It's a cloudless night, and the full moon casts a silver glow over the darkened streets of Washington. As we make our way to the museum, we encounter virtually no one, and the tranquility that blankets the city tonight is in stark contrast to what will unfold here in a few hours. None of these people, snuggled peacefully in their beds tonight, are aware of the imminent threat lurking right outside their door, and even fleeing won't save anyone. We walk across a bridge spanning the Potomac River, and I briefly enjoy the quiet sounds of the water reflecting the beauty of the night. Everything seems so incredibly peaceful, as if nothing could shatter this moment. We continue until we reach the museum where Steve and I viewed the Howling Commandos exhibit a few days ago. It's only been a few days. Earlier this week, we thought everything was as usual, that we were the good guys, and I thought I knew where I belonged. All of that was shattered in an instant, and now millions of lives rest in our hands.
"Are you sure we have to do this?" Sam whispers to us as we hide behind some bushes, looking towards the museum entrance. At least one guard is stationed here, and we should avoid being spotted by him, as breaking out of jail before the fight is definitely not an option. "I'm not going into this fight without wearing my old uniform. Besides, there's a higher chance Bucky will recognize me in it," Steve replies, as we carefully move towards the entrance. He wants to wear this uniform to fight in the name of the remaining Howling Commandos who helped destroy Hydra the first time. They can no longer do anything for this world, but we will defend their legacy, and wherever they are now, they will stand by us in this battle.
After securing our immediate surroundings, I kneel by the lock and pull a hairpin from my braid. If you can pick car locks, you can unlock a regular door. It takes less than a minute before I hear the door click open. "We're good to go," I quickly say to the others and step silently into the room. It's shrouded in darkness, but a flashlight would be too conspicuous, so we have to make do with the dim light filtering through the windows in the ceiling. Every movement of ours is meticulously planned to avoid touching anything or triggering any motion sensors. I'm about to turn the corner when I catch the beam of a flashlight and press my back flat against the wall. I place my finger to my lips, a silent signal for the others to remain quiet. There's our guard. He's whistling some tune, and the fact that we haven't heard it before just shows how tense we all are. Excitement is the same as fear and panic; you become inattentive and make mistakes. We can't let that happen.
We're lucky, as the guard heads down another corridor from where we're standing, and we collectively hold our breath. Only when his whistling fades away do I let the air out of my lungs and look at the others. That was close. Steve resumes moving, and we follow closely behind him. I place my hand on the grip of my pistol, gripping it tightly enough that it almost hurts. Just in case. The museum's hall has a chilling atmosphere at night. The exhibits are hidden in shadows, and there are far too many places from which someone could watch us, which isn't the most optimal situation, but I still hear the guard's whistling, and it sounds too distant to see us.
We proceed through the exhibit and reach the memorial plaque for Bucky. Even at night, it's still illuminated, and I close my eyes briefly to push away the rising wave of emotions within me. At least I don't fall into the same panic upon seeing the picture as I did a few days ago, yet I still feel as if the air is being squeezed out of me, and the thought of what we now know brings tears to my eyes, which I quickly try to blink away. What's wrong with me? Why does this evoke such strong emotions in me? We don't have much time, but I take a moment to examine the plaque closely. The picture shows the proud man I always see in my dreams, with a complete conviction in his face to save this world from evil. He would never have willingly chosen Hydra. Something deep in my mind keeps reminding me of that. I also notice the text written on the plaque, under his name.
"Born in 1917, Barnes grew up as the oldest of four children. James always had a good relationship with his sister Rebecca Barnes. He was an outstanding athlete, also excelling in academics. Shortly after the attack on Pearl Harbor, he enlisted in the military. After training at Camp McCoy, Wisconsin, he and the rest of the 107th were deployed to the Italian front. Barnes endured several phases of isolation, torture, and worsening health during this time. But nothing could stop his strong will, with his family, his best friend Steve Rogers, and his wife, E.S. Barnes, always supporting him. He and the other members of the 107th were captured by Hydra in 1943, and Steve Rogers set out to rescue his best friend, despite being strictly forbidden. Reunited, Barnes and Steve Rogers now as Captain America's newly formed unit, The Howling Commandos, Barnes markmanship was invaluable as Rogers and his team destroyed Hydra bases and disrupted Nazi troop movements throughout the European Theater."
In the article I read a few days ago, his wife was only referred to as Mrs. Barnes. Here, at least her initials are listed, which interestingly are the same as mine. What a coincidence... Steve had been standing next to me the whole time, looking at Bucky's picture for a few more seconds. I know it's never a good idea to get your hopes up, because if you don't have any, you can't be disappointed, but I would give anything to see him and Bucky together just like I do in my dreams. Maybe, just maybe, it could be like it used to be... I mean, in my dreams. Time to get back to work.
The tension in the air was almost palpable as we moved towards the uniform exhibit. At the end of a large room, I spot them—the seven uniforms of the Howling Commandos. Behind each uniform is a picture of the respective soldier. Right in the center at the front is Steve, directly to his right is Bucky Barnes, then James Montgomery Falsworth, and lastly Jim Morita. On the left are Timothy Dugan, Gabe Jones, and finally Jacques Dernier. Their names and faces seem so incredibly familiar. "There it is," Steve whispers, his gaze fixed on the relic of his past. The uniform he wore during World War II—the symbol of everything he and the Howling Commandos fought for. Everything we are fighting for now. A piece of history that connects him to his old identity and his first war against Hydra.
Steve cautiously approaches the uniform, but as he touches it, a high-pitched alarm sounds. Damn, who could have guessed they were secured. From a distance, we hear quick footsteps and take cover behind a few cardboard cutouts. Luckily, the cutouts are as wide as Steve himself. From the corner of my eye, I see the faint glow of a flashlight getting closer and hold my breath. "Damn it," Sam whispers, pointing at the approaching light. "He's coming our way. We need to get out of here." Yes, escaping would be quite nice. Steve signals us to move while the guard tries to figure out what happened. Hidden in the shadows, we slowly move toward the exit, hearing only the guard's curses, who will probably be losing his job now. When this is over, we should apologize to him.
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I initially considered whether to include the theft of the uniform as a chapter or to just briefly summarize it, but then I thought Elora hadn't yet had a chance to read the text about Bucky, which I've adjusted for this story.
Now the big battle begins. I'm not sure yet whether to make it a large chapter or split it up again. We'll see ;)
Until next time <3
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Who the hell am I (english version)
FanfictionUPDATES EVERY DAY AT 5 PM! She remembers nothing. Where did she come from? What happened? How did she get here? Where is her family? In short: she doesn't know. For two years, Elora has wandered, never staying in one place for long. Always searching...
