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His name was, is , James Buchanan Barnes. And he is a ghost.
Not a ghost in the typical or metaphysical sense. He’d long since given up ideas of god or the afterlife, way back when bullets were whizzing by his face in the gullied out fields of Germany, perhaps even farther back, when the strongest man he’d known had lain paralyzed in a bed with the flu, his body so weak that the strength of his supposed soul seemed a joke made up by an uncaring universe. God was not ironic but life was, so ergo maybe there was no god.
“Hey, turn that up!” Someone yelled at the bartender and he looked up at the television. A city was floating in the air and as the volume rose, the story became clearer.
The tinny voice of the broadcaster blew through the small, dark room. “Casualties will be in the thousands, sources say.” The camera shifts back to a panel of reporters sitting side by side at a table.
“After the horrible devastation in DC and now the widespread destruction caused by the Hulk, this is yet another event in a series of catastrophes the Avengers have been a part of. One has to ask, are they the cause instead of the cure?”
“Now, Barry, that’s not fair. This Ultron has been….”
“This Ultron, Carol, was created by Stark Industries. That thing is a product of more experimentation by a man, by a group of men, who are protected from the consequences of their actions by a mad science they indulge in. Not all of us have a suit made of indestructible metal that can fly us out of danger or are gifted with serums that preserve us from death…”
Oh, Death, he thinks, come and get me. I’ve waited too long for you, you bastard.
“Inhuman garbage is what the Avengers are.” The guy sitting next to him mutters. He slams back a shot and calls for another. “Playing gods in a godless world.” The man’s thick southern accent makes the comment even more disturbing.
There weren’t many places to get lost in the world anymore, he found. Back in the early 20th century a man could fall into oblivion, could check out from the world in less than a day, seep back into the woods or the city and blend into humanity or nature. It seemed odd that the more the world grew with its nameless faces, the fewer nameless faces there actually were.
Every day he ducked by cameras, trying to hide his face from the all-seeing eyes of this new world. He was afraid he’d failed and that sooner or later they would find him, that he would find him.
“You’re awful quiet there, Jimmy.” He turned to his left and stared at his coworker. He kept the name James because it was easier to remember and respond to. He was Jimmy Rogers and yes, he knew that there were wounds in the name, wounds he wanted to pick at to remind himself that he was in fact, alive, and that he should in fact, be dead.
“Nothing much to say, Billy.” He set the beer away from him.
“What? You an Avengers fan? Got some memorabilia hanging in that one room piece of shit you call home?” Billy was more than three sheets to the wind and looking for a fight. James wanted to warn him that this was not the fight he wanted.
Instead of replying he threw a few bills on the bar and got up. He was halfway to the door, ignoring Billy’s taunts when the noises on the television stopped him.
“This just in. We are patched into the telecomm system now and it looks as if the plan is to destroy the city. Listen to the exchange between Tony Stark, Iron Man, and Steve Rogers, Captain America.”
He turned around at the static. Then, clear and alive, Steve’s voice filled the room and became the one thing James could focus on, the only thing coming in loud and true was the casualness with which Steve embraced death. Even that woman, the Black Widow, seemed to accept their fate. Worse ways to go, she whispers. It angered him because it was true.
“That boy’s always wanting to kill himself, Sarge.”
James looked over at the man standing in the corner. He was out of place here. His suit made of a fine material, the kind bought at expensive stores on the upper sides of cities long off from this small port town of Biloxi. His accent was tinged Eastern European. James had been discovered. He studied the room quickly, trying to assess how many were there.
“It is only me, ‘Jimmy’.” The man sneered the name as he nodded toward the door. “If you don’t walk quietly out that door with me, then I will open this nice little package and the rest of this room will suffer.”
James stared at the small item, a watch, twirling at the end of the chain. Poison.
He glanced over at Billy, who was still harping on the Avengers, then at the rest of the ragtag crew in the bar - all of them innocent victims. Everyone is an innocent victim until they’re not….
“Steve?”
He blinks furiously against the light. He feels like he’s about to enter the worst hangover he’s ever had, even worse than the time he and Steve snuck peppermint schnapps from the corner store. That was a bad hangover.
“You know his name is always your first word? Interesting.”
He felt the panic overtake him as he tried to sit up. He glanced down and his arm….HIS ARM. It was this metal monstrosity strapped to the table. He stared up at the man, his glasses familiar. All of a sudden it came flooding back. He felt a chill race down his body. His very core shook from the memory of the cold. They froze him. THEY FROZE HIM.
“He’s still dead, y’know?” The thick Austrian accent queried. Zola, that was his name, fiddled with the machines hooked up to him. “He went down in the Arctic over eighteen years ago now. Very few remember him, oddly. He’s a news story that they bring out on holidays, a false god for the people to rally around.”
“Shut up.” Bucky turns his head away, refusing to look at Zola. He knew the drill now. Zola would wipe him soon, take his memories and send him on some horrific task. A mission that would chip another chunk of his soul away. Zola liked having him remember so he was always the one who woke him up, always wiped him so that a small part of Bucky stayed alive through it all. Because it was fascinating.
“Now, now, Sergeant Barnes. You and I know that rudeness is a sign of primitive culture. You are an advanced being. Stop ignoring your etiquette.”
Bucky refused to respond so Zola continued. “You are neither man nor machine. Or perhaps you are both. Who knows? That is a question for philosophers, yes?”
Zola inspected the arm. There were no others in the room. This was the routine. Zola woke him up. Had been that way since the first (and last) time Bucky strangled one of the technicians with his hand.
“It is good, this arm, yes? Erksine was a fool, by the way. He never did understand that sentimentality has no place in science. Always looking for a good man to give this gift to, but what he didn’t understand? A good man would never create the gift in the first place. Oppenheimer knew this. Oppenheimer knew he was not a good man. Good men don’t create monsters, Sergeant Barnes.”
“Stop calling me that.” Bucky tried to lift his hand but the restraints didn’t budge.
“We learned our lesson last time, James. You killed one of my most talented scientists. Not again.” Zola caressed the cuff. “Vibranium. You remember that, yes? Most precious material on Earth, made your Steve’s shield. We had little but you are worth that cost. Enough with the pleasantries though. Time to talk your mission.”
Zola took the needle out and tapped its long metal spike. “Time to change the world again, James. This time you shall kill a president. Remember, Sergeant Barnes, there are no innocent victims.”
Bucky closed his eyes as the needle punctured his neck, the liquid fire burning him away.
He followed the man out into the alley, taking one last look back at the television. The city was disintegrating before his eyes. Where was Steve?
“’Tis no matter, you know, James. Whether your precious Captain is alive or dead it makes no difference. Soon you will forget he exists.”
James didn’t respond. They walked side by side, back towards his hotel room. He lived out of a small ramshackle place, one that had been popular decades ago when the South had been a series of stops on a roadmap. America lost its road some time ago. Now these towns and cities were ghost towns, places that used to be.
“Keep walking.” His companion warned. “Or I will open this watch up and this city will be out of time.”
James calculated as they walked. He would have to get the watch first then take care of the agent. Hydra was most predictable. He could probably draw out the schematic of this man’s training regimen. He was a field officer meant for mid to high level extraction work. He was stupid to wear the suit to the bar. It showed his major weakness, ego.
“How did you find me?” He asked as they turned the corner. The street was quieter here, more residential. Up two blocks the city started to fade away into poverty, broken out windows and squatters.
“I am good, what can I say?”
James stared at the watch as it swung forward with the man’s gestures.
“I am better.” He smiled and caught the watch on its downward swing. He jabbed his elbow into the man’s stomach and then grabbing the back of his head, turned it quickly, listening for the tell-tale crack.
He carried the limp body into a side yard, thankfully the cover of night masking his movements. No one asked questions in this neighborhood. It’s why he chose to live there. He laid the body out next to a garbage can and rifled through the suit, making it look like a robbery. He clutched the watch in his metal hand before pocketing it.
One dies and two more take its place.
Now that he’d been found he had to make haste in leaving. He ran back to the hotel room, nodding curtly at the front desk window.
After closing the door behind him, he grabbed his duffle and the few items of clothes he’d collected over the months. He caught his reflection in the mirror as he zipped up the bag. His long dark hair was tousled from the run; his beard was far longer than he remembered. He’d tried hard to avoid mirrors. Something about seeing himself made him angry, frustrated. He didn’t bother shaving, just haphazardly combed his hair when he left for work. He didn’t need to look good at the docks. He just needed to look capable.
He doesn’t know why but he walks back toward the bar. An old habit of sweeping perimeters, checking for other agents. He makes it back and peeks inside, not bothering to go in. He sees the television still playing the disintegrating city but the scrolling headline assures him that all of the Avengers have survived. He let out the breath he didn’t know he was holding, that second breath that was lingering in his gut when he thought Steve had went down with the city. He saw Billy making wild movements with his hands and guessed he was still going on about the danger posed by the Avengers. He noted no one else looking suspicious and was about to turn away when he noted a person walking into the bar.
He recognized him immediately. The tall dark skinned man who wore wings. He watched as he entered the bar and scanned the room. He was a soldier. The posture, the heightened alertness, the steady gaze. He’d been trained to attack. James watched as he settled on Billy, not surprisingly. The loudest mouth is always the first to talk. He pushed open the window slowly, letting the sounds filter out. He honed in on the conversation.
“Hey.” The wingman greeted Billy. “You got a thing about the Avengers?”
“Fuck yes. They are nothing but trouble.” Billy called for another shot and the bartender hesitated. James guessed it was Billy’s eighth or ninth of the night. He didn’t wonder why the man’s wife left him.
“It’s on me.” Wingman said and the bartender shrugged as she grabbed the bottle and poured some more.
“So I’m looking for a man.” Wingman starts out and Billy busts out laughing.
“Wrong place for that, buddy.” He says before downing the shot. He calls for another but the bartender is occupied or at least pretending to be.
“Hardy har. I’m actually investigating a missing persons case.” Wingman takes his wallet out and James watches as Billy moves back. The police are not a welcome presence in this part of town.
“I ain’t seen anything.” Billy mutters as he puts his hands up, a familiar sign of surrender or more appropriately, apathy.
“Now hold on, I’m not looking for him to cause trouble. He’s got family who’s real worried.” James listens as the lie falls easily from Wingman’s mouth, the affective Southern accent the psychological coup d’état to take over Billy’s resistance.
Billy stills but makes no move to get closer. James is impressed with the wingman. He has learned to tame sources. That’s a gift. Wingman calls for another shot, now for himself and Billy. He weaves a tale of mental illness and lost family for Billy. How this missing person has left people behind who are worried for him, who care about him. How wingman was taking his own time to find this guy because it’s just a sad fucking story. It’s a masterful lie.
“So just take a look, man. I mean you probably don’t know him but my leads have sent me here, so why not take a shot, right?”
Billy shrugs and takes the picture. James wonders which one it is. Is it the young picture, a new one? How can he hide the Winter Soldier?
“Fuck me that’s Jimmy.” Billy gives him away so easily. James curses and resists the urge to slam his hand into the wall. Dammit, couldn’t the ass be drunk enough not to see?
“Jimmy?” Wingman takes the picture back.
“Yeah, Jimmy Rogers. You missed him by like an hour, man. Took off after the television was playing the Avengers thing. He was all upset about it.”
James didn’t understand what Billy meant. He was not upset. How could he…
“Jimmy Rogers, you say?” Wingman smirked at that and James was tempted to just blow his cover and go in there and smack the expression off the man’s face. He didn’t know. Couldn’t know.
“Yeah, works down on the docks. Good egg. Hard worker. He was all fidgety when the news was on.” Billy leaned in like he was sharing a secret. “I think he has a thing for the Avengers, if you know what I mean? Probably jacks off to posters of Captain America back at his room but hey I’m not judging.”
“Where is he now?”
“Probably back at the hotel? I don’t know. I was too busy here to pay much mind to him.” Billy got serious for a moment after that, “But really, man, if Jimmy’s got people looking for him, then yeah you should go find him. He seems awfully alone in the world. Sad, that.”
He watched as the wingman threw some money on the bar and got up. He pushed his back against the wall, but kept the window open. He could disappear before anyone’s eyes. Hydra had trained him well. He listened as wingman walked toward the door. His footsteps were light, conditioned to be silent but James noted when the steps stalled. He heard the man call out, “Jimmy sometimes called himself Bucky.” James spat silently as he heard the name which was both his salvation and damnation.
Screw Bucky.
“Steve?”
“And again, always your first word, Sergeant Barnes. Do you ever tire of being disappointed?”
Bucky looked over at the small man. He was gaunt, his cheeks hollowed out with eyes dark around the edges. He was a ghost.
“You’ve lost weight.” Bucky announces as he bends his fingers. He knows better than to try to escape. The cuffs hold him tight to his prison.
“I am a sick man, Sergeant.”
“Yeah.”
“Etiquette, James.”
“Fuck you, Zola.”
“You do remember me. I’m touched, James.” Zola bent closer and patted the metal hand.
“Let’s get on with it. Wipe me and give me my mission.” Bucky stared at his captor as he spoke.
Zola laughed. “There is no mission, James. This will be my final visit so I thought we’d chat for a bit, yes?”
“Why? What’s your game, Zola?”
“No game. Well perhaps a game. Again, you are not a philosopher, James. Let us not existentialize.”
Bucky snorted, “So you’re dying then? Justice is a fucking glorious thing, yes?” He mimics Zola’s accent.
Zola sits back in the chair. They were in some place that looked like a vault. Bucky wasn’t sure where and when he was. It didn’t matter, really. Steve was gone and no one knew he was alive. There was only duty and retreat. He just wanted back in the cryomachine. Freeze me again, he thought silently.
“You know that we always get underestimated, us little men. We disappear in shadows of bigger men, or so they think. I am not that far different from your precious Captain, James.”
“Don’t you ever compare yourself to him, Zola. Ever.”
“Why? It is true. Schmidt, hell even Erksine. They thought of themselves as big men. Men with the brains or the bodies to rule worlds. And they were. Big men. But little men? Little men can do much in the shadows. That’s what they never understood. Heh, maybe Erksine, in the end. But he was a sentimental man. Too sentimental. And even though your Captain was little, he was always bigger than you, yes? You always lived in his shadow and I think you liked it. You are a big man in physique but a small man in soul. Odd.”
“Why are you here?” The exasperation echoes out of his words.
Zola doesn’t say anything for a few moments and then, “You were my greatest achievement, James. It’s always amazing to me, your Captain, how he could’ve known you were alive. All they had to do was ask the right question, but no, they never did. Then your Steve barrels into the ocean. Was he always suicidal? Or did he get that way when he lost you?”
“Shut up.”
“It is a fair question, no? I mean he travels hundreds of miles through enemy territory to get to you, even if you were dead, to save whatever was left of you from me and never thinks to ask me what I did to you? No. Instead? Instead he takes to mourning you like a Greek wife and then saving a faceless mass of humanity at expense of his own life. It’s a tragic story but so avoidable. I thought he was the smart one.”
“Please stop.”
“But this is our final visit, James. I cannot stop. What is the American expression? Oh yes, funny enough, you are my closest confidant. Kind of like my confessor, if I were Catholic.”
“Stupid way of getting your last rites.”
“Oh you have humor. I like that. Too bad they will take it away from you after I am gone. That man, Pierce? He is a man of war, not science. Men of war are small men. Not little men, mind you. There is a difference.”
“What do you mean?” Bucky feels a flair of panic. What would they take away from him?
“Pierce will wipe you totally, James. You will lose Steve. He will no longer be your first word upon waking. You will lose him and for that I am sorry.”
Bucky scoffed. “Yeah I bet you are.”
Zola shakes his head. “No, James. You misunderstand me. How do I say it? Oh, so all men, be they little or big, have gods. Science is my god. I make no apologies for that. Schmidt believed in gods, mystical things and convinced himself it was science, but really it was magic. He died a small man because he lived as a little man. For me? Science is a magnificent god, filled with wonderful and terrible possibility, but isn’t that the state of all gods, yes?”
“Is it Sunday? Are we at bible study?”
“See? That humor! I mourn its loss.”
“Why are you telling me this? So I forget? I don’t care anymore.” Bucky turns his head away. It’s cruel what Zola is doing. And he can’t escape but he doesn’t have to comply with his own torture.
Silence stretches on for long minutes and Bucky is hopeful that they’ve ended the conversation. He hears Zola moving around and readies himself for the chamber. He hopes he gets knocked out before he freezes. It makes it easier that way.
The sound of a chair scraping against the tile brings his head around. Zola has positioned a large box next to him. It has speakers and he watches as the scientist pops a tape of some kind into it.
“Ah you are back. Good. I was afraid I’d have to strap your head down to make you look at me.”
“I can simply close my eyes, Zola.”
“True but you can’t cover your ears and for this to work, you must listen, yes?”
“What are you doing?” Bucky struggles against the restraints. He has a bad feeling about this.
“They think they can take my life’s work from me? That because I am a dying man that I will just let them take what was mine away? I will not die, James, but I will not be back. And they are stupid men, James. Stupid. Do you ever wonder why I never completely wiped you, that I allowed you to keep yourself, or at least those fragments of yourself, alive?”
“Zola.” Bucky was pleading now.
“It is because I did NOT MAKE A MACHINE. These men, these men of war? They know nothing of humanity. Nothing of its terrible possibility. If Science is my god, then humanity is my vengeance. So they will turn you into a thing and use you, James. That is your future. But they are stupid and I have a plan.”
Bucky’s eyes widen in horror as Zola takes out three large needles. “What are you doing?” His animal instinct kicks in and fear for life takes over.
“The flip side of cruelty, Sergeant, is kindness. They can and do co-exist. I have been cruel to you. I know. But this is my last act of kindness, which itself is a cruelty.” He pushes the play button and all of a sudden the room is filled with the sound of Steve’s voice.
“Stop it. Stop that voice!” Bucky screams. Zola ignores him as he sticks the first needle in his thigh.
“Bucky.” Steve’s voice says over and over again.
“I got this recording from an old file deep in S.H.I.E.L.D’s archive. They are foolish, those agents. All for the glory of humanity and yet cannot smell the rot inside. It is so easy to deceive them that I almost feel bad. Almost, mind you.”
“Please.” Bucky begs as another injection goes into his arm.
“You see, James. You will listen to this recording for the next few minutes. Why? Because that name, Bucky? Bucky will be your salvation, my friend. Your escape. If you are ever to run into someone who knows you by that name? All their programming will have been for nothing. I am making you into a ticking time bomb and that is my most glorious invention.”
“Why? I am gone.”
“Science and god work miracles, James. If there is a miracle awaiting you, remember it is I who gave it to you.”
“Turn him off.” He pleads again. The sound of Steve’s voice saying his name over and over again was Zola’s cruelest torture.
Zola sighs as he injects the final needle into Bucky’s neck. The liquid turns his skin into electric currents awash in water, shocking him through to his core. He can hardly hear as Zola leans down and whispers in his ear, “James. Bucky. If there are no miracles then may you one day see your god again, the name that passes your lips first every time.”
And then there was darkness. And then there was death. And then there was no more.
James huddled in the shrubs as wingman exited. The other man stood there for a moment and under his breath said, “I found you, Bucky.”
James watched as the man strode off toward the hotel, leaving his car behind. He went over and quickly undid the lock. He popped open the glove compartment and found a pad and pen inside. He took the watch from his pocket and folded the paper around it. He scribbled his note and then placed the watch on the passenger seat.
He closed and locked the door. Pushing his duffle up on his arm, he made his way toward the bus station. Buses were the last anonymous places in the world, James thought. He would be out of town by the time wingman could figure out he was as close as he was ever going to get to James.
Danger inside. Poison in time.
Tell him to let me go, Wingman.