I'm Here | ✓

48 - Fallout

I thumb the disc in my fingers before flicking it yards behind me, out of sight. My neck was throbbing from having to keep it rigid, and I draw my knees a little closer to my chest, thrashing on the ground.

The man tisks. "Too bad they corrupted him so young." A little louder, he calls behind to the two agents still sitting in the helicopter. "Pack 'em up! I want to be back to the compound by 6."

"Fuck... you..." I strain to hiss out the words from between my teeth. My vision starts to blur a bit, and I realize blood is mixing with my tears, though I can't tell from where. The man turns to look at me, that vain look of fake surprise still plastered to his face.

"Me? Oh, you're gonna regret that." He smirks and kneels down in front of my shuddering figure. "See, I'm a visionary. Our technology could change the world, but first, we need to get rid of subhumans like you. Genetic experiments. You served your purpose well; you fought for your country, you won the war, but did you wipe out the real threat? We need whatever is left of the Soldier back, and I'm certain your boyfriend here will aid us in convincing you. Of course, it won't be painless for him, but sacrifices have to be made." The man gives me a small smirk and beckons to the agents, who bring two pairs of thick steel handcuffs. They attach one to Steve and my heart drops, but then they walk towards me like I'm the next animal they need to pack up and ship before it gets dark. They lean down to click them over my wrists, but they never get the chance.

I kick out with my feet and whirl to a standing position, dizzy as I might be. To kill me, they'd need a hell of a taser, not just some flimsy metal disc I can peel off with my fingers. I rip a knife out of my belt and with swift, practiced movements, I cut down the agents effortlessly.

"You're gonna need some new tricks." I say the words slowly, pouring every ounce of my hatred into them. I advance towards the man in the suit, who looks genuinely terrified before racing towards the helicopter. I walk slowly, pacing myself, watching his footsteps until he's about a yard away from safety. A bullet hits him square in the back, forcing him to the ground. I run over and slide to my knees next to him. It wasn't a deadly shot, so I roll him over, face up. He's writhing and groaning in pain. That's not even a fraction of what I experienced. You deserve every second of torture you can get. I watch for a few moments until the crimson stain on his suit becomes large enough, and then I stab him.

I can feel the Siberian air only fueling my heartless motions, but at the same time, all of my anger pours out into my arms, into the tips of my fingers curled around the knife. A rage I've never felt before takes over me, decades worth of resentment pouring out of me, so intense it's practically intoxicating. This man, this fake, this fucker deserves everything he's getting, and the more I think, the more the seething fury blinds my thoughts, and it gets to a point where I'm not even thinking about what I'm doing. I'm thinking about what Hydra tore me away from, my family and Steve and my semblance of home. I'm thinking about my anesthesia wearing off mid-surgery, searing pain taking over every nerve as they cut further up my shoulder, the fucking collar I wore when they thought they could control me, the blissful few seconds I held my strangling handler in the air in Ukraine almost a decade ago. The calculating monster whose mind I'm on the run from.

And they thought a few trigger words were enough to control me for as long as they wanted.

"Buck! Buck, he's dead, he's dead, stop! Bucky, stop, he's already dead!"

Steve's voice yells over the cacophony in my head and I flinch violently at my abrupt return to the rooftop. I freeze, reorienting myself.

I'm holding the knife in mid-air with two hands.

Blood seeps between my fingers and down my wrists, slipping in the little whorls of my fingerprints.

"Oh my God," I whisper.

I drop the knife, breathing hard, staring at the damage done.

I know what I should feel. I should feel like I'm out of control, like I went too far, like I'm in over my head. But I don't.

I know this isn't justice, but it feels like revenge.

I hate it. I hate how addicting it is.

Carefully, I clamber to my feet, never taking my eyes over the man.

Slowly, I wipe my bloodied hands on my pants. It doesn't even begin to take the stain off or erase the smell of iron, but it's a start.

I'm not sure how I feel, but I don't ponder on it for long.

My bitterness reflects on my face, and my hands clench into fists. I feel so empty.

It's like I said.

Numb is the worst emotion.

I turn to Steve, swaying on his knees, and the hatred turns to remorse. They shot him to shut him up. His arms are forced into the cuffs in front of him, and he stares at them, defeated. Apparently they learned their lesson with super-soldiers.

"Steve?"

"Buck..." he's breathless and his face contorts into a small grimace, struggling to hide the pain. "I could've helped."

"I had it under control."

Steve looks up at me with watery eyes. "No. No, you didn't."

He doesn't know. Just because we have different tactics surrounding battle doesn't mean mine is wrong. I try to ignore what he said and lean down to fiddle with his cuffs, trying to get them off.

"That's not the last of them," I growl, wedging my metal fingers in between his wrists and the cuffs. I can't get them undone, no matter how hard I twist and pull.

"It's fine. Grab my shield." Steve's voice is remarkably steady for looking so wrought with pain. I follow his orders as he instructs me to hit the cuff's weak point, and after a few blows, they crack open easily. Steve shakes out his wrists and holds out his hand for his shield quickly. Like he was worried about what I'd do with it.

"Let's get inside," he says quietly. He struggles to his feet, wincing as he sets his injured one on the ground gingerly. I reach out to help him, but he flinches away.

I just stare.

After a few moments, a question appears in my mind. "Is this a dream?"

Steve shakes his head.

"It feels like a dream."

"It's not." Carefully, Steve starts toward the staircase before catching his foot on a rock and lurching forward with a distressed cry.

Something holds me back from going to help him. Something is wrong with my head again. I'm aware, but have no power to change it.

I hate that too.

Steve sends me one last, desperate look, and my heart shatters.

"Bucky, please," he murmurs.

"I can't do this. I almost got us killed."

"This isn't you!" But he hesitates. It's like I said; verbal tics have never been my area of expertise, but my mind his three pleaded words over until I realize that he might actually be uncertain. He said it isn't me, but his tone said I'm scared of what you are.

He promised me he wasn't going to be scared of me. I'm scared enough for the both of us, because I'm the one who gets the night terrors about what I've done to people. I know the wars that rage in my own mind that Steve can't even fathom. For a while, everything seemed ordinary; watching movies, curling up in bed together, dancing on a motel patio. And then I snapped. The Soldier inside me saw the potential for violence and leapt at it, and when it was all over, he ran back into hiding in my darkest memories, leaving me with the blood on my hands.

I regret everything.

But most of all, I regret causing the devastated look in Steve's eyes.