Wasting My Young Years || Bucky Barnes (Book 1)

Chapter 5

A/N - Again, this story is rated M for mature audiences. Keep this in mind because, for the most part, I won't be holding back. Everything is stated in my first Author's Note.

SATURDAY, JULY 15th, 1989. 2330 HOURS

Clara looks around her quizzically. Lizzy had left to get her shoes which were still in her room, tucked under the bed. She stands still in the locker room, dressed in oversized jogging pants and an oversized shirt that hung to her knees. No shoes, no socks. Mid-back, light brown hair soaking wet and almost freezing.

And Lizzy still hasn't returned to cover her icy feet.

So, she walks out, not sure what else to do. This wasn't part of the rules, she thinks. Elizabeth never specifically told her to stay here. Just that she will be back soon. Instead, not wanting to be alone for much longer, she has an idea to go searching for her. Barefooted or not, she'll look for Lizzy. She's very nice.

Her feet pad against the concrete ground as she makes her way out into the dark hallways. Why is everything so dark in this place? She goes wherever her feet take her, trying to trace her steps.

Some hallways have no doors. Some hallways have too many. Never any windows, she realizes. Maybe she is currently below ground. Again, she's unsure. The space between the walls and ceiling makes her look smaller than she already is.

She has hidden away in little door crevices from oncoming agents, not wanting to talk to them. Plus, they look scary. All she wants is Lizzy. Right now.

Her curious green eyes peek around another hallway, checking the room out. It's huge. Slightly smaller than the memory wipe room. Concrete benches and tables scatter throughout. Cafeteria, maybe?

For once she realizes how hungry she is and her stomach growls, sounding like a lion's enormous roar in such a quiet place like this.

Not wanting to get caught like a game of cat and mouse, her little legs sprint as fast as she can to the other side. Yet, she's already there in seconds. "That was fast," she says quietly to herself. Ignoring her oddly quick pace, she strides further into this massive cave.

***

He fucking did it. Again. He didn't mean to. He really didn't. They just pushed him to his limits. Again. No one will listen to him. Not like he can say anything. He'll just have to face the punishments.

Again.

His back hits the concrete wall lightly on repeat, his body rocking back and forth as anger pours throughout his entire being.

Why, why, why?

With his legs weak on the ground and spread slightly apart, James can't help but look at the two agents lying on the ground dead: one with a broken neck and the other with blood seeping out of his jugular vein. His metal fist punches the wall, small concrete chips flying into the carpet of red.

Why, why, why?

He didn't mean to. It's not his fault that they barely even tried to stop him. It's not his fault that they spoke horrifically about Elizabeth. He felt defensive. They were threats. Threats were to be eliminated.

He sits there in the darkened hallway besides the scraps of swinging light fixtures poorly spread out. It looks like a horror film, the shadowed figure ready to pop out when he looks down the long hall. It doesn't help that he's almost in front of an adjoining one - two halls where he can be easily spotted. They'll find him soon. They always do. No use in hiding the bodies. They'll rot in the laundry baskets just like the others.

As he balls up his fists again, his ears can't help but listen to the shifting gears in his arm, a reminder of how deadly it can be; of how many things he has killed and injured with it. Disgusting. It's not the shiny piece of metal everyone thinks it to be. Not so shiny when the blood of his victims runs through the puzzle-like pieces and drips down the fingers like a leaking faucet.

It's a fascinating sight, though. Too fascinating. Mesmerizing, almost. Almost like a form of entertainment to see which faucet of red drips from his finger first. Captivating.

To get his mind off the agents in front of him and to get rid of something that pains him, he kills two birds with one stone. Get rid of the arm, yet watch the trickle of excitement glaze down in a bitter-sweet moment of truth.

He throws over his shirt and places it carefully on top of the red that was beginning to spread even more. He knows it's not enough to cover everything, but when Elizabeth finds him, at least she won't slip and fall.

Too mentally exhausted to grab the knife by the agent, he uses his claws, scratching at the scar like a cat, prying and trying to get this metal off of him. It hurts. Oh, how badly it fucking hurts. But he doesn't stop. No hesitation as the first sign of red glimmers brightly in the dark. Between this and the little girls' screams, he can't help but find it to be a guilty pleasure of his to soothe his monstrous thoughts that are hardly ever even there.

Perfect.

But why does he suddenly stop?

Is it the blood of the agent soaking his heavy-duty pants? Is it the melodic sound of his blood dripping on concrete? Or is it the horrified eyes of a kneeling little girl just behind a corner staring at him?

His chin raises and his nostrils flare and his teeth grind together. The little girl collapses her back against the wall, unseen from view, trying to hide from James. Does she find him scary? Why would she think that?

He gets up quietly, not one sound to be heard as his boots trudge on the concrete. His head peeks around the corner, looking at the girl with her shirt tucked over her knees and her head tucked into the shirt. Almost like a turtle, he thinks. He finds it amusing and irritating all at the same time.

Jaw tightening, his blood-stained metal hand grabs ahold of the girl's upper arm and picks her up from the ground forcefully. She squeals, her eyes big and wide when he pushes her against the wall. From that squeal alone, he can tell it's the girl who was screaming earlier. The other one that's just like him.

She looks at him with frightened eyes. Green. He likes the small difference between the two of them. Never has he seen pure green eyes in this place. They glimmer with fear but she tries to hide it by looking away.

"Don't be afraid," James tells the little asset deeply and carefully, kneeling down to her level. He squeezes her chin gently, forcing her to look at him. "And don't pull my hair again. It hurts." And to show exactly what it feels like, he grabs a small strand and tugs at it lightly, teasing his bait. "See?"

She whimpers and tries looking away again and even trying to run from him. His bulky, red arm only keeps her in place, pulling again a little harder at her wet, almost frozen, hair. Again, she whimpers but never sheds a tear.

James can feel her strength. Definitely stronger than what it was on the road, but not strong enough to get by him. How could a person a fourth of himself be able to do that, anyway?

He places his metal hand against the wall near her face and watches as she stares at the metal weapon: the red star, the seams of red, her reflection in certain parts. Does she... like it? No, no one can.

Even though James had pulled her hair too hard and scared her half to death, her little hands can't help but point to his bleeding wound where metal meets skin. He follows her finger and looks at it, too. He watches the same finger travels down to touch a bit of metal carefully, avoiding any of his blood.

Blue meets green.

"I want one."

His mouth parts at her words.

They are both given no time to properly meet when a loud shout and hammering footsteps come from down the hall.