Battlefield ★ Bucky Barnes

XXVII. Not A Problem, Sergeant

One punch.

Two punches.

Three punches.

The chain that held the sandbag to the ceiling was growing weaker and weaker as Bucky continued his assault, though it wasn't something he could exactly help. Since he and Connie had arrived at the safe-house, more and more memories inside Bucky's head were becoming clear. Not only did his mind now consist of good memories, but they also consisted of the bad ones in which he wanted nothing more than to remain forgotten.

Of course, Bucky remembered his victims. Knowing that he had taken so many innocent lives helped contribute to the amount of guilt he felt inside him, but remembering the details only made that guilt worse.

Bucky could hear their voices in his head pleading for him to stop; he could hear them begging for their lives to be spared for the sake of the families they had started and the friendships they had made. He could see the terror in their eyes as well as the horrifying acceptance when they realized there was no way to escape. There were so many tears, and there was so much pain, all of which Bucky now had his fair share of.

Four punches.

Bucky was trapped in the memories inside his head. He could see a little girl hiding in the corner of what looked to be a very lavish 20th century home. She was covered in blood and tears, and he knew it to be because of the middle-aged man that lay dead in the middle of the common room floor; the man's wife was resting much the same as he was in their bedroom upstairs, but he doubted the little girl was aware.

The little girl looked away from the man and up at Bucky. Her face was stained with tears and her big brown eyes showed nothing but absolute pain and fear. The girl wasn't that old. Bucky calculated she was at least nine years old, but it was of little importance to him. Finishing his mission was the only thing that was important to him; giving the world the freedom it deserved was the only thing that was important to him.

"Bitte tun Sie mir nicht weh (Please don't hurt me)," the little girl pleaded with him.

Deep down, Bucky wanted to listen to her. He didn't want to hurt her—he wanted her to have a chance to grow old and have a family—but a bigger and stronger part of him was telling him that hurting her was exactly what he needed to do.

He pulled his pistol from its holster at his side and aimed it at the little girl. Her brown eyes filled with more tears and more fear, and she cowered away from Bucky.

"Bitte (Please)," she begged once more.

"Leave no witnesses," another voice ordered him, a voice that he had grown to fear over the course of the years. If he didn't obey the voice's orders, he would be punished, and he didn't want to be punished. He didn't want to feel pain.

Bucky pulled the trigger without hesitating, sending the little girl falling to the floor in a pool of her own blood. He swallowed the lump in his throat, unsure of why he was feeling so terribly guilty because of his actions.

"Es tut mir Leid (I'm sorry)," he uttered quietly before taking off.

Five punches.

The sandbag chain snapped under Bucky's strength, sending the piece of workout equipment flying across the room. He looked at the sandbag with wide eyes, unaware that he had even been hitting it that hard in the first place. He was just so trapped inside his mind and his memories that he had no control over himself, and that wasn't exactly a good thing.

"Hey," Connie's voice sounded from behind him.

Bucky spun around immediately to look at her, slightly startled about what she would think after learning what had just happened. "C-Connie."