A Birdie Lost in Time | Bucky Barnes

|14|

She wasn't sure exactly at what point she'd been given the name Prizrak.

The Russian didn't call her that, but everyone else seemed to. Even those who saw her moments before their death, faces white with terror before they themselves became nothing more than prizraki, used the name.

The majority never actually yelled prizrak—they didn't know Russian. Sometimes they yelled szellem, or obake, or multo. She'd caught on fast enough that those words all meant the same thing: ghost.

The engineers seemed to enjoy the name as much as the field agents, who would laugh as their victims screamed in terror, so after what happened to the Receptacle back in '73, they'd decided to play into the phantomania. There was no purpose other than aesthetics to create a setting where the output of energy would fluctuate, creating the flickering effect that spooked so many. It was simply to spark fear in the moments before death.

The girl never argued that the flickering made it hard to concentrate or see, as her vision would alternate blindingly between light and energy, or that it risked getting tangible objects stuck within her—like the bullet that caught her side in '75. No, she just followed orders, more often than not, using the flickering as a scare tactic.

Unlike the Soldat, Hydra wanted her to be seen. They wanted stories spread about the girl who was a waking nightmare, who would only appear to kill you.

While some had taken to calling her a demon, or wraith, or devil-reincarnate, they knew who she was, and that is all that mattered.

It made the atmosphere through the 1970's all but driven by terror. No one knew who would be next or how to avoid her, and no knew where she'd come from. The few who survived an encounter with her were often only alive because she had more pressing matters to deal with, and they never saw her face. It was always covered by a dark mask who's only features mimicked the contours and shapes of the girl's face, just enough to offer an eerie resemblance of a visage.

Right now, a fresh-faced recruit was staring at that mask, apparently forgetting there was someone within, staring right back.

"Ne smotri slishkom dolgo, ona mozhet ukrast' tvoyu dushu," Semenov said lowly, knocking his shoulder into the young man.

Over the years, she'd learned quite a bit of Russian, although she still had trouble with certain words, certain phrases, especially when spoken through the headset of a jet.

'Don't stare too long, she might steal your...'

"Dushu," she said, looking at Semenov. "Chto eto znachit?" What does that mean?

"Soul," he answered, directing a deep, teasing laugh at the young man who was now avoiding looking at the girl at all. "I said you would steal his soul."

She had heard that before, she realized. Another tactic to apparently instill fear in those who heard of her.

Incorrect.

"Ya ne zabirayu dushi. Tol'ko zhivet."

The agent let out a raucous laugh at that, nodding and slapping the recruit on the shoulder. "Da."

She didn't know why he was laughing.

'I do not take souls, only lives.'

It was a true.

She pondered what was funny—what funny even meant—the rest of their short flight. She wondered whether the Soldat understood what was funny, but through the entire interaction, he just sat silently beside her.