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May 19th, 1982
THE BLUE NIGHTsky reflected off her rearview mirror and onto her.
There were no streetlights lighting the road where she was driving, only her headlights. Cynthia knew she shouldn't be taking this way home, not the road that had caused most of the crashes in the history of New York. But she was going anyway. Besides, she wasn't even sure if she could die.
The quiet hum of music playing on her half-broken radio was the only sound in the car, excluding the outside noises of wind and the car battery and the creaky noises her car made every time she turned or stepped down on her brakes.
Her rusted and old car was a Nissan Sunny that had come out in 1966. She had bought it cheaply from some man she had met on the street a couple months before, and she had brought it down to an old shop so then her acquaintance could guide her through the steps of fixing a car, so then she would know in the future.
After a few more minutes, the main road appeared, leading her towards her apartment building in the upscale New York. She hadn't told anyone that it was her father's, that she had broken into her old house to find the key to the front door, or else she would have been homeless. Cynthia had also managed to find the old safe that her mother owned, in which she had put away funds for Cynthia's college education. Like that had even happened.
When she finally pulled into the parking lot of her apartment building, she parked her car into her parking spot, and grabbed her purse off the passenger seat. She walked into the building, greeting the doormen, and boarded the half-full bumpy elevator.
And as she walked down the hallway, Cynthia tried so hard not to think about all the people she had killed the year before with Win. The guilt had followed her around ever since Win left her standing in that rubble, and she partially hated him for convincing her to join him that day by sending messages to her through her sources—anonymously, of course.
Getting off the elevator and getting her key out, she unlocked the door, and walked in. Closing it behind her and hanging her bag on the coat rack, she placed her keys in the bowl by the door. Walking from the foyer into the living room, Cynthia froze.
"I was wondering when you would return," He coughed. Cynthia warily frowned as she walked around the couch to face him. His metal arm was propped up on the back of the couch, while the other one was rested on his belly. His long, dark, hair hung over his face, covering his eyes that Cynthia had secretly started to adore
"What are you doing back here, Win?" Cynthia snapped. She crossed her arms and glared at him, and he finally looked up at her. "Not . . . Not Win. Not right now. Just call me Bucky," He grunted in an agonizing response, and Cynthia finally noticed that giant blood stain on the right side of his stomach.
