Chapter Text
The leaves rustled around, the crunch of autumn leaves and evergreen trees swayed side by side, the river crashed against the rock not too far from where the asset sat.
The noises. His ears were always attuned to everything around it for miles, yet while under their control it was much easier to focus.
Breathe.
Fabric shuffles against a wooden bench a foot away from him.
“You’re feeling better now, Bucky?” Steve said to him one day.
<MISSION: Eliminate Steve Rogers. >
The gears whirred and clanked as the asset used his flesh arm to hold down his other—the one that yearned to grip and hold the patch of skin that held the head and torso together. It forced a smile and belatedly glanced at the man beside him. Pathetic. It should just be decommissioned at this point. Or this is one of those long-lasting missions where he it could find some solitude before it resets all over again in the cold chamber.
The ex-mission, supposedly his friend that a part of him remembered to be much skinnier had continued to watch him with pity, his arms placid mid-air as if he were about to reach for it. He knew not to touch the asset. There is no appropriate action that concerned placing hands on the asset: that he made sure others understood.
“C-Can I just…” the man grew teary-eyed as his shoulder slumped, “Buck, I’m so sorry. I don’t know how to fix this. I want to be here for you. After all you’ve been through, and I wasn't even there.”
There was no fixing. Not in the way this “Captain America” would have agreed upon. The asset concluded that viewing the river was a suitable response. Something about that current and the dirt and detritus that pushed and bound its movements reflected the asset comparably. The ex-mission continued to sit there, much to the asset’s supposed indifference. It would have been suitable for him to do something more productive than moping on a bench.
To the end of the line, the depths of its memories had recalled in response. It let out a breath and clasped its hands together. The asset cannot comprehend what that meant, nor why those words had eased a pain in its chest.
Chapter I: Denial / on the run
His ears rang for some moment, the traffic and pedestrians muffled through the glass between them. The haze of red and white and retro blue shaped into tilings and glass headlamps, with the scent of century old cigars etched into the leather seats.
“Sir,” the waiter waved her hand in front of him, “…I haven’t got all night to wait. What’ll you be having t’night?”
He opens his eyes in a bistro. The coloured television hung from the ceiling as the reporter on the screen talked about local thieves taking out food banks and neighbouring restaurants. The fear is that they will start attacking local malls for clothes, etc.
“Oh, uh…” he pointed at a random line on the menu, “I’ll have a buffalo burger with a regular coffee, just black,” he smiled with teeth and all.
After the waitress looked at him funny and sauntered past the kitchen doors, he went back to the television to see the segment had swapped to local politics.
“Gotham is entirely grateful for another donation from Bruce Wayne: these will go straight to the children in crime alley to support their education, housing, and more. We sure are lucky to have such a generous donor right, Ben?”
“We sure are, and his intentions are beyond only honoring his late son, Jason Todd,” the screen presented a photo of a child with two inward curls as bangs and striking blue eyes that glared at the camera. “This is his 7th annual donation, with the funds increasing each year.”
“Thats right—and may Jason rest in peace in these trying times. In our next segment, we’ll be discussing…”
Unless this specific news station has a particular need to name New York as “Gotham”, he must have been in some other city. Yet, the glow of piss yellow from street lamps, the muffled shouts with the dance in tone that came from an Italian-American, the cigars and sewage had him thinking differently. He didn’t know and nothing from his glowing brick people called “smartphones” was helping—not that being placed in unknown settings was something new to him. He’d have to do it the way he’d always done it.
The waitress blocked his view from the television while she handed out a plate with the largest chunk of buffalo sandwiched into a burger and surrounded by thick-cut fries. “You ‘kay there hun? Lost or something?”
Or he could ask. “Yeah, first time here. Any clue you might know where I could take a trip back to New York?”
Her mouth curled on one side: “Sir, you’re in the state.”
“No, like the city.” People began looking towards the two, one teen who looked like they just did geography class had their hands covering their smile. Men sat around the bar had their newspaper placed down. Even the cook seemed distracted.
“The city? We’ve got Gotham, Minneapolis, Blüdhaven, and the like but no city of New York,” she laughed before she walked off.
Bucky picked at his fries after downing both the large burger and coffee at the same time while he pondered about those last names. He’s in the state of New York: yet the cities seemed outright fictional. It’s like he’s thrown into another dimension but everything felt too much like his New York.
The pain in the back of his head grew as the fork grated against the glass plate.
<MISSION: Jump…>
At an instant there was a crash and glass shattered at the other end of the restaurant, followed by a shriek while others had their arms up from their table to dodge the debris. A really short guy—or a really malnourished kid—began to shout indecipherably as the one waiter held him by his arm, then dragged him with all her force which caused both of them to tumble into the glass-filled floor. The kid jumped back up to his feet with no mind that his face and hands leaked with red. Two men hidden behind the newspaper from earlier jumped out of their seats and ran for the kid. Bucky hastily placed a couple hundred bucks onto his table and followed chase.
“Hey!” Bucky shouted. He was quickly catching up to the kid, who ran without fear of the oncoming traffic. The curls of his hair and those blue eyes, and the lack of overall volume reminded him of someone…
The boy finally came to a stop when a car skidded towards him, and Bucky took that chance to drag him away from the traffic, towards a quiet street.
“What were you thinking, running into cars like that, kid?” Bucky had his hands on the kid’s wrist (it was just skin and bone) for a moment before the kid attempted to rip himself off. His eyes were unfocused, his breath scattered like he’d forgotten how to breathe, let alone think.
“Stop!” The men caught up to the boy and Bucky, and the boy started yelling again, eyes fixed on the men. Bucky relented his grip and the kid curled, back against the wall and arms around his head.
The men know him—yet the kid’s malnourished to the bone.
“Who are you people,” Bucky stood between the men and the kid, “…and what's your deal with the kid?”
The two looked and nodded: “not your place dude, now back off,” one reached for Bucky, only to get a swift hook in the leg and ate the ground.
“I can do this all day,” Bucky twisted the man's arm until he heard a click. Shots fire, only to be deflected by vibranium. Before the next round, Bucky swung the guy on the floor onto his friend with the gun, and both fell back into the traffic.
Bucky turned around only to see that the kid had disappeared. “Fuck. fuckfuckfuck,” he scanned the perimeter before he closed his eyes.
Tune in on the target. Dress shoes. Flap of the tie. Unpaced breaths.
A yell two blocks down had Bucky out of the alley and towards the busy streets of Little Italy: lines of brick and glowing signs bled past, the smell of espresso and century old piss burn his nose, and outdoor seating had him stumbling past both furniture and people alike.
The kid’s right outside the lobby of the most inconspicuous building known to man with just one row of windows miles above, doors on the first floor, and bricks for the rest as far as Bucky could tell. Some other guy, less trench-coaty and more head-to-toe with tactical gear, had the top half of the kid’s head in his grip as he stopped in front of some woman.
Upon closing the distance between himself and the strangers, the woman courtly spoke Arabic to the tactical gear dude before she sent the clearest slap across his face.
“Let him go,” she adjusted her coat, “…and don’t show your face again,” She let out a long sigh before she looked straight at Bucky. “I am aware there is a listener five cars away. Approach without any weapons, or may my fangs sink into you.” She wasn’t lying either: numerous guns reloaded from various angles while hidden in plain sight.
Bucky could get by with dodging them all, but getting hunted down afterwards in some new-york replica wasn't a part of his plan today. “I mean no harm. I was worried about the boy,” he raised his hands and slowly approached the group. “I believe we desire the same outcome here.”
“Do not talk to me as if you know me, spy,” she lowered herself to the kid’s level and helped him up, “…but I must thank you for bringing the child over to me. Follow me.” She raised her hands and the air settled a bit.
The lobby appeared like any other normal office building. Three men and women located at opposite ends of the lobby bowed while they greeted the woman and kid. She then removed her coat to reveal a fitted silk emerald dress, embroidered with floral designs that complemented her gold jewelry.
Bucky felt a tap on his shoulder and was met with one of the men with their hands out.
“Your items, sir.”
Bucky held his hand on his pocketed knife and the other on his gun as he scanned the exit and the kid back and forth. The room sat at a standstill as the man made no effort to back off: he continued to glance at Bucky’s hands by his waist and back at Bucky.
“Atrukhi,” the emerald dress commanded, and the man backed off with a bow. At the end of the hallway where the elevator door waited for its passengers, she nodded at the kid to enter. “Take care of the boy while I talk to our other guest.”
The men and women hurriedly guided the boy into the elevator and the doors shut before Bucky could get a say in.
“That aside,” the woman fixed her hair and patted her dress down, “...my name is Talia,” she reached her hand out.
“Nice to meet you Talia. Name’s…” he wasn't too keen on giving his name out to some woman who presumably owned a building with only one row of windows. “You can call me J, like the letter,” he shook Talia’s hand.
“J…Interesting name. Well J, no need to fret about surrendering any of your belongings, nor be concerned of any external threats. This is a secure place,” she smiled, her palms open.
The night passed with a tour around the building. Beyond the first lobby, the design of the tower significantly shifted from a boring office to a richly detailed area, with large light fixtures that allow light to fill up each corner of the room, burgundy and orange diamond wainscoting, and columns that bow in towards each other that create the shape of a dome. Bucky could see his own reflection against the earthy marble flooring, which was lined with gold and white marble. Although still full from his last meal, he helped himself to three servings of what the servers called “Kabsa” while he befriended the entire kitchen’s people. While he was unsure of what convinced Talia, she had offered Bucky a place to stay, but in exchange Bucky was to train the boy, who was called Jason. A win-win for Bucky.
Regardless of his fill and the silken bedsheets that came along with the room Talia had offered, Bucky could not let his guard down: he mentally took track of the numerous cameras within his vicinity, which totalled to three cameras every eight feet. Plus, there was always someone a few feet away, behind a counter or a column in an attempt to hide. He patted down the robe that rested against the edge of the bed, then himself, before he changed and flopped onto the bed. Sleep was an impossible feat that night, but that was nothing new for him.