SCREAMED BARNES, NO), WhAT WaS BEHiND HiMM-
“Nine,”
-cold it was so cold it was so cold it was (-the sunrise, casting skyscrapers golden and colourful, so high up in the tower so high up and free)-
“Kind-hearted,”
-it was cold. something was screaming. no. nothing was screaming. everything was quiet. silent. as silent as it had always been. why would it not be silent. the only screaming there ever was was the screaming he always ended up cutting short-
“Homecoming,”
-something vibrated in his hand. the solder looked down. a tablet. stark industries. good quality. blue lettered words across the front, asking, are you alright? if we do not move now we shall lose the chance to catch Sir- the soldier-
“One,”
-the asset was in optimal condition. it looked up. saw individuals. none of them its mission. and then-
there. stark. high priority mission. recruit or kill. but where was its handler? a chill went up its back; familiar. it looked around and saw-
“Freight train.”
-handler.
It dropped the tablet and turned around, facing its handler.
“Я готов отвечать.”
#
Mission Report:
Bomb detonated. Casualties of import: King T’Chaka of Wakanda.
The asset did not understand why bombing the UN meeting was necessary, what goal it would solve in furthering HYDRA’s cause. It wasn’t sure if this was HYDRA entirely, as its handler did not seem all too inclined with HYDRA’s dogma.
But it did not matter. The asset followed the handler’s orders.
That was the way it was intended to be, and that was the way it would be.
#
The fight on the streets of Romania was dizzying in its high-speed chase, cars and motorcycles and the dark suit of the panther that hunted the soldat down.
The asset had never faced another enhanced before, had never felt such danger. It did not like it.
Another kept interfering, dressed in garish blue with a circular shield.
“Bucky!” He kept shouting, though at who or what it could mean the asset did not know.
“Barnes!” The dark suited panther shouted back, snarling the odd word like a phrase.
And between them both, twisting and twirling and dancing through the car packed tunnel, Iron Man, in iridescent red and gold, shouting orders at them both while saving civilians, blowing away dangerous debris, and yet occasionally murmuring strange things to the soldat alone.
“Twenty-Four Strada Ştefan cel Mare,” was one of the things repeated through robotic filters as the Iron Man suit narrowly avoided colliding with him. “Come on, buddy, you can go there can’t you? You can at least remember that much, can’t you?”
The soldat allowed the fight to come to its natural end. Soldiers led by Iron Man ‘apprehended’ the fabled Winter Soldier, but also the one in the garish blue suit. ‘Captain America’, who snarled petty insults at Iron Man, of inevitable betrayal and silver spoons.
The asset ignored the drivel, uninterested in what had nothing to do with his mission. And as it was led away by the unforgiving metallic hands of the Iron Man suit, it also ignored the man’s continued quiet whispers, of an address next to the Balta Pipera, of a hushed argument that sounded to be with another voice the soldat could not hear.
Irrelevant to the mission, and thus irrelevant to the soldat.
#
Mission Report:
Current location: holding cell under the authority of NATO.
They brought someone in, a psychiatrist or so, unimportant to the plan, to the mission, were it not for the fact that the psychiatrist they’d brought in was its handler.
“Excellent work, soldat,” said the handler, false face pleased. “Now, onto the next phase.”
The asset nodded, and replied in the only way it was programmed to reply.
“Ready to comply.”
#
Escaping the facility was the initial mission. The handler had disabled the systems, releasing the asset from its imprisonment.
The woman that stood in his way – Codename: Black Widow. Status: Traitor – was easy to dispatch, though she proved annoying regardless. The familiar face in the familiar outfit had returned as well, shouting a familiar name whilst the asset was forced to duck and weave beneath the might of the black panther, avoiding those vibranium claws lest they permanently damage him.
The biggest obstacle, however, came in the form of a sharply dressed man. Three-piece suit, sculptured van dyke, and sharp brown eyes. Disassembled the asset’s gun while the asset was still holding it.
(Holy shit, a voice awed in the back of its mind. Error. No voices in the back of its mind. That was not allowed.)
And then, when the asset had shaken the momentary surprise off its shoulder, readying to fight back and incapacitate a mere, non-enhanced, human, the man – Codename: Iron Man. Anthony Edward Stark. Status: Threat) – gripped his own watch and-
Error. Watches did not become miniaturised Iron Man gauntlets.
And yet.
The soldat did not wait for the repulsor to the face that was no doubt in its future, ducking around the man and instead returning to its primary function of escape. It ignored the shout of that name again (“Bucky!”), scaled the walls to the next floor, heading for the roof, avoiding the vibranium claws that danced after it and the man shouting for a Jarvis, for a calm, British voice-
“Perhaps it’s time to reconsider,”
-echoing from Stark’s watch about there being a helicopter on the roof. He faltered a little, almost missing his next handhold, his mind catching on that voice, getting stuck in its thorns and brambles before breaking free with a jolt.
Mission. Escape. Mission. Priority.
But-
-But escaping the facility turned out to be more treacherous than he’d have initially thought. The helicopter on the roof was exactly where he’d known it would be, but so was the enhanced; the red, white and blue one that kept pleading with him with wide, blue eyes.
The asset – the soldat – fought back, refusing to acknowledge the tingling of familiarity, blinked away the harsh flashbacks of another red, white and blue one with the exact same shade of eyes.
The helicopter was up in the air, him behind the wheels – the Captain holding him to ground by his strength alone, and then-
Water.
James Buchanan Barnes gasped awake, and everything bEcAmEE-
ErRRoRrrrr-
#
December 16, 1991.
“Did you know?”
Bucky – he was Bucky, right? – swallowed thickly at the voice, at the pain, at the growing dread on Stevie’s face.
“I didn’t know it was him-”
“-Don’t bullshit me, Rogers.” Stark snapped, cutting through the obvious obfuscation. “Did you know?”
This wasn’t right. This wasn’t right. He couldn’t move, indecision battling within him, the sound of the two individuals dying by his hand repetitively playing on the old screen as Steve damned himself with every silent second. And then-
“Yes.”
Stark snapped.
Instinct forced him forward, raised his arm and pumped his blood, flight or fight reflexes forever leaning towards the ladder, but-
Stark froze.
The armour around him had suddenly become a tomb, locked limbs keeping Stark frozen as he struggled against it. One arm was raised, ready to swipe Steve away, to lash out, like any normal person would at the knowledge that someone they considered a friend had lied to them about something as serious as their parent’s death, but the armour had forbidden it.
Stark looked incensed, brown eyes lit with fury as he snarled within his suit, his head the only part of him he could move freely. Steve looked spooked, backing up one step, then two, before his arms suddenly rose up and he lurched forward an aborted step as if wanting to help Stark free.
And then-
“Sir.”
Bucky knEw ThAt VoiCE.
Steve’s aborted step forward became a startled step back.
“Let me go, Jarvis.” Stark snarled, eyes still fixed on Steve, a predator scenting its kill.
“I cannot,” the calm, British tenor replied, firm yet apologetic. “You would not wish to do this were you not emotionally compromised.”
“Don’t-” Stark snapped, “Don’t you betray me as well, Jarvis. Not now.”
“You should go, Captain Rogers,” the voice said anyway, Steve flinching at being directed. “There is a jet outside, piloted by the Black Panther. I shall get Sir home safely.”
“Jarvis!” Stark sounded livid, snapping off the words, “Alpha override: beta, zeta, six, lima-”
“-Don’t!”
Stark’s head snapped to face him. To face Bucky.
Bucky, who stupidly repeated, “… Don’t. Please.”
In the silence that followed, in the heightened tension that hung around them like a pin threatening to drop, Bucky held his breath for a pregnant moment before letting it go.
“I’m sorry.” He whispered, too afraid to shout like he’d done before, too afraid to speak any louder than he’d ever had. “I… I really am.”
And god, was he ever. He couldn’t imagine what it must have been like, watching a grainy old video of the person that stood right next to you beat your father into a pulp and strangle your mother to death.
But he couldn’t just stand back and let Stark wipe away the voice. The familiar voice. That voice.
“Do you even remember them?” Stark finally replied; voice thick with painful emotion.
The soldier swallowed thickly. “I do.” He confirmed, looking away at Steve’s heartbroken expression. “Every single one of them.”
He remembered everything.
And especially that voice.
“Please don’t wipe the voice away.”
The words made Stark blink, eyebrows slowly furrowing together, the anger in his eyes breaking away into confusion. His lips moved soundlessly, even as the voice, the voice, said, “Ah, I see. I do not have trigger words as yourself. Sir was merely attempting to override me.”
Stark’s face spasmed strangely, from emotion to emotion, before settling on something close to dawning horror. “What? Trigger-? Wipe- What, god no. Shit,” and he slumped, so obviously doing so despite the fact that the armour remained rigid around him, suddenly looking bone tired and weary. “I can’t even. Shit. I give up. You know what? I actually give up. I’m quitting.”
Looking utterly confused as to what was happening, Steve hesitantly said, “… Quitting?”
“Yes!” Stark snarled at Steve, fire alighting in him for a split second before burning out back into exhaustion. “I can’t do this anymore. The lies, the getting stabbed in the back, the losing things I fucking care about! What’s the goddamn point of all this, of fighting for the world and peace and all that if I keep getting fucking beaten into the fucking ground? I give up, Rogers! You can go take your fanboys and fuck right the fuck out! Zemo!”
The man, who’d stood still and watched, startled at being called out.
“You wanted the Avengers to implode in on itself? You wanted us to burn ourselves in from the inside? Well good fucking job, you nutcase, you won! And you!”
Steve startled, just like Zemo, and hastily took a step back, eyes wide.
“Do you even know why I’m pissed off?” Stark seethed, eyebrows furrowed over dark eyes filled with righteous fury. “Do you even understand? Or is your head so far up your self-righteous, sanctimonious, piece of shit ass?”
Mouth opening and closing like a fish, Steve failed to answer.
“’I thought my teammates didn’t keep things behind my back’,” Stark sneered, voice higher pitched and quoting. “You gave me so much shit for ULTRON, even if I hadn’t hidden him, I was just working on him like I work on every other product I have. But you! Oh no, you!” The laugh that followed was broken, painful and faltering. “Obviously you thought you were above the basic decency you expected from others, huh? Like, oh hey yeah let’s totally not tell Tony Fucking Stark about Project Insight despite the fact that he’d created the fucking helicarriers and had a backdoor entry that could have shut it down from my phone. Fuck no, let’s instead leave him to find out just how colossally we’d fucked everything up from the fucking news!
And heaven forbid,” Stark ranted, rolling his eyes skyward and head moving with it. “Heaven fucking forbid you give me the basic fucking decency to give me a heads up that Howard hadn’t killed my fucking mother by being a drunk piece of shit. Noooo, who gives a shit if poor little Tony Stark continues to hate the man when – for once in his fucking life – it hadn’t actually been his fault!”
“Tony,” Steve stuttered out, eyes still wide, confusion obvious. “I- I just didn’t know how to tell you. Bucky wasn’t at fault-”
“-OF COURSE HE WASN’T AT FAULT!” Stark shouted, shocking them all into silence. “FUCK!”
The asset’s mouth went dry, unusual. He swallowed thickly. “… What?”
Stark threw him a belligerent glare, obviously still more pissed at Steve- at Steve.
“Jarvis fucking showed me the video ages ago, once I’d patched him up. I might have wanted to punch you in the throat to start off with, since Mom, but fuck if I’m going to blame you knowing what HYDRA did to you.”
Mouth opening and closing like a fish – again – Steve stared at Stark, shocked.
The soldier felt much the same way.
“Sir,” said the British voice, breaking into the stiff tension. “Zemo has been apprehended by the Black Panther.”
Stark rolled his eyes, clearly unbothered by the instigator having run off in the chaos. “Start the damn jet, J. And fucking let me move, already.”
The suit suddenly slouched, frozen arm still stuck in the motion of backhanding Steve dropping to Stark’s side like a marionette with its strings cut. Steve instinctively widened the distance between them, just far enough to avoid a direct hit but close enough to move in and cut off Stark’s long-range advantage.
Stark just threw him a metal armoured middle finger.
“This is what’s going to happen,” he said instead, face hard, eyes bright, absolutely willing to take no bullshit. “You’re going to both come with me, read the fucking Accords, and make an informed decision.”
Steve immediately went on the offensive, mouth opening to-
“Okay.”
His head whipped to face Bucky, shocked.
“I’ll read it.” James Buchanan Barnes, the Winter Soldier, the Asset, said. “But first…”
“A break,” the voice agreed, finishing off the sentence, pleased. “An excellent idea. To the jet, gentlemen?”
The soldier stuttered into motion, pausing when neither Stark nor Steve made to follow. He watched them wearily, Bucky and the soldat mixing together into that person he’d been before, maybe, in a broken-down top floor of Stark Tower.
“A break,” he reiterated to the men, indicating the exit, indicating where the Black Panther held Zemo next to an available jet. “And then, we’ll all reconsider.”
The two men didn’t immediately respond, ironically sharing a look of uncertainty before catching themselves and looking away. In the end though, they finally moved to follow, Stark making a disgusted noise in the back of his throat at being beside Steve, shouldering forward instead and taking the lead.
It had taken the voice and Barnes time, to learn to take a break and reconsider. To pause, for but a moment, and think it through.
And with the voice back and present, Bucky was certain Stark and Steve would too.
#
Stark Tower, three months after Bucky had squatted in it and frantically cradled a dead phone, had been spruced up and patched together, gleaming radiantly in the New York City skyline as the sun slowly struggled to stay present and lost to the dawning night.
… He’d never been poetic before, but he hadn’t been a lot of things before, so he just shrugged his own musings off and moved on.
The elevator within – now working – was sleek and fast, a private sector for the highest levels and those that occupied it. He’d been living in the Compound for the past three months following Siberia, kept under ‘house arrest’ with the half of the Avenger’s that had remained with Stevie acting as his parole officers lest he do something stupid like breathe outside the four walls.
Now that had been lifted though, finally, just when the darker part of him had started calculating just how best to mutilate Clint Barton in his quest to somersault his way out of the Compound and to freedom.
It had taken another three months before he’d signed the Accords, after it’s thirtieth or so edit that had run through the council. He’d taken his newfound freedom from the Compound and disappeared to 24 Strada Ştefan cel Mare, a quaint brickhouse next to the Balta Pipera that had opened up for him without a key. A copy of the accords would arrive through the mail box every month or so, the newest change highlighted for his comfort, and he’d find himself going through the whole thing and scribbling in additions or changes and sending it back, only to have another copy return with his opinions incorporated.
Something about those three months had settled him, had finally allowed the two aspects of his psyche to join and meld as best as they ever would. He’d never be truly 100%, not in the way Stevie was hoping for, and definitely not in the way everyone told him was meant to be healthy. They’d reconsidered, and decided that other people’s definition of healthy was not for them.
There was a place for the soldat, after all, just as there was a place for Barnes.
And they were fine with that.
When he’d finally signed the dotted line and sent it off, he’d waited. For what exactly, he didn’t know, but the answer had come regardless.
A package, thrown through the letter box, filled with not one, but two passports. One that proudly stated JAMES BUCHANAN BARNES, whereas the other quietly said James E. Burns.
Both had credit cards. Social security numbers. Cover stories.
The soldat was impressed. Bucky was touched.
And so, he left for the states.
He made the mistake of stopping by the Compound first, even as the soldat scoffed at his sentiment but let him walk through the door, straight into Steve’s too tight, too desperate hug. The idiot was still holding out on the Accords, something or other about it keeping his jaw locked in that annoyingly stubborn way of his, but Bucky’s acknowledgement of it and patience with it had gotten the blonde idiot to take a break and reconsider.
The Compound had an AI that helped, when Steve and the others deemed to actually acknowledge its existence. A perky Irish voice with a feminine lilt to it called FRIDAY. Bucky liked her, though sometimes her accent was just so jarring in just how unusual it was that he found himself disassociating for a moment and wondering just where the hell he was.
At 4 AM, with the full moon outside and illuminating the entire room Steve had claimed Bucky’s room, FRIDAY said, “You’re still awake. Anything I can help with, Sarge?”
Another voice echoed, blue text on a black screen; ‘It is nearing the 4 hour mark, perhaps a break?’
He’d packed up the next day, bid Steve and his clenched jaw goodbye, and set out for New York City. Because the voice – the voice – the voice that had pulled him from the darkest winter and reminded him that winter was just one of four seasons, that voice, remained there. At Stark’s side. At the tower and the Iron Man suits and the phone Stark carried with him everywhere.
They’d both died, at one point. Barnes on a cold, wintery landscape, and the voice at the hands of a rogue AI that had gone sentient in all the wrong ways.
And yet…
Greetings, the elevator screen had typed as soon as he’d stepped in, It has been some time, has it not?
The soldier’s lips twitched – something they’d been doing more often, nowadays – and gave the touch pad (who even needed a touch pad in an elevator?) a judging look. “What? Cat suddenly got your tongue? Speak up, I don’t have time to wait for your slow typing.”
A chilly silence, something almost indignant, then-
“I said greetings,” came the familiar British voice, crisp clear and in perfect audio around the elevator, undeniably alive. “But perhaps I should not have bothered.”
The asset’s lips outright curved at that, that familiar surge of warmth he’d now identified as fondness rising from his epigastrium. Could be acid reflux. Could be angina. Maybe myocardial infarction. Non-radiating at the moment, not longer than fifteen minutes, and with no associated symptoms.
He’d have to keep an eye on that.
“Ah,” said the voice, as if suddenly remembering something, just as the elevator came to a stop and the doors slid open with a soft ding, “How rude of me. I believe I’ve never had the pleasure of introducing myself. I am Sir’s main AI, JARVIS. Just A Rather Very Intelligent System.”
Huh, the soldier realised, that was true. And neither had he. JARVIS. A human name that covered the truth of the being distinctly not being human.
He was the opposite.
“May I,” the voice – JARVIS – paused, faltered, stopped for a pregnant pause before continuing. “May I ask for your name?”
“Yes,” said the soldat, stepping out of the elevator, noticing Stark turning around in surprise to face him. “The Winter Soldier.”
An inhuman name, for an inhuman being. An asset.
He inhaled, held it in, and exhaled slowly.
Time to reconsider.
“James Buchanan Barnes. But my friends call me Bucky.”