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Longing .
Sweat dripped from his hair. His feet never lost their balance as their sound was muffled by the damp leaves that littered the ground. The sounds of the forest mingled with his steady breathing, each noise bringing his senses to high alert. Sweat condensed around his mouth underneath his mask.
Rusted .
He broke through the trees and into an open field. A quick glance around revealed no one waiting around in ambush, but even with the little time he had, he couldn't chance it. He backed into the trees again and turned to skirt the field, but the snap of a twig somewhere nearby caused him to freeze.
Furnace .
The collar of his leather jacket chafed his neck, and the black shirt he wore to match his pants stuck to his skin with sweat. He quieted his breathing until all he heard was the nature surrounding him. He remained in place for several minutes, then slowly inched his way toward the sound he had heard.
Daybreak .
All it took was barely a glimpse of a rifle barrel poking out of the foliage to make him spin on his heel and dive for cover, roll, and come back up on his feet running. If there was one, there would be more.
Seventeen .
The sharp report of a rifle's blast barely preceded the thud of the bullet ricocheting off his metal arm. Knocked off-balance, his feet slipped on the slick leaves and sent him to the ground, knocking the air from his lungs. He scrambled behind a tree, panting, and started running again, eyes always scanning his surroundings for more rifles or a camouflage uniform.
Benign .
Two minutes later, he slowed to a stop, eased onto the ground, and slid underneath a pile of leaves. A drop of sweat trickled down his neck, his lungs burned with the effort of taking shallow breaths. He waited, even through the cramps in his legs that formed from instant inactivity. Twenty minutes later, the waiting was rewarded.
Nine .
He held his breath as a booted foot came into view. He fixed his gaze on the boot, not daring to move even his eyes. The soldier was met by a second, then third companion. He recognized the few muffled words from their conversation that made their way to him…English?
Homecoming .
The shadows lengthened, sending home the need to move—right now—if he was to make it to the target on time. He coiled his muscles, ready to spring into action. When the men turned their backs to him, he launched to his feet and ran straight for the three soldiers.
One .
He sank a knife into the stomach of one while sending a roundhouse kick to the knees of another. He skirted around them and took off through the trees, their feet pounding behind him, but he knew it wouldn't take much of an effort to lose them.
Freight car .
***
“Sergeant Barnes?”
He couldn’t get the man’s voice out of his head. The words had struck a chord deep inside him, something he couldn’t shake. Who was Sergeant Barnes?
And why did the white-haired man think he was this…this Barnes?
“Winter Soldier, report.”
He stared at the blood on his hands. Some from the man, some from the woman, mixed together and crusted beneath his fingernails.
“Sergeant Barnes?”
“Winter Soldier?”
“Sergeant Barnes?”
“Winter Soldier.”
He clenched his knuckles and flexed his jaw, removing all thoughts from his mind except the requested scenes from the mission. He was a good soldier; a soldier who did his duty thoroughly and without question. He opened his mouth to give his report, but the question stubbornly popped into his head again.
Who am I?