My Name Is Bucky

один (1)

I reached around with my hand, trying to feel something.
Cold.

Cold was familiar. My head was pounding, and my whole body ached. That was...unusual. Something wasn't right.

Where was I?
New York City, New York. America.

What was my mission?
Kill Nick Fury.

Was I following orders?
No.

Let them try and stop me, then. I was the best damn thing that they ever had. I took down any obstacle that got in my way. Yet, I was scared. Why?

And why did this damn city call me? Why did I feel like...like I needed something here? Like I was supposed to be here for something other than missions?

The sharp pain shot through my head. I screamed out in pain, clutching my head. I felt every hair, every bump, every bruise on my head with my left hand. Even though it was metal. A special gift, they called it, so I could feel it every time I choked somebody to death.

I sat in silence, starting at the molding gray walls. This place was disgusting. I was disgusting. We fit together nicely.

So what happens if they do find me? I suppose I fight them off. They'll make announcements. I don't want to be on the run again. I did this, too, in Romania. They didn't like it very much.

After I killed nick fury, I was supposed to go back under the ice. Cold. My head stung. I had visions of falling into snow. I had visions of my arm...not being metal. I groaned and punched the hard mattress.

I may as well start to look for what the city is telling me to do. And if that doesn't work out, I guess I'll go for fury. I just hope they wipe my memory after this, because I'm not sure if I can take much more murder in my life. Well, not sure if I can take being the murderer anymore. Somehow, my humanity survived.

I put on my big winter jacket that covered my left arm. Gloves to go with that, for safe measure. The next question is, do I tie my greasy hair up so it's unnoticeable or do I leave it down do you can't see my face?

Sunglasses, hair up. I stared at my empty reflection in the mirror. I am the pitiful man. The one people see on the streets and give a coin to. Why do I know that? I held my head.

Combat boots. They were all I had. Plus, after studying the average male subject, I've noticed they aren't uncommon.

I could just stay here for the day. I don't have to do anything. My communicators are in the bottom of the harbor, and I ripped the tracking device out of my neck.

Painful?
Yes.

Did I live?
Yes.

I shook my head slowly and grabbed a backpack. Black, with straps around the front of it. Hiking. Made in 2016 with water resistant material. That made it good for getting the blood off of it.

I had a vision of me and a scrawny little boy. I was filling up a bag for something, he was talking nonsense.

Or, it sounded like nonsense to me.

My head started to pound. In desperate need for it to stop, I hit my head with my right hand. "Shut up. Shut up. Not real!"

I sighed heavily and punched the mirror. I didn't want to see that. Nobody wants to see me. I took the American money I had and counted it in my left hand. $26.37. I did the math. I could get one meal, if that, from a fast food restaurant.

I left the crummy motel, leaving everything except for what I packed in the book bag behind. That's how I kept everyone off my ass. You leave little to no trail, but I punched that mirror.

I shrugged.

Times Square. I had read about it in my research. My head pounded with all of the bright lights, and I had flashes of the scrawny kid throwing a snowball at me.

"Shut up," I muttered to myself.

To be rational, or maybe it was out of fear, I told myself that this was somebody nick fury cared about. That or this is something they put in my head, to test me.

Have I killed small children before?
Yes.

Do I regret it?
With. Every. Breath.

But, if I disobey orders...no. I am disobeying orders. There is no if, and, or but. I growled to myself and kept moving, heading down to the subway and sneaking into the boarding area. Master assassins don't need to buy a metro card.

The subway car was packed full. A woman and her crying baby, a teenager listening to music too loudly, and a woman speaking on the phone in....Russian. Great.

I carefully studied the woman, gripping my left hand on the pole that I used to stand. She didn't glance at me, didn't even seem to notice I was there. She didn't look like my handlers, so I listened to what she was saying.

'Yes, Johnny. I promise. If I ever see anything, I'll tell you.'

Johnny was a codename. I needed to get off of this car. As I sensed the next stop coming, I pushed through people to get near the doors.

"Hey, buddy," a voice called, seemingly annoyed. I didn't like how that nickname sounded. Too familiar. Too foreign.

I didn't turn around.

"You gonna listen?" The man said again. He wasn't afraid. I could tell. He tapped my shoulder and I spun around.

"Jesus-" he stared at me.

Too bad that I knew that face. The dark complexion, the mustache and beard that formed a goatee, and most importantly, the red glasses.

The doors opened, and I bolted.