Bucky's less homicidal now (wintercame) wrote in rooms, @ 2014-08-10 23:36:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | !marvel comics, *narrative, bucky barnes |
WHO: Bucky Barnes
WHERE: Manhattan, not far from Stark Tower
WHEN: Now
WHAT: Narrative / Bucky is in denial about being sick
RATING: Swears, angst, nothing too big.
Bucky was a few alleys down from Stark Tower. He could see it now, if he moved his head that way, but it was bright. It felt too bright, and it stung his eyes. He had the headache before, and he knew what that meant, but he was given missions. His human hand grasped the SIM card tightly, and then released it before it could break, putting it into a safe pocket. He rested his back against the cement wall and breathed deeply. He survived decades of torture and brain washing. He was not going to let some goddamn science freak come along and shake him. The hotel was bad enough. He wasn't the soldier, he wasn't a soldier, he didn't take orders. His world wasn't surrounded in missions anymore, he was free. But it was now, he had missions, he was supposed to do things. His brain burned. This reminded him of whenever his mind started to fight off the programming, when he was sick as his brain rejected what was being done to it, and then he'd end up in the chair anyway. He could see the chair now when he closed his eyes. He felt his teeth tighten and the electricity crackle, and the certainty that it was all going to be gone a second later. He would cease to exist. Occasionally he wondered if that was kinder. If he was put down like a mad dog a long time ago. Bucky was seeing things, but he was ignoring them too. He saw dead bodies when he opened his eyes. They were on the ground or dead and staring at him, taunting him. The girls he killed recently, but so many more than that, piles of corpses all surrounding him. Even Stark's parents, although he didn't know them, so their faces were blank. Steve was there too, he knew that, and if he looked at it, he was going to get sick. He failed him, he was gone and he wasn't there when he needed to be. It was the war all over again. He couldn't get to him, the space between seemed too vast. Voices spoke to him in Russian. Karpov. Faded now, he thought he'd forgotten his voice. But there was Lukin, and his spine straightened, his body swayed. The Red Skull was nothing compared to Lukin. The Skull was not the skeleton in his closet, not the person who plunged fingers into his mind and soul and revealed something irreparably ugly. He "died" because of the Skull, but Lukin killed him many, many times. They spoke to him, and he refused to listen. They weren't real and he knew that. This bullshit was not going to work on him. He almost warned Steve, but no, he had enough to worry about. He'd just go looking or make that another one of his tasks. Or maybe not, maybe he didn't care, maybe too much was broken. He couldn't focus long enough to understand. But that wasn't important. Bucky could beat this. He saw corpses and heard voices, so what, that was nothing compared to the hell he experienced. His head pulsed and he stumbled, gripping the wall with his metal arm, and then pushed off it. There was only one mission that mattered now. One fix that he could see. If he found the man responsible for this madness, he could end it. What he'd do when he got his hands on his prey, that was anyone's guess, but the Winter Soldier and Bucky Barnes were one and the same sometimes. This was one of those times. He focused on what made sense, what his fevered brain latched onto. The others could wait. If he wasn't forgiven, that was just one more thing he'd have to live with. Another body on the ground. He faded into the shadows. Time to go hunting. |