fugue // stucky

1. Good Day

The snow. The snow is completely unbearable. I used to love the snow. When I was young, when I had friends, we would play in it. I used to love the snow.

My numb hands fumble for my backpack that sits tightly strapped to me. I grab a tiny, overused wood and charcoal pencil and scribble, 'friends. snow. winter. Brooklyn.' as it comes to me in flashes. With a small sniffle, I stuff the leather notebook and plain writing utensil back into my full forest green bag.

I'm freezing. Everything is so cold. I'm used to it. I can feel the wind nip at my face, turning my sharp features a dusty red. No one is out. I am alone. The bench is hard. I must go. In complete silence, I stand up and start walking down the trail in the park I'm currently in. Every day, I come here. Sometimes other people visit too. Rarely. That's why I like it.

Cold, frozen water is halfway up the shins of my jeans. My one room apartment doesn't seem so bad right now. The streets of New York are empty. People are scared. Scared of the snow. I am not. I have seen worse.

Giant plows shift the precipitation on the road around, clearing paths for anyone who might want to stock up on things. Smart. I turn into a small corner store.

I stand still at the doors, scanning the short aisles until my eyes land on the stationary supplies. I storm briskly over and grab a small pack of pencils. They have no branding on them. Odd. I also need alcohol. I don't think they sell that here.

An old man with a lazy eye sits at the counter, a cigar in his hand. I hold my breath to avoid the fumes as I buy my new writing supplies.

"You out in this storm for pencils?" his rough scraggly voice sounds awful. I feel the need to clear my throat just listening to him speak.

I bow my head and stare at the clear counter in front of me. A brisk nod answers his question and I grab the change.

"Good day, then," the man scoffs. I stop in my tracks. My heart quickens. Good day?

"Thank you," my mouth fumbles the words lazily and quickly. I turn back to the man and finally make eye contact. He does a small wave and I'm snapped back to reality. My feet are quick to scurry me out of the bad smelling place.

My brain rattles with flashes of men in dull three pieces walking down the street. They are happy. They smile at me. Good day, they say. I say it back. It is a very long time ago.

With one of my new pencils I grab my book and write, 'people wished me good days.' My head hurts.

I walk up the steps to my apartment building. An odd man stands outside. I lower my head. The building is quiet when I step in. It always is. I move my feet along the wooden floors until I reach the stairs. Floor four. Apartment C. My door closes behind me. I take my pack off and hang it on the nail next to my cracked and dirty mirror.

My reflection stares back at me. I shrug away and turn my back to him. The fridge holds nothing but some vegetables and eggs. I'm not very hungry anyways.

My small retro television sits on my two seater table. I click it on and shed my dirty clothes.

"New York is in the middle of yet another devastating winter. We are seeing an ultimate change in the weather, due to something yet to be discovered. Temperatures are below freezing, and snow isn't coming to a stop. Scientists don't know why everything is subzero, but many theories are in play."

It's cold. So what? It will pass. It is February.

I find my only change of clothes on my bed, neatly stacked still from when I folded them this morning, and carry it over to my shower. The water is cold, probably because of the almost frozen pipes. I drag the bar of soap across my skin and watch the white suds trail after it. The water whisks them away almost immediately. I feel clean. I lather up the soap in my hands and ruffle it through my wet hair. My hair is long. I should cut it.

My body is cold after I step out of the small cubicle, and I cover it up with a change of underwear and a cotton shirt. The rest of my clothes are in the washing machine behind my table. The television is still going. I see a man I know. Steve. His name is Steve.

My mind races with memories that were stolen. Steve. Steve.

"My name is Steve, nice to meet you, Bucky."

"See, Buck! Look, it says, 'Steve Rogers, Welcome to Auburndale Art School.'"

"I'm with you 'til the end of the line."

"Steve.. I thought you were smaller."

"You know me."

"Best friends since childhood, Bucky Barnes and Steven Rogers were inseparable in both the schoolyard and the battlefield."

I let out a loud yell and pull at my wet hair. My head hurts more. I grab a nearby notebook and carve the last quote into the paper along with some more. I'm Bucky. My name is Bucky Barnes. Steve is my best friend. I don't know Steve. I used to know Steve.

My pencil moves without me having to think. I have written those words at least a thousand times. My eyes scan my room and I see numerous identical notebooks strewn everywhere. I leave them about. I always grab the closest one and write in it. It is easy. I put the items down and sit in front of the television. I need to focus more. Steve is talking. He looks happy.

"I'm glad I could help. Every time someone tries to win a war before it starts , innocent people die. I won't stand by and let that happen. I want all of HYDRA dead," his facial features harden. I find that mine mirror his. My eyebrows draw together. The screen flashes to giant flying ships. There are three. The helicarriers. I remember them. I grab the closest notebook and write, 'helicarriers.' I don't know why I remember them, but I do.

Next the screen shows a man with a metal arm. The Winter Soldier, they call him. He has a star on his arm like mine. It is red. I look over at mine and see the same scratch across it that he has.

"Police and military officers are still searching for the man named The Winter Soldier. Many reports of suspicion that link to him have been reported since he disappeared the day SHIELD fell. He seems to be in New York on a low profile. Any sighting or suspicion should be reported."

I will keep an eye out for him. He seems dangerous. Clippings of the man throwing people into ships, shooting down men, throwing grenades, and bombing hostages show by. I shiver. I don't like him.

Then it shows the man fighting Steve. My best friend. Steve falls. The man goes after him. I like him for saving my best friend. Steve shows on screen again.

"I don't want him dead. He's not that man anymore. He's not who people think he is. His name is Bucky Barnes. The Winter Soldier doesn't exist anymore. Bucky, if you're out there, stay safe. I trust you. I'm with you 'til the end of the line."

My head hurts. My brows draw together tighter. Me? Why does Steve want me? The Winter Soldier is dead? Why are they looking for him?

My hand seems to work faster than my brain. I look down at my paper.

I am a murderer. I killed people. I am The Winter Soldier.

---

Yes, I know this is very... monotone and straight forward, but it is supposed to be. Bucky is still somewhat in Winter Soldier mode, and when he's in that mode he has one objective: his mission. So he's focused on one thing at a time and stating things obviously because that's how he was trained, and that 70 years of brainwashing and torture is leaving him as a clean, oblivious slate.. kinda.