Chapter Four:
Bucky

For the next week I hide in the boat's supply closet/Paul's playroom. At night I sleep on the floor, using one of Paul's extra pillows and blankets he gave me, then during the day I spend time with him. Sometimes we talk, sometimes we play with his toys, and sometimes we do what he calls 'arts and crafts, which entails drawing or creating pictures using things like pipe cleaners and popsicle sticks.

I expected spending time with an eight year old would be annoying and tedious...but it was actually nice. Paul has an endearing innocence to him that is like a breath of fresh air after being in HYDRA all these decades. He looks at life in the most optimistic way, always seeing the good in people and situations.  He doesn't blame his father or uncles for not spending time with him, despite how lonely he is, and instead focuses on ways to entertain himself and be helpful. When he isn't playing, he dedicates a lot of free time helping his family with navigation or cleaning or whatever else needs to get done. It's like he creates light wherever he sees darkness.

I'm actually sad to be leaving him today, and I'm not the only one. The minute we dock at a harbor in Hong Kong, Paul bursts into tears.

"I don't want you to leave, James." He wails, running over towards me and wrapping his tiny arms around my waist.

I'm shocked at first by the contact, but I recover quickly and place my hands on his small shoulders, patting him gently. As he cries into my shirt, I see a different child hugging me flash in my mind's eye; a girl around Paul's age, wearing my army hat on her small head. She looks up at me, her face wet from her tears, and wails 'I don't want you to go, Bucky'."

Bucky. That's what Steve Rogers had called me. It's clearly a nickname, but until now I thought only Rogers called me that, but did I prefer it over my first name? Did everyone call me 'Bucky'?

As usual, the answer to that question evades me.

I grab onto Paul's shoulders and pull him away from my waist, then I bend down to be at his eye level. I smile at the boy, wiping one of his tears away, then assure him in my gentlest voice: "I have to go, I cannot hide here forever. It's not safe for you."

"I'm strong! I can protect myself!" Paul argues, pouting at me.

I suppress a chuckle. "I know you are, but think of your dad and your uncles. They aren't safe with me here. I have to go."

Paul looks like he's about to burst into a fresh set of tears, so I hesitantly pull him in for another embrace, still unused to the contact. Paul clings to my neck so tightly he almost chokes me, but I don't mind. I pat his back gently and murmur to him: "I'll always be your friend, Paul. No matter how far away I am."

"Promise?" He whispers against my shoulder, clinging to me tighter.

"I promise."

-

Once I leave Paul's boat, I steal a car and begin the journey to Erdenet.

The journey is...slow, to say the least.

As the hours go by I find myself feeling bored, lonely, and these are feelings I'm not very familiar with having. I should be used to having nothing to do but the mission ahead of me, having no one to speak to or spend time with, but I guess Paul has spoiled me on that front.

I know Paul only spoke with me because I was the only person around, and if he knew who I really was he would be terrified, but I liked how he treated me; like I was a person, not a thing, like I had opinions that mattered, like I myself mattered. For decades I was surrounded by people who froze me, electrocuted me, tortured me, and made me do heinous things to suit their own agendas, then this eight year old comes around, giving me food, blankets, and speaking to me like I'm not a pet, but a human being.

I can't believe I ever fought for HYDRA. I used to believe in their cause. I fought for them, tortured for them, killed innocents for them, and I did it all gladly. And how did they treat me in return? Like a wild dog they needed to tame.

If I ever doubted I was brainwashed, those doubts are definitely gone now. I can't even fathom doing the things I did in HYDRA now. I tortured and murdered children just like Paul, and I did it without a shred of remorse or regret. It was all in the name of duty after all, and duty was what they programmed me to follow.

How many of those children had families like Paul does? Did they have parents who wondered for years what happened to their child? Did they have siblings?

I think of the little girl from my memories. The one who clung to me with tear filled eyes and begged me not to leave her. The one who would giggle when I picked her up and spun her around, who always wore my army uniform hat. My sister.

In HYDRA I would have killed her without hesitation. I wouldn't have even recognized her.

I feel a wave of nausea wash over me and I look around this stolen vehicle to find something to distract myself. My attention settles on the radio, so I flip the knob up and turn it to a random channel.

"I'm tickled pink, that things are rosy
And skies are blue once again
Let the bygones go bye-bye,
no more will I sigh or cry"

This song sounds familiar...but how? I haven't listened to music in decades. I glance at the radio's screen and on it reads '30's and 40's top hits', so I must recognize this song from my past life.

"I'm tickled pink, the moon is yellow
And I'm your fellow tonight
Soon we'll greet that red-letter day,
when I will pop the question and you say okay
Say then we'll be married in the month of May."

A memory appears in my mind of a woman in her mid forties, laughing joyfully as she teaches me how to dance. I stumble a couple times, but she keeps encouraging me, telling me how well I'm doing and how any day now I'll be sweeping girl's off their feet.

The woman must be my mother. I focus a bit harder on the memory, trying to make out her features, but they're a little hazy. All I can really see of her is her pale complexion and her warm brown eyes. She gazes at me with such love, such affection...and I can't even fully remember what she looked like.

I turn up the volume of the radio even higher, wanting nothing more than to drown out the thoughts and memories swimming in my mind. But despite my effort, I can still see my mother's eyes as if they're directly in front of me, and I can still hear her laugh as if it's pouring out of the car radio instead of the song.

-

Two days later...

The safe house is not in the best shape.

It's two floors, the outside walls are painted sky blue, the door and porch painted white. The paint is peeling off before my very eyes, the windows have a thick layer of dust covering them, making them opaque instead of transparent, and the wood flooring of the porch is so rotted that it creaks and groans under my weight.

I swear a wrong step will have this whole place collapsing in on me.

I try to be careful as I walk across the porch, not putting too much weight into my steps, and head towards the porch lamp, where I've been told a key would be. I find the key rest on top of it, and when I stick it into the lock and twist, the door swings open with another loud creak.

I half expected the key to be useless. Wouldn't put it past HYDRA.

I walk inside the house and shut the door behind me, taking in the house's equally old and worn down interior. There's a living room directly in front of me, with a staircase separating it and a kitchen. I'm assuming upstairs leads to bedrooms, and that's where I'll find the items I need. I stalk past the dusty couch and chairs and head up the stairs, cringing at every crack of the wood my steps make. I purposefully make my steps a little softer, trying to ensure the stairs don't collapse under me, but doing so takes me twice as long to make it to the top of the staircase.

I've only just arrived and I'm already sick of this place.

Now that I'm up here, I head into the master bedroom, crouching down to the floor once I reach the bed and pull out a black box. I open it up to find a fake passport, fake drivers license, fake birth certificate, and a large stack of cash. I stand up and set the box down on the bed, going over towards the wardrobe across from me, finding shirts, pants, jackets, and shoes all at my disposal.

This is more than I could have hoped for. With the documents they've provided me, the clothes, and the food supplies downstairs, I should be—

I thud sounds from downstairs, along with the distinct sound of foot steps.

Someone else is here.

Only now do I remember that safe houses are assigned to two agents, so whoever is downstairs must be another agent looking to take some supplies and their new identity. I've been so wrapped up in my own shit that I didn't even think about how other agents will be on the run just like I am. I didn't even consider another agent would be seeking out a safe house.

I swear my common sense evades me the more my old self returns.

I reach into my backpack and grab my gun, taking it off safety and keeping it aimed low. I head out of the master bedroom and make my way downstairs, trying to keep silent, but it's impossible with the creaking of the stairs. Might as well jut shout my location at them. When I reach the bottom step I look around the living room, raising my gun a bit higher. I'm sure the noise came from in here, but I don't see anyone. No one is hiding behind furniture or behind the dusty curtains. They must have gone into the kitchen.

The kitchen that's directly connected to the living room.

Cursing, I turn and find a woman standing a couple feet away from me, a gun in her hands aimed right at my head. The first thing I notice about her is how short she is, if she were standing right next to me she would make it to my lower chest. She's white, has a petite figure but well defined muscles, she has brown hair that falls past her shoulders, deep brown eyes, with a pointed nose and chin. She's wearing jeans, a grey v-neck t-shirt, a black jacket, boots, and an expression that is equal amounts startled and confused.

"Do you understand me?" I ask her in Russian. Most members of HYDRA are Russian so it's a safe guess that she is too, or at least that she speaks the language.

Her confusion fades into anger, I can see it in her eyes, and in how her hand tightens on the gun she has pointing at me. "What are you doing here?" She asks me in a tight voice. She's speaking in Russian, but her accent is distinctly German.

"This was the safe house I was assigned." I tell her, trying to keep my tone and expression calm. It's clear this woman knows who I am and isn't very fond of me, so I don't want to do anything to set her off.

Her anger continues to simmer, but she says nothing. I can tell by the unfocused glaze in her eyes that she's deep in thought, probably deciding whether she should go ahead and kill me or not.

I can't help but wonder if she is considering killing me for practical or personal reasons. Her anger tells me the latter...but I don't remember ever interacting with her.

That being said, she does look familiar.

Very familiar.

The woman takes in a sharp breath and takes her finger off the trigger of her gun, holding her hands up in surrender. "I need to acquire my identity and some food and then I'll be gone."

Her anger is gone, as is her confusion, leaving only fear behind, and the sight has my stomach churning. She's afraid of me, probably with good reason, but I wish more than anything that she wouldn't be afraid. I don't want her to lower her defenses because she thinks I'm going to harm her. I have no wish to harm her, and I want to tell her that, but I know it won't make her feel better. I'll probably only scare her more.

I realize I still have my gun aimed at her and I quickly lower my weapon, gesturing towards the kitchen behind her. "Go ahead."

I have never seen someone move faster in my life. She practically sprints towards the kitchen and begins stuffing food from the pantry in an empty bag left on the table.

I watch her as she packs supplies, trying to rack my brain as to why I know her, but all I'm getting is more fog.

But I know I know her. I've stared into those deep brown eyes before, I am sure of it.

I'm also sure our last encounter wasn't pleasant. I did something to her. I hurt her somehow.

I want to know of our past together, I want to know why she looks at me with such hatred and fear. I want to know...everything.

There's nothing more frustrating than not remembering your past. And nothing makes me feel more helpless than being faced with someone from my past and not being able to remember her name.

I won't rest until I get all my memories back. I owe it to this woman before me...and I owe it to myself.