Chapter Text
October 2013.
Germany was cold, really friggin’ freezing, and John was struggling to get used to it. He’d been deployed in Afghanistan for the last couple of years, where it got so hot he’d half thought he was actually on the sun. Germany, in comparison, was a frigid wasteland. Lemar was laughing at him about it, but screw him, it was.
After receiving the Medal of Honor—he still wasn’t sure how he’d managed that —he’d been pulled into special ops, now dealing with tracking down all the alien tech floating around after the attack in New York.
Yeah, apparently aliens , and gods , were real. Because, of course, they were.
And he was part of cleaning up the mess they left behind. Too many people wanted the tech that the aliens left behind—a lot of them were warlords and terrorists. Not exactly the people the US Government wanted to let possess weapons that might surpass nukes .
“Are you sure it isn’t a psyop? Think about it, aliens , really?” Lemar mocked. “Come on, man. That’s just too much.”
John squinted at his oldest friend. “Are you serious? You’ve seen the weapons!”
Lemar shrugged. “That’s what makes it a conspiracy.”
John rolled his eyes, 90% certain that Lemar was pulling his chain. “Yeah, and all that property damage in New York was just for show.”
Lemar snorted.
Their car slowed to a stop, and a voice called out from the driver's seat. “We’ve arrived.”
John nodded sharply and went into Captain Mode. Gone was the laughing mood. He turned to the rest of his men in the transport vehicle.
“This is a high-level threat. The auction has several high-ranking officials from multiple governments—and as illegal as that is, we don’t want to cause an international incident by killing any of them. Lethal harm only on those armed. We need to get the merchandise and get out. Be fast, be efficient, and for the love of God, don’t die,” he ordered his team.
He and his ten men exited the vehicle and approached the building. Four went right, four went left, and he, Lemar, and Henry went straight ahead.
They paused by the door. John nodded at Henry, and he set the explosive on the door. They quickly ducked around the corner and set it off, waiting a moment before storming the building. The others would be doing the same at the side entrances.
The people inside were scattering, tripping over the edges of their clothes in their haste to flee from the very illegal proceedings.
“Stay down and stay still and you’ll all be fine,” he shouted at them. They weren’t his problem. The German authorities would be dealing with them after they confiscated all the merchandise.
Two guards—most likely mercenaries—approached them, assault rifles drawn. John put two rounds into the man on the left before he could shoot Henry, and Lemar got the other one. The people in the room screamed.
John tapped his comms, “Shots fired, two combatants down.”
He continued through the room, making his way to the platform where the objects were displayed. Two of his guys—Joshua and David—were already there with enforced cases, boxing the stuff up.
“Report. Is there any more contraband in the back rooms?” he asked into the comms.
“No, sir. All clear,” came over the radio.
“Move out. We need help transporting the stuff out here,” he ordered. “Any other guards spotted?”
“Three in the eastern entrance. Subdued peacefully.”
John bit his lip. His gut was telling him something was about to happen. Something bad.
He surveyed the room. Everything was almost boxed up, people weren’t screaming as badly, and none of his people were dead.
But his gut was rarely wrong.
“Be on the lookout. I have a feeling about something,” he said. He got a series of yessirs in response.
Lemar gave him a look. “What is it?”
“I don’t know yet.”
He nodded grimly in return. He knew just how accurate John’s instincts were. “Roger that, Captain.”
“Everything is boxed and ready to go, sir,” Joshua said.
“Good. Start moving out.”
Five of his men started carrying the stuff out, while the others stood on guard, watching over them as they left.
It was then that shit hit the fan.
Two shots rang out, and a man and a woman hit the ground—they were dead for sure, their brains now lined the room.
He ducked and pulled Lemar down with him. “Shit.” He whispered before ordering, “Get to the extraction site fast, don’t wait up, I’m going after the shooter. Lemar, you’re taking point.”
He could see that Lemar wanted to object, but John was the one in charge. “Yes, sir. Don’t get yourself killed.”
He didn’t answer; he just pushed Lemar to the doorway and covered his retreat. The shots had come from the West, and based on how loud it had sounded, the assassin was close.
He jumped over the crying people on the ground and pushed his way through the West entrance doors.
He could see a figure darting down an alleyway to his right and broke into a run. The guy was freakishly fast, but luckily, so was John. He turned the corner and the man was climbing the wall like a friggin’ monkey. It was almost inhuman.
With a groan, he started his own climb up the wall, struggling to find grip in his combat boots. How was the assassin doing it so easily? He pulled himself over the edge of the roof and rolled to his feet. The man was already jumping onto another building with a roll, and John ran after him, not even giving himself a second to doubt himself as he jumped over the edge.
He landed awkwardly and knew he’d be feeling that for the next week. Instead of hopping to the next building like John had expected, the man was waiting for him, standing all ominously and creepily.
The man raised his obnoxiously big gun and started shooting. John dodged and ducked behind a chimney.
John pulled out a stun grenade and threw it over in his direction, covering his ears. It went off, and he turned the corner, gun aimed.
He is standing there, unmoved.
“Oh, come on, ” he grumbled. “What is he? Superhuman?”
The guys head tilts, like he can hear him, and shit , he actually might be able to. He could actually be superhuman—or a god or an alien, and damn, he was wishing Lemar was right about it all being a conspiracy.
Now, he’s approaching, and John starts shooting him. It just bounces off.
“Who the hell are you? Evil Steve Rogers?”
The man paused his steps.
John takes the opportunity and jumps on him, and they both tumble to the ground. Usually, John wins hand-to-hand fights, his body in prime condition, and so freakishly athletic that there had been studies done on him—but not this time. It only takes a second for the assassin to get the upper hand, and he’s choking John out with a weirdly hard arm, almost like steel.
Shit.
He was about to die if he didn’t do something quickly.
Think—
The Steve Rogers comment had thrown him off.
“Steve Rogers, you don’t like him? Don’t like war heroes or something?” he coughed out.
The grip faltered.
“He’s a scrappy underdog from Brooklynn, I get it, it’s annoying, but don’t take it out on me.”
That startled him enough for John to knee him in the groin and roll out from under him. “Steve Rogers, war hero from World War II, pretty great guy if you ask me. He was picked for his heart to get the super soldier serum, you know. Not because he was strong or a great soldier—but because he was a great man .” He rattled off the facts rapid fire, and the man groaned, getting to his feet.
“Stop it. ”
John almost jumped at his voice, but kept going. Something about Steve Rogers seriously threw the man off. “In fact, he was pretty notorious for disobeying orders to do what he thought was right. If he weren’t so popular, there were talks of court-martialing him.”
John could go all day talking about Captain America—he’d been his idol his entire life, he knew everything about the man. He’d read every book about him, watched every film, and actually talked to a few people who’d known him. He’d almost had a heart attack when he’d come back from the dead.
The man, honest to god, growled , and John tackled him again. This time, the scuffle was much more evenly matched, and they were approaching the edge of the building. John positioned himself the best he could so that the assassin would take the fall. He got one good punch in, and the man's freaky mask fell off.
In his twenty five years of life, he seen a lot of shit. Most of it during his tours in Afghanistan. Stuff so weird he could never explain.
But this was a whole other level of weird.
“Bucky?” He whispered, his hands stopping in his utter shock.
It was undeniably Steve Rogers' best friend in front of him. The best friend who was dead. He was much sadder looking, worn, and violent, but he was James Barnes undoubtedly.
But things were already in motion, and Bucky was rolling off the building, falling three stories onto his back. He didn’t move at all.
“Shit. Shit—” he was jumping down the side of the building before he knew what he was doing, barely keeping his grip as he climbed down.
If he killed Captain America’s best friend, he’ll die of shame. No friggin’ way. There was something off about him—not being dead, or a day over thirty for one—but that didn’t matter. This was quite possibly the best and worst thing that had ever happened to him.
He dropped down to the ground and rushed over to his side. He was out cold, probably a mixture of being shot and falling off the building. He checked for a pulse, and he was miraculously alive. He hadn’t killed Captain America's best friend.
He pressed his comms and then paused. Bucky had just killed two people in Germany. Two doubtlessly important people. If he got caught, who knew what would happen to him? There was clearly something off about him. He didn’t even know Rogers' name.
Something was up, and he wanted to find out what it was.
John was about to do something very, very , stupid.