Chapter 1: Pages 1-30
Chapter Text
Page 1
HYDRA is gone.
HYDRA is gone GONE
Cut off one head
There is no one to give my mission report to. I am recording this information in case of my destruction.
Who will take my place? HYDRA is gone. There are no heads left.
Моя личность — Зимний Солдат. My designation is--Winter Soldier
Зимний Солдат. Зимний Солдат. Зимний Солдат. Зимний Солдат. Зимний Солдат. Зимний Солдат. Зимний Солдат. Зимний Winter Soldier. Winter Soldier. Winter Soldier. Winter Soldier, Winter Soldier. Winter
Reverse
Что со мной происходит? Где мой командир? У меня так много вопросов. Что мне теперь делать?What's happening to me? Where is my commander? I have so many questions. What should I do now? HYDRA is gone. There is no one to give my mission report to.
What is the point of this?
Вернись к ГИДРЕ. Go back to HYDRA
Вернись к ГИДРЕ. Go back to HYDRA
Вернись к ГИДРЕ. Go back to HYDRA
Нет. Нет. Нет. Нет. Нет. Нет. Нет. No. No. No. No. No.
Page 2 and Reverse and Page 3
Mission report 7th April 2014
HYDRA is gone .
I was assigned to eliminate a target identified as Nicholas Fury. I designed the operation with the assistance of Commander Rumlow, my handler. An attack was facilitated with the assistance of HYDRA operatives disguised as local police, with technical interference disrupting traffic calming measures in order to provide a bottleneck, assuming a failsafe for the initial engagement, allowing for the possibility that the armored vehicle Fury drives would be insufficiently damaged. Operatives were directed to destroy the vehicle’s flight capability initially, followed by communication, then offensive and defensive measures. Deploy pneumatic battering ram.
Failsafe was engaged. I initiated direct contact with the armored enemy vehicle using a modified Fn Mk 13 grenade launcher. One single magnetic disk grenade is sufficient to immediately disable the target vehicle. When I approached the vehicle to eliminate the target I found it empty, with a large hole in the roof, seemingly carved by a plasma cutting device.
Target was no longer present.
Recommend promoting target to Lv 6.
Mission critical failure. HYDRA is gone.
Report continues:
Commander Rumlow has reestablished target lock. Apartment building: 1630 Connecticut Avenue NW, Washington, District of Columbia. Heat signature presents a direct firing line from 28 degree angle, through simple obstruction. Firearms request: Barrett M82A1M. Third party arrival by motorcycle. Third party eyeline corroborates clean target lock. Green light on target. Three shots fired through the wall at close range. Target is down.
Pursuit by third party. Third party should be eliminated. Commander Rumlow requests fall back.
Third party is too fast. Мне нужно что-то вспомнить. Кто ты?I need to remember something. Who are you?
Third party throws large disk, non explosive, unidentifiable metal material. Я знаю, что это. Почему я не могу вспомнить?I know what it is. Why can't I remember? Concussive force when catching the disk suggests superhuman throwing strength similar to my own.
Third party can not be underestimated.
Commander Rumlow is correct. I have to fall back.
Reverse
Mission report 8th April 2014
У меня что-то не так с головой. Я выскажу свои опасения только в том случае, если они помешают выполнению миссии. There's something wrong with my head. I'll only voice my concerns if they interfere with the mission.
Tube feeding. HYDRA is restless. Something is very wrong. Unusual activity. The guards and techs are restless. My mission is complete, why don’t they put me back in the ice?
Last night, there was a song. Why can’t I remember?
У меня болит голова. Я закончу это позже. I have a headache. I'll finish this later.
Page 4
I am the Winter Soldier.
I am the Winter Soldier.
I am the Winter Soldier.
I am the Winter Soldier.
I am the Winter Soldier. I am the Winter Soldier. I am the Winter Soldier. I am the Winter Soldier. I AM THE Winter Soldier. WINTER. I am the Winter Soldier. I am the Winter Soldier. I am the Winter
I am the Winter Soldier. I am the Зимний Солдат. Зимний Солдат. Зимний Солдат. Зимний Солдат. Winter Soldier. Winter Soldier. Winter Soldier. Winter Soldier.
I am the Winter Soldier.
I am the Winter Soldier.
I am the Winter Soldier. Зимний Солдат. Winter Soldier The Winter Soldier
Пожалуйста, положите меня обратно в лед. Please put me back in the ice.
Я больше так не могу. I can't do this anymore.
Reverse
Resetting the dislocation to my shoulder has allowed it to begin to heal. There is no other physical damage to the Asset to report.
This city is on lockdown. They are looking for me.
I have found an empty apartment not far from the HYDRA base I destroyed. HYDRA must be looking for me, too. It’s not in my programming to feel this way. It’s not in my programming to feel at all.
But I don’t want to go back. I won’t surrender.
Я не хочу, чтобы они меня нашли. I don't want them to find me.
Page 5 and reverse
Metal arm is dysfunctional. Service is required. There is nobody left. I will have to find the tools to do it myself. There is leaf litter and dirt in between the plates and it is preventing full range of movement.
Eyelids are also malfunctioning. Head is malfunctioning. Memory is malfunctioning. There is pain where there shouldn’t be pain. Perhaps poison. Entire body feels weak. Occasional tremors.
Missions requiring precision are not currently recommended.
Experienced a loss of time. I believe the poison has spread, however eyelids are no longer malfunctioning. Shaking continues, and is worse now. New symptom: spasms throughout core. Body still weak.
HYDRA would know what to do. I have to go back. I will go to the bank vault and locate remaining active operatives. I cannot maintain this body without assistance.
Update: bank vault is active crime scene. There are agents everywhere. I will attempt to cross the river and head south. It will mean finding a new safehouse, but it is not safe here any longer. It would only be a matter of time before I’m discovered.
Page 6
"The muffled drum's sad roll has beat the Soldier's last tattoo No more on life's parade shall meet that brave and fallen few."
Clipping, leaflet from Arlington National Cemetery.
Reverse
So many soldiers. Just like me. I walked to the center of the graveyard. There is a statue here of my final target. The man on the bridge. Captain America. There are other men with him. I recognize their faces, but they are not in any of the mission reports.
James Buchanan Barnes is written underneath on a brass plaque. It reads 1917-1945. James Buchanan Barnes is dead. He’s a hero, that’s why they put up a statue to him. I am not James Buchanan Barnes. I am the Winter Soldier.
Standing too close to the statue hurts my head. There’s screaming. I don’t want to remember the things it makes me remember. It’s painful. The sun hurts my eyes.
Семнадцать. Seventeen. Is this it?
Page 7
I am sitting in the shadow of a building watching civilians. On the horizon there is still a plume of smoke rising from the rubble of the Triskelion building. They act as though they don’t notice, but I can smell it, even over the other smells. The good smells. It smells like war. It smells like the demise of HYDRA.
They’re eating food. Drinking. Laughing. It’s against protocol for me to accept food or drink from anyone, including agents of HYDRA, but it isn’t accepting food or drink if I take it myself. I haven’t been fed by the tube for four days. The civilians I watch through their windows eat all the time. I see them. They have no comprehension of secrecy. They converse openly, share secrets, expose the internal layout of their homes without hesitation. HYDRA is gone.
I plan missions in my head. I imagine any one of them is a target. They are all so insignificant. Food is a higher priority target. I can take it. It will be easy.
Reverse and page 8
Mission report 14th April 2014
Target: Sustenance.
Location: Fort Myer Drive, Arlington, Virginia
It was not difficult to choose a target location. The civilians here eat on an open patio, and leave their plates on the table as they depart. Food is left behind on many of the plates, as well as currency, abandoned in silver dishes. It takes three minutes on average for the operators to clear the tables. They engage in talking to each other for long periods of time, and occasionally watch the large color screens inside. Surveillance of green fields with small soldiers running back and forth.
I wait until they are distracted by the screens and strike quickly. There are hard things on the plate that I cannot bite through, nor identify. The soft long things are wet and cold, but likely edible. Small bowls of white, dense liquid hurts my mouth. I eat quickly and leave.
The currency may come in useful, although I am not certain how to use it. Requires further observation. Food was the solution. Some of the weakness is passing. I am going to try drink next.
Drinking from the fountain is not to be recommended. It drew unwanted attention. Pursuit did not last long. I am waiting on a fire escape, watching the windows. When night comes I will identify an empty apartment.
Безвредный. Benign. I keep thinking about the graveyard. I think about Captain America. I don’t like to think about the words he said. They’re like the trigger words. I can feel them inside my head. It hurts, like they’re pulling . It’s against HYDRA’s wishes to access those memories, but the Captain won’t listen.
Reverse
I tried to stop him. I hurt him. He wouldn’t fight back. Why wouldn’t he fight back?
My name isn’t James Buchanan Barnes. It’s The Winter Soldier, and he is my mission.
Ты — моя цель. You — are my mission.
Why won’t you listen? Why don’t you fight back?
Моя личность — Зимний Солдат. Крик в моей голове, похоже, не прекратится.My identity is the Winter Soldier. The screaming in my head won't stop. Screaming and screaming and screaming.
Никогда не думал, что ты будешь Never thought that you would be
Стоять здесь так близко ко мне Standing here so close to me
Я чувствую, что мне нужно многое сказать There's so much I feel that I should say
Но слова могут подождать до другого дня But words can wait until some other day
Page 9
The song is still in my head. It doesn’t stop. The last apartment I hid in was empty. This one is full of books and clothing. There is food in the refrigerator. A cat. I found an old ID in one of the drawers near the door. It belongs to a HYDRA operative. A pilot. He is almost certainly dead. If I stay away from the windows, I will be safe here for a few days. There is intelligence to be found in these books. Usually that’s something I leave for my handler to do. I am a weapon. But I know nothing about this world. Nothing that I remember.
Most of the books are not useful. There are redundant titles on renovating antique planes, an incorrect history of Presidential assassination attempts, dozens of small books with partially dressed blonde men on the covers which are of no remarkable interest at all.
Reverse
There are scarce books on tourism, World War Two and other world history, but I will memorize as much as I can, and take other volumes with me when I leave.
On the opposite side of the street there is an advertisement for a Captain America exhibit at the Smithsonian museum. I don’t know where that is. The answers I need are probably there.
The cat demands food. The motorized dispenser is empty. There is a bag of food in the cupboard with a large white cat on the packaging. The cat meows when I pick up the bag, and is cooperative as I refill the dispenser. Something pains me about how reliant it is on my assistance. Like me, it cannot feed itself. It curls up in my lap when I sit down, and makes a sound that I find comforting despite how alarmingly loud it initially is.
Page 10
My eyelids close again on their own. I watched the same thing happen to an old man sitting in the sun in the cemetery. He was sleeping. I know what sleeping is, but I have never done it. There’s no need. I should be back in the ice by now. It has been over a week since I was thawed. HYDRA isn’t coming for me. I eat, I drink. Perhaps I sleep as well. But I don’t like it. Targets are always so vulnerable in that state, so easy to kill. I can’t be vulnerable.
It’s best I position myself with the couch on one side of my body, in case my eyes close again without my permission. There is only one entrance to the apartment. I have rigged it with a tripwire and grenade, just in case.
The cat lays on my chest. I consider removing it, but I do not. I like the cat.
Reverse and Page 11
Picture of cat
I was sleeping. Nobody entered. It was dark when I closed my eyes, and light when I opened them. The cat was sleeping on my face. The weather is much better here than it is in Siberia. My clothes have begun to smell worse. It is against regulation, but I’ve taken clothes from the pilot’s closet. This will be the second time since the river that I requisition civilian clothes in order to avoid being captured. They fit, but they are, as before, incompatible with my weapons, and the fabric is already wearing over the plates on my arm. This would be inconvenient in combat.
I also bathed myself. It was difficult, but much less uncomfortable than being cleaned by the technicians. The water can run hot as well as cold. I wonder if it has always been able to do that. What else don’t I know? Food, bathing, drinking, sleeping. They are things my body has to do, but HYDRA didn’t allow it. I understand the purpose in some of the rules. The Winter Soldier was a valuable Asset. I could have been poisoned, or drugged, or stolen. But why was the water from the hose cold? I just don’t understand. Они обращаются со мной, как с каким-то животным.They treat me like I'm some kind of animal.
Reverse
I cannot stay here much longer. The dead will be sorted from the living, and what is left of S.H.I.E.L.D. will follow any leads into HYDRA they can find. An unoccupied safehouse would be more secure than the former home of a dead HYDRA operative. I will move under cover of darkness and locate the Smithsonian. Девять.Nine
Perhaps it would be best to leave the city. Perhaps the country. I’m unfamiliar with the locations of HYDRA bases in the United States, and there is a not insignificant amount of surveillance. If I stay here, I will be found. I don’t want to be found.
I want to be lost. Мне хочется бежать, бежать, бежать и бежать. Оставаться здесь — не вариант.I want to run, run, run, run. Staying here is not an option. I hope someone will take care of the cat. Perhaps I will leave a sign on the door: “Cat inside.”
Page 12
The civilians are so relaxed. I can’t understand it. I look into their homes through the glass. All their lights are on and you can see them. You can see their lives. Their routines. They’re oblivious. За ними наблюдает Зимний Солдат.The Winter Soldier is watching.
All I can think about is how easy it would be to kill each of them. That is what I was trained for. This one has a small dog. This one is cutting up raw meat with an oversized knife. This one is putting her children to bed in a room with sparkling, circling lights. They look like stars. She kisses each of them on the head.
You can’t see the stars here. I did not see them often in Siberia. Underground it is hard to look at the stars.
Reverse
On one of my missions, the target was watching surveillance tapes at the moment of termination. Three women and one man, all with their clothes off. They were indiscreet to be caught on surveillance when it is so necessary to avoid it–and in such a state of undress, something which would never happen to me. I am only recorded on surveillance when it is required for a mission confirmation of a high priority target. There is no other acceptable excuse.
The civilians are on their couch watching a television. Surveillance tapes. I don’t know why they sit so close together to watch them. There’s more than enough room to watch the tapes while sitting upright.
I tried not to write about the Captain. I thought if I stopped writing about him, he would stay out of my head. I don’t know why these civilians remind me of him. I will continue to reflect on the question.
Page 13
Mission report 9th April 2014
Two targets, Lv 6, confirmed kill in 12 hrs. The timetable has been moved up. Secretary Pierce gives me the mission, and Commander Rumlow and I prepare. Every required piece of equipment must be secured, along with the correct agents to use them.
I underestimated Fury, and he was only a level 5 target. I keep thinking about the man on the roof. The disk. The shield . It’s familiar. I’ve held it before. I’ve wielded it. Thrown it. But HYDRA training has never involved such a weapon. When I try and remember where I learned to use the weapon, it’s like the wind is screaming in my ears. It’s so loud that I stop trying to remember. The mission is more important. I can’t allow myself to falter, given how dangerous two level 6 targets can be. This is not a covert operation. Covert is no longer the utmost priority. The timetable has been moved up.
Reverse
It’s cold. There’s snow. Not Siberia. Mushy, wet snow, on the outsides of a clearing. The remains of a fortress and canvas tents. It’s an Alpine smell, and the mountains are familiar. I can hear artillery fire in the distance. It echoes all the way up the valley, makes it sound as though the enemy is closer than it is.
Steve is here. He throws me the shield and I catch it. It’s a game. There isn’t much to do up in the mountains, waiting for a HYDRA weapons consignment to pass by on the small, winding road immediately below our camp. It will be three more days before the consignment passes. Long, Spring days, with nothing to do but throw and catch, complain about rations, play poker with playing cards soggy from snowmelt.
Dum Dum had left them on the floor of his tent. It was his own fault that they got wet.
Steve’s smile is radiant.
Page 14
The shield is painted on the buildings here. I see it when I walk by them, patterns familiar, always obscured. Sometimes there’s the American flag as well. One building has a complete mural covering one side, with Captain America at the very center.
I know this man, but not like this. Now that I know him it’s like he’s everywhere. He’s everywhere outside my head and he’s in it as well. There is a bus with Smithsonian written on it in glowing gold letters. There is a picture of Captain America on the side of the bus, but someone has drawn over it in red paint. I don’t know what the symbol means but I’ve seen it often. I will attempt to draw it below.
(it’s a dick) Written: "does this have something to do with Steve?"
Reverse and 15
I don’t know how long it will take to get to the Smithsonian. For now I will continue to write my final mission report. From this point on the details are more fuzzy. Interacting with the man on the bridge, with Captain America, caused a cascade failure. Secretary Pierce attempted to remedy it with The Chair. Returning me to the ice would have been more effective, however there was no more time to do so.
HYDRA experienced a cascade failure as well. It is my belief that moving the timetable up resulted in sequential failures of which only the Winter Soldier was presented as a failsafe. I am not responsible for the failures of my superiors. I am a weapon. An assassin. A sniper. Put to work as a bludgeon in an already semi-inoperative state, against an enemy for which I was deliberately under-briefed.
It is routine in my experience for Americans to use overpowered weapons when a knife will do, or attempt to force technology to accomplish things it is not suited for. I never experienced such ineptitude from my Soviet handlers.
Mission report 9th April 2014 (cont)
All that is required is a location. The targets make it easy to find them. Agent Sitwell is compromised. His phone tracks a call that is attributed falsely to Secretary Pierce. A kill order is given, and carried out.
The initial attempt to kill both the targets and their driver fail. I know this target. I have shot her once before. Then, as now, she is somehow faster than a bullet. The driver is of no interest to me. I pursue the female target, wait for her to attempt to fire on me, and use the M203PI grenade launcher attached to my M4A1 to drive her out of her hiding places.
Reverse and page 16
She returns fire when I change targets, damaging my goggles, which I remove.
I follow the female target. My men are armed with an M134 Minigun and I am unconcerned with their ability to eliminate the male target. He is only armed with a shield and so far has not returned fire. However the machine gun fire does not last long. I hear it stop.
The female target attempts a distraction. She is a few moments too slow with her attack, as it is obvious that her voice is a decoy when there is no attempt to evade my grenade. She attacks from behind, with a garotte, and fights like a Black Widow.
Unfortunately for her, I have training in Red Room combat techniques. Despite the Widow’s Bite she deploys, her attempt to escape results in a gunshot to the shoulder. Missing a killshot at such a short distance is a result of miscalibration in the arm. The Widow’s Bite saves her life by an inch. Unacceptable failure.
Final elimination of the female target is interrupted by the return of the male target. At this point, combat becomes rapid. The shield is a disruption, so I remove it from immediate play and engage at knifepoint. The target is aggressive, matching every attack. As fast as I am. As strong as I am. The only advantage I have is my arm, which he recognizes.
Once he retrieves his shield, he drives it into my arm, disrupting critical systems, before removing my mask, which for some reason causes him to let down his defenses.
He says a name. It isn’t relevant.
I move to eliminate the target, at which point I am prevented from doing so by aerial support. The female target has commandeered one of my weapons, and I am outnumbered and without support. Retreat is the only option.
Reverse
I’m writing an extremely important mission report and there is a small child kicking the back of my seat. I have glared at her handler, but that has accomplished nothing.
I don’t like killing children, but I am considering it as an option.
The stop for the Smithsonian is coming up soon. Perhaps I can avoid bloodshed long enough to get off this bus. It would be unfortunate to kill someone so close to my destination, and it would almost certainly result in collateral damage. The bus is not full, but there would be many inconvenient witnesses.
I do like children, I think. They seem harmless. But I prefer them from a distance.
Page 17
So many moments passing as I slept. I wonder what it is like up there. Is it finally quiet, alone on the moon? perhaps one day I will find out for myself.
Potstcard of earth seen from the moon
Reverse
Proposed design. According to the notes on the reverse, docking was never really feasible, but propaganda at the time went out of its way to promise us the impossible.
Postcard of zeppelin tethered to empire state building
Page 18
Without Commander Rumlow to assist, I couldn’t locate my destination. There are over 20 Smithsonian museums and galleries. The Air and Space Museum is excellent. I am familiar with many of the vehicles, even though I haven’t flown them all. In the gift shop there was a picture of a zeppelin tethered to a building that I recognize from my tourist book. The Empire State Building. I felt something like excitement. I remembered a shadow moving over me. Was that a memory?
America has been to the Moon. To the moon . How is that possible? In a little metal box, no bigger than my cryostasis chamber. It seems so impossibly fragile.
I need to get up now and locate the correct campus. It is a shame; I should have enjoyed remaining here, looking up at the planes. There is a full scale size model of the Hindenberg outside the museum shop.
Reverse
Mercury Friendship 7. First crewed American earth orbiter 1962.
Picture of Mercury capsule
Page 19
(Sidewards on page) I found a sign, and then another. I found my way to the correct building.
The National Museum of American History. Attached is the pamphlet from the exhibition "Smithsonian welcomes Captain America: An Exhibition. The Sentinel of Liberty. National Museum of American History.
Reverse
There are so many people here. I had to find a quiet place to write this. I don’t want to forget any of it. I will forget. There’s so much I’ve forgotten, I know that now. They called us the Howling Commandos. They have my uniform here. I remember wearing it, putting it on for the first time.
Steve was distracted. The Girl was there. He didn’t look at me the same way he did when
When?
I can’t remember. There was a red dress. No, not that.
107th? 107th. There are so many holes in all of it. I want to remember, but every time I try there’s some part of it I’ve lost that trips me up, and I lose the rest of it as soon as I start looking.
Page 20
I’m trying to take notes. Nobody thinks it’s strange.
Jim Morita. James Montgomery Falsworth. Gabe Jones. Jacques Dernier. Happy Sam Sawyer. Pinky Pinkerton. Junior Juniper.
Steve Rogers and James Buchanan Barnes.
The Girl is called Peggy Carter. Stark. Howard Stark.
У меня для тебя цель. Санкционировать и извлечь. Без свидетелей. I have a mission for you. To sanction and extract. Without witnesses.
Howard Stark is dead. December 16th 1991. I was the one who killed him.
Reverse
Отчет о миссии 16 декабря 1991 г.Mission Report December 16, 1991
Устранить цель. Свидетелей нет. Извлечь имущество ГИДРЫ. Eliminate target. No witnesses. Recover HYDRA assets.
Говард Старк. Это темная дорога. Темная по замыслу. Свет был отстрелен заранее, за исключением места назначения. Есть одна точка наблюдения. ГИДРА требует доказательств успеха миссии. Howard Stark. It's a dark road. Dark by design. Light was shot out in advance, except at the destination. There is one observation point. HYDRA requires proof of mission success.
Цель сопровождается одной женщиной-свидетелем. Оба устранены. Имущество ГИДРЫ возвращено. Target accompanied by one female witness. Both eliminated. HYDRA assets recovered.
Page 21
I knew him, and he knew me. He called me “Sergeant Barnes”. He asked me to help his wife. I didn’t include that in the mission report, but I remember it now.
We were
He was
Friends.
“Bucky.”
That’s what Steve said, in the street. I remember it now. When he was just The Man From the Bridge. They must have known. That’s why they put me in The Chair. The ice would have been better. If they really wanted me to forget, they should have put me in the ice.
Reverse
This environment is too dense. I want to take more notes, but my head hurts. Every memory I have is more intense here. I can almost see them. I can smell them. There are clips of them from old reels, playing their voices into the speakers.
This is as close as I will ever get to filling the holes HYDRA left in my head but I can’t stay here. It’s too much, and there are too many people. The things I remember hurt in ways I don’t understand. Best friends since childhood, Bucky Barnes and Steven Rogers, inseparable on both schoolyard and battlefield. I’m malfunctioning broken angry.
I’m angry. HYDRA made me kill my friends. They made me try to kill Steve.
Page 22
I want to go back into the ice. My head hurts so much. It’s like The Chair but so much worse. The lights flash on the back of my eyelids when they’re closed. I can feel the lights in my bones. I feel the vibrations of the cars passing on the road. There’s nowhere safe to close my eyes.
I want to go back in the ice.
Angry isn’t something HYDRA taught me to be. I don’t know where this feeling came from. I don’t know why I can name it. The word ‘friend’ is new, too. I wrote it, but I shouldn’t have words for what this is. Or feelings. HYDRA didn’t ask me how I feel. It’s an American concept. I’ve only ever heard it here.
There are too many feelings on this continent. I don’t want to be here anymore. I want to go back in the ice.
Reverse
There is still some ice in the northern hemisphere. I cannot go back to Russia, but the northern border is not very far. I could go north first, looking for ice. Walking there wouldn’t draw any attention. In the clothes I have commandeered, people walk by me without looking at me.
Leaving the city center isn’t difficult, but I haven’t eaten since leaving the apartment, and I require liquids. I am familiar with these sensations now. A dry mouth. Painful spasms in my stomach. Lightheadedness. There is nobody to report my body’s malfunctions to, so I must program missions for myself.
Everywhere I look, people are eating and drinking. It is a warm, pleasant day. American suburbs. They are cooking outside.
Page 23
Mission report 16th April 2014
Target: Sustenance.
Location: A suburban street north of Washington, District of Columbia (DC?)
I observe the habitation closely. It is a three story building with a single family occupation. There are seven cars parked nearby, three in the driveway, four in the street. Visitors in the outside space behind the building are loud. I can hear their laughter and smell their food.
The front door has been left open. Closer observations reveal there is a corridor passing all the way through the building to a rear exit, which is also open. Visitors can be seen in the outside space beyond the door.
There is also a cat. It is licking itself.
Reverse
Drawing of cat.
Page 24
The kitchen is accessed through a door on the left. There are eight minute gaps between visits by a senior woman. A young child runs up the stairs when I enter. There is no indication that I have startled them. I spent 90 seconds in the kitchen, procuring food from the countertop and bottled liquids from the refrigerator.
The white semi-liquid chunks in the plastic container I take are bland but edible. The box of round things which break into dust in my teeth are pleasant. I like them very much, and will attempt to procure more.
The liquid seems to be full of bubbles. It is not like the water from the tap or the fountain. It pulls at something in my head the same way thinking of Captain America does. I like it, but I am not certain I approve of this side effect.
Reverse
I remember a red room. Music. There is always music, brass instruments playing, and a thick smoke, the way there always used to be thick smoke in the offices of the generals I would be brought to. Unlike on those occasions, the smoke smells friendly. There is bubbly liquid in large glasses. I recognize the British Union Jack, painted on the wall. Large windows look out onto a wet street. It is no longer raining, but it has been. The sleeves and collar of my wool coat are still damp.
A woman in a red dress. I know her now. Peggy Carter. Steve, radiant at the sight of her. It feels as though I’m no longer in the room. As though I’m invisible. The seed of HYDRA is inside me. It feels like a cold acorn waiting in my chest, its tendrils reaching out into my veins. Zola put it there.
Page 25
Watching Steve with Peggy hurts for a reason I don’t understand. HYDRA never taught me what these feelings mean, but I think I must have understood them, back then.
Sometimes the memories are full of detail, intense emotion. Sometimes they’re flashes. Sometimes there are names I’m not sure whether or not I am entirely fabricating. Who is Rebecca? A figment? A former target? I don’t understand so much of what I see, and worst of all there is no reward for remembering any of it. Instead, every memory seems to leave my head throbbing again.
I am angry. I know that these things were stolen from me. I was angry on the helicarrier, too. I misdirected that anger and pain. I hoped if I could complete my mission, all of it would stop.
Reverse
It’s not in my mission parameters to attempt to recover memories of things HYDRA hid from me. I know this. But HYDRA is gone.
I am alone. I am one. Один.One.
I want to see Steve again. Perhaps if I can locate him, he can provide the answers I am looking for. It would be less overwhelming than the museum, at least. Unfortunately I do not know where to begin looking for him. When I left, there were other people on the shore. Certainly one of them must have called an ambulance. In which case it seems certain Steve was transferred to one of the hospitals closest to the Triskelion.
It seems unlikely that he is still there. It has been five days since the Triskelion fell. I need answers. But I am a ghost. I have always been a ghost. Being captured is incompatible with that description.
Page 26
One of the books I took from the apartment is a guidebook to New York City. I know from the museum that I grew up in one of the city’s boroughs. That is why the city is familiar to me. The pictures on these pages are places I know. I keep looking at them in the hope that doing so will trigger more memories. As yet, all this has done is hurt my head and cause confusion.
Everything I know of this place is buried so deep that I’m afraid I’ll never recall it. HYDRA did not want me to remember New York. But it did not wish for me to remember Steve, either. There were trigger words placed in my head that HYDRA did not put there.
To the end of the line. It is like До конца пути.To the end of the road. But that’s not right. The end of the line. Like a railway line. Железная дорога. Грузовой вагон.Railway. Freight car. Did they know?
Reverse
Hospitals do not often have high security. This one does. I am familiar with the advanced technology of the drones surveilling the building, having been recently briefed on recent Stark breakthroughs, firewalls and artificial intelligence. Tony Stark is the son of Howard Stark. I know his face. I was briefed on the possibility that he may become a target. The helicarrier launch was advanced to coincide with his absence, and moved up because of the potential that he may be contacted by the level five and level six targets before they could be subdued.
Iron Man was a concern to HYDRA and now Iron Man is a concern to me. There is no doubt at all that Captain America - Steve - is convalescing in this building. But Stark’s surveillance has no obvious weaknesses.
I will find one.
Page 27
Mission report 16th April 2014
Location: VA Medical Center, Washington Hospital Center Road
There is not much foot traffic outside the building at night, but lots of cover, close to the buildings. Observing flight patterns throughout the day allows me to pinpoint both a suitable point of entry and the likely location of Steve’s room. It is easy to enter once I’m familiar with the patterns.
Steve’s room is on the top floor, and guarded by a blonde S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. She seems as though she would be easy to take down, but I wait until she steps away.
For some reason I cannot bring myself to enter the room. I stand at the door until I hear the click of the agent’s heels returning, then retreat through egress.
My heart is still racing.
Reverse
I don’t understand why I couldn’t go in. I only needed a minute. I wanted to see him. I can’t see him. He can’t see me.
Мне было страшно. Мне никогда не было так страшно. I was so scared. I've never been so scared.
There’s something wrong with me. I remember how much looking into his face hurt, but this was different. Not because HYDRA demands that I don’t look. HYDRA is gone. This feeling is different. It’s humiliating, like failing a mission. Except the mission I’ve failed isn’t a mission. The mission is everything . The failure is inside me , like a knot in my chest.
I failed myself. I failed him. I failed something else.
Ты перестал сопротивляться. Как жаль. You stopped resisting. What a pity.
Day 28
Why couldn’t I go inside? He was just inside the room.
Steve.
I know it’s important. I should see him. He would want
I can’t. I can’t. I’m not designed for this. Why is HYDRA gone? I need order.
There is so much pain and my head hurts and I just want it to stop.
Please. Please.
Please make it stop. Make it stop .
I’m begging. I cry out. I want it to stop and it never does. It never seems to end, just goes on and on and on. I just want to rest.
Reverse
I am ashamed.
I can’t go back. I know I would not be able to make it any closer. I feel my heart racing again just thinking about putting my hand on the door. There is nothing I can say to him. I am not James Buchanan Barnes. I am the Winter Soldier. I am what HYDRA made me. What is there to say? I don’t even remember being that person.
It is hard to think. My head hurts and my heartbeat is too fast. I can’t breathe. It is hard to see. Through the pain, and the liquid. I am malfunctioning again.
I’m getting the pages wet.
(Tears on page, and on reverse page)
Page 29
Sitting between cars in the multi-level parking lot. I can hear Stark’s drones passing by, but I can’t move. There is just enough light to write.
I think this is a memory.
Cold, dark, damp. Afraid. Hungry. Hurting. Metal arm. New. Won’t heal. Keep trying to pull it off, claw it off. Fingers wet. Red. Smell of copper.
Wet eyes. Burning. Face burning. Soul burning. Nerves burning. Singed flesh. Stun batons. Electricity in my head. Steve is dead. Dead . I don’t know all the words. They’re in Russian. Only English sometimes. Steve is dead. Капитан Америка мертв. Ты плачешь?Captain America is dead. Are you crying?
It is a memory. I don’t want to remember this one. Not this one. Enough writing.
Reverse
Page 30
I let him into my head, now I can’t get him out. The words don’t work. HYDRA is gone and I’m alone. I can’t put things back the way they were. I can’t make it stop hurting, and there are so many flashes. Loud. Quiet. Itching. Painful. I feel fragments of emotions I don’t even have names for. I am not programmed for this.
I want my handler back. I need order. HYDRA’s order. Not this pain, their pain. The cold. The simplicity.
Я не могу так жить. Я никогда не жил раньше и не могу начать сейчас. I can't live like this. I've never lived before and I can't start now. I can’t live like this. I don’t even know how. Commander Rumlow would know what to do. If I knew where he was, if he survived, I know he would fix this.
Chapter 2: Pages 31-60
Chapter Text
Reverse
I have found another quiet place to spend the night. Another apartment, this one unfurnished. I don’t need furniture. If anything I find it a distraction. The morning is quiet. Warm. I think I will stay here a little.
I am tired of making decisions for myself. But I was wrong when I wrote that I needed my handler. Командир Commander means HYDRA. HYDRA is gone, but even if it wasn’t, I made my choice. I am no longer the fist of HYDRA. I will not be their weapon, nor anyone else’s.
No more Командир.Commander I am sorry. I hope that he isn’t dead. He was a good handler. Despite being an American. I still have his gun. I will keep it with me for now.
Page 31
Brock Rumlow gave me his gun while I prepared for my final mission. He asked me to use it to eliminate the target. Now I know that target was Steve. I believe his reasons were sentimental; some kind of glorious purpose. I am keeping the gun not because I intend to use it, but because it now represents something else to me.
I was trained to kill. When I don’t kill, that is a choice that I make. It is a choice which belongs to me. Let this gun be a memory aide. A reminder to me that killing is a choice. HYDRA is gone. I may still be a killer. That is done now. It can’t be undone. I may still be the Winter Soldier, and even that… I don’t know. But I don’t kill people. Not anymore.
No more.
Reverse
Clipping of Brooklyn Bridge from book, full page - Pedestrian walkway - Brooklyn Bridge
Page 32
I have decided to go to New York. I know that it is just a bridge. They make excellent vantage points overlooking bottlenecks, and clean, straight shots on a target. This one, with its towers, is particularly ideal, providing excellent sight lines in both directions.
I am trying to justify the journey. Into the unknown. Into enemy territory. When I am already a wanted man. Correct protocol is extraction, especially when New York is known to be a city with extensive surveillance coverage. It is home to the Iron Man, and other low level street vigilantes known to HYDRA that I have no intention of crossing paths with. I am not afraid of the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. I am certain I could overpower him. But why draw unnecessary attention?
There is one more place I wish to visit before leaving DC.
Reverse
Photo from Steve's Apartment (The Howling Commandos, Steve and Bucky, study a map)
Page 33
Self portrait of WS, April 18th 2014
Reverse
Mission report April 18th 2014
Location: 1630 Connecticut Avenue NW, Washington, District of Columbia
There is no knowing when Steve Rogers will be released from hospital. I could not enter his room on the night of the 16th, and another night has passed since, so it is possible that he has returned to his apartment. I observe from the opposite rooftop as before.
Entry is simple. There is police tape over the door and the lock is broken from forced entry. I use smoke to check for lasers. There are no pressure sensors on the floor. Apartment is likely still bugged from HYDRA and S.H.I.E.L.D. covert surveillance. I have not inspected my own reflection until now. I don’t know who this is. Or perhaps I didn’t realize how little like myself I felt until now.
Page 34
This place has a familiar smell. The olfactory response is unprecedented. It causes memory flashes which I cannot allow to overwhelm me at present. It is difficult to proceed.
Captain America keeps a number of vinyl records and photographs. There are books on his shelf documenting the 21st century. One of the photographs is similar to the images from the museum. I do not believe he will miss it.
I also take a flight jacket with warm brown lining from his closet. The outside is soft, and it smells like him, but more importantly it fits comfortably over my arms, which is more than I can say for the clothes belonging to the former HYDRA agent.
Reverse
I wanted to leave a note, but there is nothing to be said. I considered leaving a page of my journal on his bed, with only four words on it “Don’t look for me.” I already know it would be pointless. There is nothing I can say that will prevent Steve from pursuing me. If anything I suspect a note would only inspire him to look harder.
Only I know the real truth. Once he knows what I have done for HYDRA, he will not want to see me again. I don’t know why I am so certain of that, but it seems obviously true, just as it is obvious to me that Steve will be too stubborn to realize it before it consumes him.
I have left the apartment precisely as I found it, albeit missing one item of clothing and one photograph.
Page 35
Union station DC, postcard
Reverse
The currency I took from the restaurant amounts to eleven dollars and twenty one cents. After speaking with the ticketmaster, I was made aware that this was of insufficient value to secure passage to New York City.
This is not a concern. I will follow the railway tracks east and locate a suitable point to jump onto the moving vehicle. A train departs for New York every twenty minutes. It will be simple enough to sequence those departures and plan accordingly.
This will not be the first time I have jumped onto a moving train. Following a target or simply escaping pursuit has required this in the past, including a mission where the target was to be executed in a sleeper car on the Orient Express. But for some reason, this time I am apprehensive about the attempt.
Page 36
Apprehension was correct. I hesitated. I could not force myself to jump. Will make another attempt in 20 minutes.
Something is wrong with me. When I stepped out onto the edge of the bridge, all I could think about was falling. I have never fallen when jumping onto a moving vehicle before, and even if I did, a fall from this height would be trivial.
I am now writing this from the restroom on the third train. I feel afraid. There is a floor beneath my feet. I keep seeing it open before me like a gaping white mouth. I cannot go near the walls of the carriage. My heart is beating too fast. My head hurts.
It’s howling.
Reverse
There are three hours remaining of the journey to New York City, meaning the train will arrive just before three. That is too long. I cannot write. My hand is hard to keep steady.
In the hope that observing the civilians will distract me I have moved into the train car. It is crowded. They are distracted with their own occupations and don’t seem to notice my heavy breathing. Many are using their cellphones. I was unsettled when I first observed these behaviors, but the phones are used for rudimentary mental testing, observing surveillance tapes, or toning the muscles of the fingers.
I managed to sit. My heartbeat has mostly returned to normal, but I cannot wait to be off this train.
There are no children kicking the back of my seat.
Page 37
Maintenance report: 9th April 2014
Present for maintenance: Alexander Pierce, Brock Rumlow
Critical damage has been done to my prosthetic as a result of the male target’s shield. I have to endure physical repair by the technicians, which I allow only because they no longer attempt to brush my hair or cut it. Scissors can be used as weapons, and I cannot tolerate them near my eyes.
There is significant damage, both to motor servos and pneumatics, and the prosthetic nervous system to which the synthetic nerves in my arm are integrated with the rest of my nervous system. When the nerves fire I experience intense pain. This is normal. Discomfort in The Chair is also normal. Mental stimuli are incorrect. Snow . I have questions.
Reverse
I don’t remember what the questions are, only that I had them. My head hurts when I try to remember. This is the result of a field wipe in The Chair. There is nothing else. No details, only the maintenance report. I cannot feel, but I know I felt something . HYDRA removed it. Pierce did.
I was not performing optimally. I should have been retired from service upon discovery of that fact. I am not required to take all responsibility for mission failure. Handlers have been eliminated for mission failure previously. They are replaceable. I am not.
Оружие не несет ответственности за неумелость своего владельца. A weapon is not responsible for the incompetence of its owner. At least thinking about missions takes me away from this train car. The sensation of the train moving over the track is making me feel nauseous. I hate this.
Page 38
A lady asleep on the train.
Reverse
The flight jacket smells very good. I want to remember the things that I breathe from inside it, but they are only flashes. Trying to chase them leads nowhere. Light through the train window. Somehow it is making me drowsy.
Sunlight through a window. Warm. A wool blanket, scratchy on my cheek. A woman’s voice singing far away. Sunlight through glass marbles, the colors refracting on wooden floors. Small hands. Blue eyes. Sunlight through blonde hair, like a halo.
Sunlight through tan canvas. Vibrant green grass. A blonde man with his back to me, sitting on the mountainside. Cold air on my chest. Laughter. Steve’s laughter.
Page 39
I feel relief dismounting the train. Only putting my feet on the platform halts the continuing sense of nausea and unease. Grand Central Station is another familiar picture in my guidebook. I have been here before. I remember men in uniform. Women waving. We are all boarding the train and leaving them behind forever.
The station is a building site. Parts of it are inaccessible to the public, and an entire facade is in the process of being rebuilt. I shouldn’t be here, or rather, it feels like I wasn’t supposed to ever see this place again. My legs are still unsteady from the train, perhaps, which is why I sit writing this instead of leaving. I still feel afraid. I feel angry, too. There is another feeling I haven’t identified yet, and it is like there is a large emptiness inside me. If I name it, I think it will engulf me. It is the same feeling I get when I look at the photo from Steve’s apartment, and the same feeling I had in the museum.
Reverse
Picture of Grand Central Station
Page 40
I can already tell that stealing food will be more difficult here, however the smell from one of the vendors in the street is irresistible. I have enough currency to procure something called a ‘hot dog’, which I believe is made from the companion animal. There was a brief miscommunication after the trader asked if I wanted sauerkraut , at which point I switched to speaking to him in German, which he did not recognize.
The sauerkraut is excellent. If I can procure more currency I will eat more of it. Current intake of food does not seem sufficient to offset the caloric needs of my body. It seems likely that this is the reason for my difficulties attempting to leap onto the moving train, something which should have been easy. There is no other explanation.
The city is loud.
Reverse
It is possible to see the Stark Tower from here. It shares the block with Grand Central Station, and has been renamed Avengers Tower. My briefing on the Avengers was limited. They are all classified Lv 6; the highest level of classification. Steve and Agent Romanoff belong to this classification.
It is not safe to be so close to this building. The further away I get from it, the more comfortable I will be. I can feel a thousand eyes on me. Most of them surely belong to Stark in one way or another, which makes this area of the city the most unsafe. Once again I am reminded that coming here may have been a mistake, but I only wish to see a bridge and leave. That is all.
Page 41
I follow directions for the Empire State Building. I feel exposed traversing these streets, but not watched. There is so much activity. Cranes and scaffolding cling to the side of buildings. There was a great battle fought here, but I have not been briefed on it. I feel uncomfortable. Nobody is watching me. This is a city of 8 million people. It is easy to get lost here. But there is constant surveillance, thousands of sightlines, and limited cover.
I blend in with the tourists. There are packs of them moving together heading south-west. They speak Dutch, so I speak Dutch. There were tourists in DC, too. So many languages, and none yielding much information at all.
But these tourists are discussing something called The Battle of New York. They call it een buitenaardse invasiean alien invasion .
Reverse
HYDRA had limited access to intelligence regarding extraterrestrials and I was not briefed on any of it. Commander Rumlow would make jokes about it sometimes during training sessions, remarking on the mental capacity of his superiors by speaking contemptuously of their belief in “fictional” aliens.
But I am told this invasion happened a year ago, and the Commander’s comments predate it. Perhaps it is that he simply did not have adequate clearance. Whatever has done such significant damage to this city’s many structures cannot be said to be fictional in nature. There is damage from energy based weapons on many of the facades and even, on occasion, on the roadway itself.
The tourists point out only some of the damage themselves. In failing to acknowledge a majority of the damage, they reveal their poor observation skills.
Page 42
Clipping of Empire State Building
Reverse
It is just a building after all. I recognize it but there is nothing special, no feelings that it inspires within me, the way seeing the zeppelin tethered to it does. From ground level, it is even less special, difficult to perceive the depth of it from below. The trip to the roof requires currency, and I have none. There are security officers and metal detectors preventing easy entry from the street. There is also extensive surveillance. Although I am certain there is a way in, this pursuit is not in my interests.
The Dutch tourists enter the building without me and I head south. 5th avenue. I have walked this way before. I recognize the Flatiron building before I even see it. It comes to me as easily as breathing. I will take the left fork. It will take me down Broadway, across Union Square and through the Bowery, to Chinatown, then Two Bridges.
Page 43
I had to stop again. Here in Union Square there is a market. Fresh produce. It is busy. There are so many people, distracted stall holders. It is easy to hide food in my coat. Bread and fruit mostly. A small jar of amber semi-solid fluid called honey, which I have since tasted. The flavor is familiar. A sense memory, like the hot dog. It is strong and sweet. I like the plums, too. They were small enough to slip into my pocket without being noticed.
I will take a few more pieces of fruit while I am here. Most of the food in this city seems better guarded than it was in the capital, and most of the apartment buildings here are guarded and surveilled. The skyscrapers feel as though they loom over me, watching, but the further south I get, the more that sensation is relieved.
Reverse
I take 4th Avenue south. It is a one way street, which is pleasing and relieves some of my discomfort with being observed. There is an element of control. But the Bowery is not how I remember it. My memory offers visions of a looming suspended railway track, blotting out the sun, and men sleeping in rows along the street, thousands of them waiting for the bars to open again. There are still taverns and there is still poverty, but the oppressiveness of the route is all in its discoordination and clutter. Dirty buildings. Roadworks diverting pedestrians into the street to pass them. Crumbling facades and broken lights.
I did not stop to write this entry until reaching Manhattan Bridge. There are people sleeping in the gateway.
Page 44
Drawing of Manhattan Bridge facade
spirit of Industry
Manhattan Bridge
Triumphal Arch NYC
Reverse
I have memories of Steve here, soliciting for portraits. Sitting with him while he draws fancy ladies for half a buck each. I remember him clearly, perhaps because I am here . Breathing the same river air. Sitting on the same facade. The smell from vendors selling chinese food would make us hungry. Steve would buy us noodles or rice, or on cold days soup, perfect for warming hands which had turned blue. He was always so excited to be the one paying for us to eat for once, when it was usually the other way around.
I remember him more clearly now than I ever have. The newspapers in his shoes. When I pull the hood of his jacket around my ears it almost feels like I’m there. I can name this feeling now, but I don’t want to write it down. Writing it makes it real. It would hurt too much, and I am too vulnerable here.
Page 45
My first glimpse of the Brooklyn Bridge felt overwhelming. My face was wet again. I had to lean against the edge of a building and hold my breath until it stopped. My heart will not stop beating much too fast. If HYDRA was here they would put me in the ice and I would stop malfunctioning, but HYDRA is gone.
I don’t know if it is possible to cross the footbridge without permanently terminating my executive functions in the process. My body may cease its functioning. I will try.
Это не мой дом. Мне здесь не место. Я — Зимний Солдат. Я не должен был возвращаться. This is not my home. I don't belong here. I am the Winter Soldier. I shouldn't have come back.
I’M GOING TO FALL. HELP ME.
Reverse
I am never doing that ever again.
Heights have never been a concern before. Why are they causing me such issues now?
Ты неисправно функционируешь, Зимний Солдат. Тебе нужно немедленно встретиться со своими кураторами.You are malfunctioning, Winter Soldier. You need to see your handlers immediately.
No. Нет. Зимнего Солдата здесь нет. Уходите.No. The Winter Soldier is not here. Go away.
Get out of my head! Кто ты?Who are you? Enough! ГИДРЫ больше нет! Зимнего Солдата больше нет! HYDRA is gone! The Winter Soldier is gone!
This is my home. You took it away from me.
I won’t listen to you anymore.
I won’t go back.
Page 46
My name is James Buchanan Barnes.
My name is James Buchanan Barnes.
My name is James Buchanan Barnes.
My name is James Buchanan Barnes.
My name is James Buchanan Barnes.
My name is James Buchanan Barnes.
My name is James Buchanan Barnes.
My name is James Buchanan Barnes.
My name is James Buchanan Barnes.
My name is James Buchanan Barnes.
My name is James Bucky Barnes.
My name is James Buchanan Barnes.
My name is James Bucky Barnes.
My name is BUCKY. Bucky Bucky
My name is Bucky. My name is Bucky. My name is Bucky. My name is Bucky. My name is Bucky. My name is Bucky.
Джеймс Бьюкенен Барнс мертв. Ты — Зимний Солдат, и это все, чем ты когда-либо будешь. James Buchanan Barnes is dead. You are the Winter Soldier, and that is all you will ever be.
My name is James Buchanan Barnes.
Reverse
There is a girl. Dark hair. Sad eyes. She said she’d been looking for me, that she knew she’d find me here. Here? A private investigator. Who sent her? I told her that I wouldn’t go with her. She said she could make me.
If I wanted to. But who am I? Who sent her? I don’t want to be found.
Her hand is soft on my cheek, which is wet, so wet. I just don’t want to be found. I’ll leave. I was never here. Having your autonomy taken away sucks. Did she say that? Did I? It doesn’t sound like me, but who am I, really? James Buchanan Barnes? The Winter Soldier? She’s gone. Was she ever really here at all?
Be free. Go be free. Be free.
Page 47
Nowhere is safe.
The cars are loud and the sky is loud and the smells are loud. I can’t move my body. It isn’t food. I can’t eat. Writing isn’t safe. It’s in the words.
Я найду тебя, где бы ты ни пытался спрятаться. ГИДРА заберет эти воспоминания так же, как она забрала все остальное. I will find you, no matter where you try to hide. HYDRA will take these memories, just like they took everything else.
They’re my memories. You can’t have them. I have nothing left. I’ve lost everything. These pages are all I have.
They are everything. Mine. My own. Precious. I will never let anyone take them from me. If I do, then I am probably dead.
Reverse
I can’t do this on my own. I can feel the fear inside me. It holds my chest in its fist, makes it so hard to breathe. I am so alone and so afraid. I’m home but not home. I can never go home. I can never go back to HYDRA. I don’t belong here, either.
There is nothing for me anywhere. Nothing of me anywhere. This place disappeared like my memories did. It was swallowed up a century ago, just like I was. It can’t go back and neither can I.
Everything I’ve lost
Please. Пожалуйста, просто верните их. Они вам больше не нужны. Please just give them back. You don't need them anymore.
Page 48
I had to leave. I just had to walk and close my eyes most of the way, because if I remained in that place something would tear in half inside me. Every time I opened my eyes to mark my directions, Steve was there, and the Soldier is trying to kill him. I am the Soldier but I’m not. I can’t think about that right now. I walked.
I should have looked at the map. I am on the beach now and I can’t move. I can’t think. If I let myself think I see Steve everywhere and the Soldier wants to sink his teeth into it and rip it out of me because that is what HYDRA would do.
But if that is what the Soldier wants then who am I? Because all I want is
What do I want? To go back? To being empty so it doesn’t hurt? There is no way to take back everything HYDRA has stolen from me.
Reverse and page 49
The Soldier gets more quiet and lets me sleep. My missions have all been at night. My body has had enough. I have awoken to gentle stirring by a man with a grabby stick and a soft voice, very early in the morning. He was polite, but gave me a warning about territorial pigs who did not approve of people sleeping on the beach.
I am not certain pigs would present much of a challenge to me, but per his suggestion I have gone up to the promenade to watch the sun rise. Sand flies have bitten me but the irritation is already passing, and the marks will fade quickly.
I have watched the sun set from here but I have never watched it rise. Steve is so close I can smell him, feel him sitting on the bench beside me, his hand on my knee. I should have gone into the room.
The Soldier is quiet. I feel… How to describe this? Hollow. Like I am tired inside despite having physically rested. I am letting the memories wash over me. I can’t feel them. That’s probably for the best. I will try and write them down before they fade.
I don’t know why the Soldier is quiet, but it is a relief. I don’t even know when it stopped being me. His voice was my voice but now it isn’t? I don’t feel like myself, but I don’t know who James Buchanan Barnes is, either. Is that me? I thought if I wrote it down I could will it to be true. But I don’t know who I am. I have memories from before HYDRA, yet HYDRA made me believe that they created me.
Reverse
I have memories that belong to James Buchanan Barnes, but he is not me, because James Buchanan Barnes would remember his own memories and I do not. It is like seeing through someone else’s eyes. Sometimes there is a lurching feeling that goes with it. The laughter of children makes it louder. Someone runs along the beach and I see Steve chasing me, gasping for breath. I know I slow down so that he can catch up. He’s sick. His mother would be angry with me for letting him run.
I feel love for this small, sickly child. I love him when he’s small. I love him when he’s taller but still skinny, too embarrassed to talk to girls. I love him when he’s grown and too thin for his clothes, reading a newspaper on the bench beside me, smiling like the sun when he catches me looking at him. He draws me, sometimes. A lot of the time. His books are full of drawings of me.
Page 50
I love him, but I don’t even know what that word means. What is love? I have sat with that question for hours now, and I am not any close to knowing the answer. I wasn’t trained to know the answer. Is it Howard Stark asking me to help his wife? Is it the way Steve used to look at Peggy Carter in the video from the museum? Is it a book full of drawings of me? It feels like it’s all those things but that doesn’t make sense.
It feels like it’s intrinsically linked with loss. That is the emotion I have been feeling most lately. But every emotion is like a bullet being fired directly into my head. I have been shot before, often. Sometimes just to count how quickly I heal. This feels like that. I am trying to keep my distance from it now. I let it in and it made me into two separate individuals. Who knows what would happen if I allowed it to overwhelm me again?
Reverse
Three birds from the pier (ring billed gull, blue jay, northern cardinal)
Page 51
Welcome to New York
Home of the Avengers
(postcard)
I could get in easily. Climb to the very top and wait. Do you think one of the Avengers would find me first, or would HYDRA be waiting for me, even there?
Reverse
Avengers themed Coney Island prizes.
Drawing of Iron Man and Hulk plushies
Page 52
I ate my plums when I became hungry, and the rest of the bread and honey. People keep leaving half their meals and dropping them into the litter boxes near the concession stands. The waste disgusts me. It makes me think of Steve, though this time I’m not certain why.
I wait until sunset, then long after. It isn’t until very late that the boardwalk becomes quiet again. I have a long time to walk up and down; to remember riding on the Cyclone with Steve. He was timid. He didn’t want to do it. He threw up.
Again, when I think about it there’s a loud rushing in my ears, like a cold Siberian wind. But I’m not trying to remember the snow right now. I focus on the ocean until there’s hardly anyone left, then collect and eat as much food as I can.
Reverse
His mother’s name is Sarah. My mother’s name is
Why can’t I remember? I don’t want to leave here. I promised the girl I would. But I could stay on this boardwalk forever. Stay until I remember. Stay until the names and words and all of it comes back to me. Maybe then I could face Steve. Wouldn’t it be okay to stay?
The night is closing in again and the movement of the waves is so comforting. Steady swaying. In and out. Its rhythm is like the slow whir and whoosh of the cryostasis machinery. I’ve slept here before. On Steve’s shoulder.
There’s an arc of fire that sweeps across the city, glowing, sweeping along the river and heading north. The Iron Man. A reminder that I have stayed too long.
Page 53
The journey north will be hazardous, but precautions since 9/11 preclude any attempts to stow away on an aircraft departing from New York. I will head east instead and write when I finish walking, whenever that is.
I have followed larger and larger roads north, following the arteries of the city and movement of the largest vehicles. The trucks are all stopped in rows at my current location, obviously heading northbound. I have been inside the building to relieve myself and for the purposes of intelligence.
The drivers of the trucks eat here. Their food is large, and it smells good. After a full day of walking, I should like to eat some, but my currency is insufficient. There is some discomfort in my stomach.
Reverse
Newspaper clipping "Captain America leaves hospital, U.S. Congress demands answers"
"The nature of the injuries sustained last week by the "heroic" Captain America remain a mystery as he is today allowed to leave Washington DC VA Medical Center, his arm still visibly in a sling. Despite his stated requests for privacy and convalescence, seveal members of the U.S. Congress have already spoken openly of their desire for Steve Rogers to appear befoe the committee investigating and overseeing the dismantling of both S.H.I.E.L.D. and HYDRA."
"After Natasha Romanoff's outburst on the Congress floor just yesterday, a desire has arisen for the Captain to speak openly about his involvement in not only the destruction of government property, but also the role he plated in allowing secret organizations to undermine our democracy."
Written: Steve. I hope he's okay. I shot him, stabbed him. Hurt him. He almost drowned. It took a long time for him to recover. He should have been back on his feet days ago.
Page 54
I don’t know what to make of the current situation.
Upon attempting to mount the underside of one of the trucks, I was caught and interrogated. I do not desire to hurt civilians, and this civilian did not attempt to hurt me. He asked me where I was going. When I did not reply, he told me he was driving north and offered to allow me to ride in the cab beside him.
I think it must be a trap. He keeps looking at me and attempting to make conversation.
If necessary I will evacuate from the moving vehicle, but it is pleasant to no longer be walking. I should have commandeered a vehicle sooner. Our current destination is Ottawa.
Reverse
At current speed and in current weather conditions we will reach Ottawa in 6 hours and 42 minutes. I do not know if I can tolerate this stranger for that long.
I am considering restraining him and placing him in the back of the vehicle.
The driver has turned on a civilian radio station. The people talking are discussing President Matthew Ellis and his response to the recent revelations about HYDRA and S.H.I.E.L.D. This is the first intelligence I have heard since the fall of HYDRA, and it is invaluable. The Black Widow, Natasha Romanoff, has leaked all of HYDRA’s intelligence on the internet. That seems foolish.
Page 55
I don’t know how, or when I closed my eyes. The movement of the vehicle was too pacifying, and the voices on the radio were monotonous. I felt ashamed of myself when I woke. The driver tells me that he chose not to wake me. That makes me feel angry again, and I do not know why. I should have restrained him and driven the vehicle myself.
HYDRA would have punished me for such a transgression. Sleeping at all, nevermind in the presence of a civilian with unknown intentions. I do not know this man beyond the fact that he calls himself Brady. I don’t know my name, so I cannot tell him what it is.
I am still in one piece, at least. He has given me food. It is wrapped in its original packaging. Perhaps it’s not poisoned, however I am not comfortable eating it in Brady’s presence, just in case.
Reverse
The food was very good. It sticks on my teeth and melts on my tongue the way ice does but warm and better. I ate it on a bench near the Canadian border. Crossing the border will have to be done at night and it is currently only three in the afternoon. It is extensively guarded, but only by civilian law enforcement. I will head east and cross the St Lawrence river under cover of darkness.
HYDRA trained me to swim underwater for three minutes at a time. The cold conditions and strong current will not increase the difficulty substantially. What I am concerned about is ensuring this journal survives the journey. And the jacket. If it gets wet, it will no longer smell of Steve. I will procure a small, buoyant object and stow both inside, tethering it to my waist by string. Neither will be difficult to locate.
Page 56
It was warm in the truck. I think it has softened my resilience to be so warm. I feel more cold now than I ever have before, and I do not like it.
I did not stop walking after crossing the border until I reached Ottawa. My feet were wet, and I still smelled like the river, so I took clothes from inside a clothes recycling box that I found along the way. The lock was very easy to break, and the clothes inside smell and look normal, albeit worn, and missing buttons.
Steve’s jacket still smells like Steve and I am pleased to report that my journal survived the trip as well.
Who am I writing this for? Not HYDRA. For myself, then? I don’t have to report missions to anyone, not anymore. But every day was a mission before.
Reverse
Now I am the one who gets to decide the missions. I do not want to stop writing. I’m afraid I will forget. I do not want anyone else to take my journal, or read it, but I am compelled to write whenever I stop moving.
It feels familiar to write the way Steve feels familiar. I know there is a memory there, but I cannot recall it.
I have walked all the way into the city, but from here, I’m uncertain how to proceed. I could go further north. I want to. There is such a strong craving to keep walking up and up and up and let the snow swallow me. Walk across the top of the world. But I am aware that my body requires things that the wilderness cannot offer.
Page 57
Hydra
HYDRA did not fashion me with wilderness survival skills. There was no need to do so. I was well taken care of. Never supposed to be out of sight of a handler, and never supposed to survive in the wild. The Soldier is not trained for it. Even my original desire to go back into the ice seems to be slipping away from me. I want to be warm and I want to hide. The Soldier seems content with this solution. If we cannot reunite with HYDRA, nor safely surrender to Steve, then it would be best to never ever be found again. So that is what I will do.
I walked through Pearson International Airport. There are frequent Air France departures to Paris. It is not ideal, but it will do.
Reverse
I had to move quickly to get on the plane, or else I would have to have waited until tomorrow. Perhaps I should have eaten again, first. I climb into the cargo hold. This would be too dangerous a thing to attempt for a civilian. First, I hide. I wait. For me, this is easy. The plane will fly over arctic waters because it is the most efficient trajectory. This is not a concern for me either.
I have been cold. I have been high. Even partially frozen in the dark, this is not a novelty. I will strap my journal to my body to ensure I do not lose it. There is nothing to do but wait and meditate and embrace the cold. When the cargo doors close, I will not be able to see to write.
Page 58
This is Paris.
It is not difficult to move when partially frozen. I leave the plane when the first luggage train departs, and climb into the wheel carriage. The plane taxis to a refueling point where there is more cover, and I move with purpose from the plane to the buildings. There is no need to enter through any of the doors; there are access points for staff but everyone who works on this side of the checkpoint goes through security.
Not me. Architecture that prevents access for others is not a concern for the Winter Soldier. A super soldier. That is what I am. Was. Am. More than human. A weapon. But what a relief to be in Europe. From outside Charles de Gaulle airport I can reflect that there are no more militarized borders to cross. Europe is not borderless, but it may as well be.
Reverse
Postcard, Greetings from France, Paris
Written: I wonder if I would have liked coming to Europe for other reasons. No war. No missions. What a joke.
Page 59
Once I am finished walking I intend to finish my final mission report. I am untethered. Without direction.
I have performed missions in Paris before. Charles de Gaulle airport is not in Paris, it is to the north east. From here, it would be easy to head north, toward the coast, or east, toward the border. After days in some of the largest cities in North America I crave the quiet. Sitting beneath the flight path of low flying airplanes, I can think of nothing worse than another city.
I am distantly aware that Paris is the city of love. It was not the city of love the last time I was there. I assassinated a French parliamentarian, accompanied by her two children. HYDRA has never worried particularly about collateral damage.
Reverse
It is a nice day. Evening already, because of the change in time zones. It is dark by the time I reach Compiègne, but here in the countryside already the light pollution from Paris is not so bad. Je peux revoir les étoiles. I can once again see the stars.
Last time I was in France
No, not the last time. The last time James Buchanan Barnes was in France, he marveled at the stars. We would lay in the grass and look up at them, without canvas even when the nights were growing colder, often behind enemy lines. Steve and I did not grow up with stars in the city. I remember them from visiting my father and sister in the countryside, out in the State of Indiana.
I had a sister. Rebecca. Rebecca was my sister.
Page 60
It has been so long that everyone I knew must surely be dead. I had accepted that my parents would be, even though I cannot remember them at all. Rebecca would be almost ninety-five, if she is alive at all. I remember her being slightly younger than me, but not that much. It seems unlikely.
I wonder if she had a family. Obviously I did not. Would I have had a family, if HYDRA hadn’t stolen my life, turned me into something else? Would I have had a wife? Children? Grandchildren? I suppose it’s impossible to know. Just as it is impossible to know what became of Rebecca. If I had access to a computer, or the assistance of Commander Rumlow, perhaps I could find her.
I hope she lived well.
Chapter 3: Pages 61-90
Chapter Text
Reverse
It is strange to me that only now, on the other side of the Atlantic, I have considered the possibility of using a computer to provide insight into my memories. I have been surviving, running , for more than a week now, pushed by the Soldier, pushed by my own fear. Steve is half a world away. If I find the answers now, it is too late.
But I feel safe. The fear inside me is quieter. Sitting under a street light on a quiet, empty street where there are no eyes watching, where nobody knows me, where nobody expects the Winter Soldier to be, I can instead be no one. I can hide even from myself, here, if that is what I want.
It is a quiet relief. From now on I can take my time. Take as long as I need.
Page 61
A cat in Compiegne.
Cuddly. Soft paws. Big meow. He is friendly and does not mind that I do not have food for him.
Reverse
Compiègne is where two treaties of France were signed. The first one, signed by Foch, Wemyss and four German signatories led by Erzberger, put an end to hostilities on the Western Front ahead of the Treaty of Versailles. It was signed in the Glade of the Armistice, in a train carriage.
The armistice negotiated for the Germans was so terrible that the Nazi party were able to propagandize it in the face of poverty, famine and hopelessness, declaring that the German army had been “stabbed in the back”. Erzberger was assassinated for his part in it. Foch’s train carriage was later recalled to the same spot by Hitler to symbolically represent the absolute, spiritual defeat of the French people, and Compiègne became the site of an internment camp, from which the very first convoy departed to Auschwitz.
Page 62
I do not remember any of this. Instead, I am spending the night in the Camp de Royallieu, which is now, as with many things here in France, a monument to the long dead. I find myself most comfortable among their company. In many ways I died with them, just as in many ways I did not.
At least they are quiet. They do not judge me. They will allow me to sleep beside them until the morning, at which point I will return to the forest. I do not wish to disrupt any part of this place.
It is eerie to see the world hold on so tightly to a war that, for me, feels as though it happened only yesterday. All this space, occupied forever by death, while the world keeps moving around it like water around a rock. A Holocaust. Millions and millions dead. Why? For what?
Reverse
My memories of the war are intense, and often unpleasant. My memories of the politics of it are even more clouded, and my capture by HYDRA, most of all, evades my thoughts. I know there is a time before HYDRA and a time after. I am aware of an interim period, where the distortion of my memories is at its worst. But really, the fact that I know there is a time before HYDRA at all is already, by itself, a novelty.
There was only HYDRA. When I was the Winter Soldier that is all there was. I was not born, I was made. I had no family. I did not know what the word meant. I did not know what so many things meant. I can put words now to feelings that the Soldier had: fear, confusion, frustration, that were inherent to the motivation behind my actions. There was no value in naming them, then.
Page 63
What is the purpose in naming them now? I feel so distant from any of those feelings; from people in general, in fact. They are soft, fragile. Not even worth considering as targets. Most of them would die if I simply pushed them too hard.
There are words I don’t know for the things I don’t understand. Trying to recall them is as difficult as trying to remember the faces of my family. It doesn’t hurt my head as much as it did before, but maybe that’s because I can’t remember anything even when I try. What was it I wrote before? The ghosts here don’t judge me. Am I afraid of being judged? And for what? For killing? I followed orders. Here, at last, I think I have it. Audacity–is that the word that I’m looking for?
Reverse
Guilt.
Regret.
Shame.
Absolution.
Resignment.
Horror.
Готов подчиняться. Ready to comply.
I drifted in and out of sleep last night. The words came to me every time my eyes closed, words I had been looking for before. I think I saw Becca’s face, but I can’t imagine it now. I will look at these words again another time. I know they mean something, but I am hungry, and I don’t know how to find food here.
Needing food is exhausting. It happens so often that it feels that I have time for nothing else. No wonder HYDRA fed me with a tube.
Page 64
Drawing of a roe deer (chevreuil), foret de Compiegne.
Reverse
I am at home in the woods. Still hungry. It’s Spring. Even if I was trained for survival, I wouldn’t know what to eat. James Buchanan Barnes was probably aware of far more than I, but I am not James Buchanan Barnes. I know he collected mushrooms, nuts, apples and blackberries. I have a sense, moving through the forest, that my eyes are trained to hunt for them. But shoots and flowers are not fruits and fungi.
I have a memory of bartering with local people in German, Italian and French. Apart from the ticket seller in the train station, the trucker who did not wake me, the girl and the Dutch tourists, I have not approached civilians at all. I was never supposed to be seen, and that is true now more than ever, but I may have no choice.
Page 65
Water at least is not an issue. There are fountains and public toilets in every town square. Every village has at least one memorial, naming the honored dead from the two world wars. There is always a religious monument as well, some simply crosses and others inset with painted statues of the Virgin Mary.
Running water allows me, at least, to wash off the smell of the river still on my skin and in my hair. A shower would be better, but I feel much improved. My prosthetic still needs to be thoroughly serviced, but I don’t have access to any suitable tools. I have cleaned as much debris as I can away and rinsed water through the plates, but I have never gone this long in the field without technicians examining it. For now I have recovered as much of the functionality as I can.
Reverse
I have been walking for some time now. Mostly it is large spaces of countryside, long roads marked occasionally by clusters of houses. I head east following the Aisne. There is so much flat land between here and Germany. Where there are hills the ground undulates like the surface of a calm ocean. War has left its marks here. The roads are often straight, perhaps a gift of Roman occupation.
The roads of America are often straight, too, but wider, harsher. I will never go back. That is where Steve is. Perhaps I shall never see it again. Loss again. I am becoming accustomed to this emotion, and I don’t like it. It is encompassing, suffocating. It makes my knees feel weak. But perhaps that is just hunger. The hunger is gnawing at me now. It’s time for another mission.
Page 66
Mission report 20th April 2014
Target: Sustenance.
Location: Villeneuve-sur-Aisne, 20km north of Reims, France.
The bank of the River Aisne provides good concealment from the nearby houses. There are walls between the footpath along the river and the homes. I choose a house without a car in the driveway, but signs of one coming and going, gravel on the pavement. An open window on the third story allows access.
There is nobody home. It is three in the afternoon. Assuming the homeowners will work until at least 5 in the evening, I take the opportunity to bathe quickly. It is good to wash the smell of the river off, and shower the last of the dirt from between the plates of my arm.
Reverse
Always listening for the return of a car, and with the route to the third story window clear, I go to the kitchen. There is another cat here. It is hungry, meowing by its empty bowl, so I feed it to keep it quiet. I remember feeding cats to keep them quiet before. Steve was ill, and trying to sleep. Their screaming was keeping him awake.
There is a surfeit of food in the refrigerator, and more boxes of sweet things (not circles) in the cupboard. Thick plastic carrier bags are folded on top of the refrigerator. I take more food this time than before, and a pair of leather gloves from near the door. There is a sensation of guilt that I ignore, though it gnaws at me more at time of writing, however it is impossible to pretend that I am not grateful to feel somehow full for the first time since the fall of HYDRA. It is a new sensation. One that is surprisingly pleasing.
Page 67
Drawing of boat hidden beneath fallen trees and debris. Written: A respite. Quiet.
Reverse
I have found a small boat anchored in a cluster of trees on the riverside, covered in leaves from at least two winters, with a large bough pinning it into the mud. The hull has 7 inches of water weighing the boat down at an angle. The inside of the cabin is dusty and smells of sun bleaching, but is watertight. Scattered papers are stuck in places on the floor, the writing faded from them, illegible. Lost, unloved writing, forgotten pages.
It is a good place to sleep. I know I will not be disturbed here. Nothing has disturbed this place for some time now. Like Compiègne. Preserved. A place the world had use for once, but which it has forgotten about.
Page 68
I long for that. To be forgotten about and never found. To no longer be used. Every time I woke there was another kill, another battle, more bloodshed and death, but I am so tired of fighting. The war they fought here is forgotten now, but war feels like it is all I’ve ever known or will know. I can’t ignore the scars it leaves behind the same way the civilians pass them without noticing. My sense of self preservation is attuned to them. I am a soldier. It is a part of every cell in my body. Survival.
In the forest I look at the footfalls of children and horses, used for leisure now, and there is a prickling sensation in the back of my neck, a tension through my entire body. I know these signs only as the signs of an enemy soldier, a target, a threat. It is a constant heightened state.
Reverse
I want to hide in a small, enclosed box, the walls so close I can touch them in every direction, the exits and entrances always observable, without being observed. Is that too much to ask?
I want to bury myself underneath the earth and never be found again.
Perhaps I should have walked north until I found the ice. I could have slept in the ice the way Steve did, and perhaps unlike Steve, I might never be found. I could sleep forever. That would be a relief. I am tired of walking, and I was never this afraid of anything (except The Chair) until Steve told me my name. I don’t like feeling this way. It is exhausting, and it feels as though it will never end.
Page 69
Steve used to draw. I wrote about that before. He would draw and I would write. Here in France, and behind enemy lines on missions. It was his way of passing the time when he was anxious or sad or didn’t know what else to do. When we were young he would draw me often. He would draw strangers, too. Some for money. People in motion and people sitting still. I paid for figure drawing classes for him, because he would complain that he couldn’t draw the female body as well as he could draw the male form. Draw me. But because he was shy, I had to attend them with him to make him go.
I suppose that’s why I know how to draw, too. I pulled it from somewhere deep in the maze of my memories. But I’m very rusty. It is not a skill that HYDRA nurtured. Art requires a soul, doesn’t it? And I know that my body is only an empty shell. If there was ever anything in there, it perished under HYDRA.
Reverse
I think I do know when my soul died. Or when I lost it, anyway.
It was night. There were other men around me; we’re dressed in fatigues. Not the beautiful uniform I wore with the shining buttons and the soft hat. My hat is with my things, back at camp. I don’t know if I’ll ever wear it again. We have been trained for this, but it’s still terrifying when the enemy come into view through the scope of my rifle. My hands shake as I take the shot. It misses. So does the next one. The man beside me suddenly is missing half his face. He gags on blood and slides into the dirt. The man I failed to kill is reloading after killing the rifleman beside me.
I don’t miss my next shot. It is my first kill. I am James Buchanan Barnes, not the Winter Soldier. I watch him claw at his throat as blood pours from it and from his mouth. This memory is vivid. Loud.
Page 70
There are so many things I’m still struggling to understand. Rereading over the old memories I’ve written so far, it’s so very clear to me how different the life I had before HYDRA was. I didn’t even know that life existed, but the memories are intense. Emotional. I can’t see the memories again, even though I have them, even though I’ve written them down so I know they must be in my head. It’s as though they are shaken to the surface and then, the moment I stop shaking, the weight of them carries them back to the bottom.
The same thing happens with the memories I have at night, when my eyes close. At first, I think the sheer exhaustion of decades without true sleep kept my mind quiet when I closed my eyes. But now? Night time is restless, and frightening.
My hands don’t shake when I fire my rifle. But they did in the memory? Why?
Reverse
Drawing of swans in the water
Page 71
...aber ich dachte nur an Dein Gewehr, Dein Bajonett, die Handgranaten. Wenn wir das alles wegwerfen würden, könnten wir Brüder sein, aber sie wollen nicht, dass wir das erkennen ... und so handeln. Wir dürfen die Wahrheit nicht erfahren, wir haben alle Mütter, Väter, die gleiche Angst vor dem Tod, den gleichen Schmerz. Es gibt keinen Unterschied, es ist unmenschlich, vergib mir Kamerad. ...but I was only thinking about your rifle, your bayonet, the hand grenades. If we threw all that away, we could be brothers, but they don't want us to realize that... and act like that. We are not allowed to know the truth, we all have mothers, fathers, the same fear of death, the same pain. There is no difference, it is inhuman, forgive me comrade.
Where is this from? Did someone cast a spell and put these words in my head? Did HYDRA? For me to recall it with such accuracy–and yet, all my memories feel this way, as though placed there whole and waiting by someone else.
Reverse
I could stay here on this boat and think about it all day. There is no pressing need to keep walking. A boat isn’t a safehouse, and it is dusty and unstable. There is no food except what I have left in the bag. But it is quiet and nobody is demanding anything of me or hunting me or surveilling me or giving me orders.
Guilt. Shame. Regret. For what? Failing to prevent the death of another soldier? Not a concern for me. HYDRA never prioritized such a thing. For killing an enemy? That does not make sense either. For killing ?
I think I
No. No, I think I understand. Killing?
But that wasn’t
I didn’t. I had to. I had to. That was my mission. It was a war and then
Page 72
All those people? All those targets? All those missions. Presidents. I shot presidents . I killed children. Mothers. Fathers. I killed people for HYDRA and that’s
Not what I ever wanted to do. Not what I would have done. Not right . Evil. Evil? My mother would be ashamed. Steve would
I had to stop writing for a while. My hand was malfun shaking. I think I’ve written enough for today. I don’t like it here in the boat any longer. My survival instincts are offering suggestions I know are wrong. I don’t want to go back to the ice. I don’t want to turn myself in–they would only use me as well. I don’t want to die. But all these thoughts occur to me anyway. As though I deserve punishment. I don’t like it.
Reverse
I didn’t
I didn’t do those things. But I did those things. Those were my orders. I had to, but it’s not like I didn’t want to. Nor did I want to. That was the mission, and I was ready to comply. I just don’t understand why it’s only now I’m feeling like this, but I don’t even thoroughly understand what like this is, so how could I?
And now the mission reports feel like
It’s worse than the worst memories. It makes my hands shake. My eyes are wet. My skin is damp with sweat. I have never felt like this before.
I don’t know what to do. It was my hands on the gun. On the knife. On their throats. What do I do with this feeling?
Page 73
My feet weigh twice as much as I remember. I know this is a hallucination, something which is impossible, but walking has been a burden since I left the boat. There is not a line or a crossing guard on the border between France and Germany, patrolling to keep people out. It is even less delineated between France and Belgium. The quality of the road changes, but that is all. It took three months from the Allied forces landing in Normandy for us to have liberated most of Belgium.
There were American divisions stationed all throughout this area. I have walked north, as far as Bastogne. Further east is the Siegfried Line, of course, but here there is a memorial to the American troops who died here, in particular during the Battle of the Bulge. The names of American states circle the memorial, and the names of soldiers are inscribed here. Many, many names.
Reverse
101st Airborne Museum postcard of medic's tent. Written: The reenactments are jarring. Disturbing. I can tell from the postcards that it would be too overwhelming to stand amongst them.
Page 74
Mardasson memorial/Bastogne museum; pamphlet. Written: The monument is in the shape of a star.
Reverse
I don’t want to walk east. There is a sensation of peril with every step I take, not because I’ve walked this way, specifically, before, but because of that invisible line that I sense between east and west; between captured territory and a place of safety. It’s all silly, of course. It is all swarming with tourists now. Americans reading the names of their countrymen as if simply reading out loud the names of the dead is of any benefit to them.
Those men died afraid. Bleeding. Far from home. Some were here because they wanted to be and others didn’t have a choice. In the sunshine this place doesn’t even resemble a mortuary. It is a henge. A monument. It doesn’t depict the horrors that flash behind my eyelids when I close them. How could it? It doesn’t remedy the hopelessness and homesickness that those dying boys felt.
Page 75
I didn’t ask to die here either. I was conscripted. I remember a piece of paper, balling it into my fist, shaking. Knowing that this letter signed my life away in a faraway place. I know that, even though in the memory the paper in my hand is already crushed.
I remember lying. So many lies after that. So much more honorable to claim to have volunteered. Stolen valor. What does it matter? We all die the same.
But I die a thousand times over. I am still dying, now. James Buchanan Barnes, the man from the statue in Arlington, the man from the museum, dies every time I remember what I have become; what HYDRA molded me into. I take his memories and crush them in my hand over and over again.
Reverse
I have eaten the last of my food. Somewhere between here and the Siegfried Line I will have to find food again. No need to write for long this time. The words make me tired. Angry. Sad. I have too much walking ahead of me. I don’t know where I’m going, I only know east. North east. One foot after another.
*
On the outskirts of Malmedy, 40km south of Aix La Chapelle (Aachen), I take food from another house. This can hardly be called a mission. The door is simply unlocked. There is no need to break in, the door opens when I turn the handle, and so I enter and take what I need. I am familiar with how trusting people can be. I feel grief in that knowledge. That is all I feel now. It makes the food tasteless.
Page 76
I have sat to write on the shore of a lake. The last place I stopped was too much. It is called Ordensburg Vogelsang, and it is preserved in full as a lesson to the future; one of the places where Hitler groomed his future leaders. It brought the sickly reservations I have already been feeling firmly into focus. It is inescapable now, how the horrors that we endured are a whimsical warning now for those who play with history as though it is a shiny toy, not something that was lived through.
There are bicycle routes following the paths soldiers marched, dodging artillery shells. Walking tours of beaches men bled to climb. The muddy pits we hid in, burrowing into the ground to avoid becoming an easy target for snipers, are reproduced in well lit, dry museums, wearing the very clothes of the long dead. If all of this is a warning–then why didn’t you listen?
Reverse
It is gruesome ventriloquism. I know its purpose, of course. I understand why these things are here, that it warns the future not to repeat the errors of the past, but how can it not make me feel sick to my stomach? This clean, bloodless parody. The intentions are so good. So good . But how can I endure it, who should not be here to see it? I don’t want to see it. The memories it triggers are not good , and how can I look into the faces of those who smile and wave at me as they cycle past, old enough to have lived a full lifetime entirely in the decades that I have been frozen in ice, reliving horrors, never stopping, always at war.
Old faces. Wrinkles. Smiling. They have never seen death rain from the sky. I died for them. That’s the repeated moral. Is that supposed to make me feel better? Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori.
Page 77
Maybe if I had died. No. That would be awful still. But I didn’t die, did I? I was captured. I surrendered everything I was to an organization that was supposed to be the enemy. I became them, because of some grim joke. Some hilarious gaff at my expense. The American. Turned into a mannequin; a dummy; a puppet . Strings pulled. Killing my own friends.
My own friends. Howard. Steve.
It is all so much worse and I can’t stand it. Who I was before all of this; another man. A kind man, maybe. A man who could ride a bicycle and smile. Before any of this was even here–and yet here it stands, like a tombstone, and I am as much a spectator to my own grave as I am the ghost haunting it.
Reverse
When you see millions of the mouthless dead
Across your dreams in pale battalions go,
Say not soft things as other men have said,
That you’ll remember. For you need not so.
Give them not praise. For, deaf, how should they know
It is not curses heaped on each gashed head?
Nor tears. Their blind eyes see not your tears flow.
Nor honour. It is easy to be dead.
Say only this, ‘They are dead.’ Then add thereto,
‘Yet many a better one has died before.’
Then, scanning all the o’ercrowded mass, should you
Perceive one face that you loved heretofore,
It is a spook. None wears the face you knew.
Great death has made all his for evermore.
Page 78
I tried walking with my eyes closed for a while, but what good would that do? There are scars carved all the way across this continent and I can’t escape them. If I’d had any sense I would have stayed in the U.S. Surely there are still places a man can get lost, on the plains or in the mountains, where modern war hasn’t touched.
I didn’t realize what would happen when I came here. In the forests, for the most part, the panic and disgust fade. The trees are quiet. They are unmotivated to cause harm, even by accident. I could live in the trees forever if not for the needs of my body. I would not prefer it to a small room. The trees offer little cover. No early warning system. No escape routes. I crave that small, safe room.
Reverse
Drawing from the forest. Written: Kotterforst - The Whispering Wood
Page 79
I sleep on the forest floor under the stars. They are beautiful here, and the night was cloudless. It is late April. I remembered another time where I lay under the stars, watching the meteors fall. The Lyrids. The memory came to me just before I saw a shooting star, and as I watched the sky I saw dozens more falling. If Steve had been there, we would have pointed them out to each other, our heads touching, making silly wishes about D rations.
Chocolate. That’s the flavor I’ve been craving. I had some. The gift from the man in the truck. Thinking about it made me think of Steve.
Steve, who would give me his ration and pretend he didn’t need it. For pencils. Pencils I would trade for with my cigarettes, so that he never ran out.
Reverse
Drawing of himself as the Winter Soldier from memory
Page 80
My memory feels better somehow. I’m able to discern between who I am now (not Bucky) and who I have been and still cannot stop being (The Winter Soldier). Instinct. That is the Soldier’s. Guilt. That is Not Bucky’s. The memories belong to Bucky. Maybe one day I will have them all and be closer to Bucky. It’s possible.
But until then the Winter Soldier’s memories are clear as polished crystal. The Winter Soldier’s instincts are how I react first. To everything. A bird startling in the woods. A security camera. Someone looking at me for a moment too long. How can I deny that I am the Winter Soldier when I act for him? When I have the Winter Soldier’s eyes and the Winter Soldier’s ears and the Winter Soldier’s fists? When I still carry my handler’s gun? When I still think of Commander Rumlow as my handler at all?
Reverse
I have decided to sit in this glade and finish my mission report. My final mission. This place is called Waldville, and it is only a few clicks from Bonn, where I intend to cross the Rhine. Just north of here is Köln. In 1973 I killed a man there. An accountant who did not pose any particular physical threat. Nonetheless I have no intention of revisiting the site of any previous mission, not even in passing. I do not wish to stir old memories of that sort. And thus, there are a number of European cities where I will not step foot.
I still do not know where I’m going. North? East? Continuing this trajectory would take me to Berlin, then Warsaw, Minsk. Moscow? Yes, of course. It makes sense, now. I’m like a homing pigeon, flying back to the nest. I can’t believe it’s taken me this long to realize it. Was my - the Soldier’s - plan, really to walk all the way to Russia?
Page 81
Mission report: April 10th 2014
Location: Triskelion sub-floor, Washington DC
The helicarriers have launched. They are opening fire. I can feel the percussion through the air from steel, ringing overheard, rattling the ground itself. So familiar, like wheels over sleepers. A thunder. Screaming.
No. Before then. Do it one more time. One more time. So afraid. So, so afraid. Thump thump. Scream. Thump thump. Scream. Screaming and falling.
Who am I? Wires burning. Nerves burning. BuckyBuckyBucky. Mustn’t remember. Can’t remember. Must. Have to. Lying. The man on the bridge. Can’t take it from me. Afraid.
Reverse
I was kept from the ice too long. I am still not functioning correctly. There’s been a wipe and I remember nothing. BuckyBuckyBucky. But I am aware that I am dying. Somehow? I know what this means now. I remember Secretary Pierce’s words. My work has been a gift to mankind. A gift. How was it a gift? But there is a finality to those words. Like a pat on the head, the last words spoken into the ear of an animal before putting it down. This was my last mission, and somehow I understood that.
Success or failure hardly mattered. It was my last mission. I am broken. I know I am broken. Defective.
I intercept air support attempts, disabling quinjets. I only need one to access the target helicarrier’s flight deck.
Page 82
Engaging primary target, I attempt to eliminate them quickly. An extended engagement is not recommended. At the very least, it is necessary to separate the target from backup. This is performed efficiently, with a single kick, before engaging non-mission, air capable target. Removing air capability is a priority. After evading a defensive volley, I engage with a grappling cable. The mounting of the wing is not strong enough to prevent detachment. After that, a single kick dispatches my opponent.
It is my duty to prevent disruption of helicarrier systems, and eliminate primary, priority target. I know no other mission.
I am operating effectively but there is an underlying frustration. A headache from treatment in The Chair. I have been out of the ice for too long.
Reverse
I engage primary target again. Or… I cannot. I wait. I’m not sure what I’m waiting for. If I stand here, and the helicarriers complete their launch, then do I have to engage? Perhaps I’m waiting for that. The target engages with his shield, telegraphing the attack. He catches it when I deflect it, preventing counterattack, and I compensate. The shield does not adequately protect his body, and his armor is
Why is he not wearing any armor?
He strikes me with the shield, a blow which knocks me back and disarms me, so I switch to a knife, my preference for hand to hand combat. After an initial attack for which I am firmly rebuffed, I attack again only to be disarmed once more.
I have shot him. I don’t understand why shooting him hurt me.
Page 83
The shield hurts when I land a blow on it with all my strength. I don’t… I was angry. Frustrated. Afraid. Every attack rebuffed, allowing the target to continue his intervention. I use my strength to knock him from the platform, throwing us both to the array below, removing the shield from combat.
We once more engage in hand to hand combat. The surface is slippery and angled. I can’t use the full force of my blows, and the target presses his advantage and knocks me to the support structure beneath the array. I can see now that he is in pursuit of a security chip; so focused on it that he pays no attention to me as I engage him with his own discarded shield. This allows him the opportunity to defend himself when I once more engage with my gun; an unplanned and egregious mistake.
Reverse
This time when he throws the shield I strike it away from him. I engage with another knife, allow him to catch it, and plunge the blade into his shoulder. A blow to the head. I reach for the chip. It is my intention to crush it, but he lifts me by the throat and plunges me to the floor. As I attempt to crush the chip, he applies increased pressure to my shoulder, dislocating the limb.
The target neutralizes my prosthetic arm, then places me in a sleeperhold, something I have trained for extensively.
I quickly reopen my eyes to the sound of his retreating steps, recover my gun, and fire upon him as he exposes himself to direct line of sight.
Foolish. Stubborn. Frustrating. A sense of deja-vu.
Page 84
No armor. I’m delirious from the pain and I don’t understand. Why isn’t he wearing armor?
The helicarriers begin to fire upon each other. It is like
Artillery. Bombardment. Missiles falling from the sky. Metal screaming, twisting. Fire. Terror. I am pinned under metal debris, the world burning around me, the sensation of falling and I can’t move. The target is coming to me. To eliminate me? No. He lifts the debris and frees me from beneath it. Frees me to…
I will kill him. I have to. The helicarriers are falling and it is my fault. HYDRA is falling and it is my fault. I did this.
Falling falling falling. I’m terrified.
Reverse
This time when he engages there is no weapon. Only words. They are worse than knives. The uniform. It’s familiar. But I can’t… I can’t go back into the Chair. He’s wounded.
I am afraid. So, so afraid. He calls me Bucky. I hit him. He calls me James Buchanan Barnes. I hit him. He takes off his cowl, drops his shield. I hit him.
He is my mission. My mission . Моя цель. My mission. Моя цель. My mission. My mission. He is always my mission. He has always been my mission. This face, this man. No armor. Dropping his shield. Idiot. Blonde hair and blue eyes, always the last target, always waiting at the end of the line. Always waiting for me. Always. Since the beginning. Steve.
Steve. Steve.
Page 85
Я не могу достичь своей последней цели. Цель: провалена. I can't complete my final mission. Mission: failed.
That is all. Mission failure. When I read over this again later, I will try and think about what happened next, but for now that is enough. I saw him falling
Or was I falling?
Vertigo, like being on the bridge again, even though I’m sitting here, writing and only writing. Even though the ground is solid beneath my feet. Every time I open my eyes for a moment it feels as though what I’m looking at pulls away from me. It makes me feel nauseous.
The sky spins. The ground is barely solid beneath me. Everything is so disorienting. I want to lay down and hold onto the concrete.
Reverse
I do not wish to walk any further. I couldn’t cross the Rhine. I sit and watch the boats moving each way. Downriver, the Rhine flows into Holland and out to sea, while upriver lies Lake Constance.
I could find a vehicle. Travel to Berlin and beyond, to Warsaw, to Moscow, to Siberia if that is what the Soldier wants. But I do not wish to return to HYDRA. I do not wish to know what the outcome of that instinct is. The only solution, then, is to make a hard turn to reject it.
The river is like a highway. It carries passengers and freight. From here, the Middle Rhine will take me all the way to Basel, on the border between France, Germany and Switzerland. It is far enough south, perhaps, to evade HYDRA’s grasp.
Page 86
Boarding one of the cruise ships is easy enough. Almost too easy, really. There is insufficient security, and an assumption that guests will sleep in their rooms at night, preferring comfort to the cold on deck. Food is brought, and there is the clear assumption that I am a paying guest, for why else would I be there? This is my first warm meal. An experience that I am unlikely to forget. When disturbed on deck - only once - I simply answer in Russian, despite the question being asked in German, and that is sufficient to be left alone.
When the ship stops, I disembark with the other passengers, and locate another vessel. A cargo ship, full of gravel and southbound. There is no security. Nobody looking will find me in the corner of the load bed, sleeping under a portion of the heavy, dusty cargo.
Reverse
There is not much to do but sit here in the dust or sleep. The engines are loud. I can write a little in the daytime, but I do not wish to risk being seen, and everything is covered in so much grit and dust, I’m worried if I will ruin my pen. The previous one has already run out of ink, and I don’t know how long it will be until I can replace this one. I have some food left, which I have eaten, but I have no more water. I am thirsty.
*
It has been a day and a night. I will risk going on up on deck to look for water. I am uncomfortable, and thirsty. Thirstier. It makes my head hurt almost as much as the memories of Steve do. It will be good to stretch my legs as well.
Page 87
I did not write in my journal yesterday. I will summarize the events of last night, and the hours since.
I went looking for water. This was difficult. Cargo ships like this one are not often manned by many people, a crew less than 12 in total, typically. This one is crewed by four Romanian men. I located three of the men playing cards on the deck; the fourth was piloting the ship. I descended to crew quarters, certain that there would be something to drink or eat in the crew’s private supplies.
I found chocolate. Some cartons of flavored milk, a large bottle of fizzy orange water. A new pen. I had these under my arm when I was caught in the narrow crew corridor by one of the men, with no escape route. Caught where I did not belong, taking what did not belong to me.
Reverse
The Soldier’s instinct was to kill him, but I hesitated. The man asked in Romanian if I was a stowaway. Ești un clandestin? Are you a stowaway?
I raised my hands in surrender. Replied in Romanian. This amused the man. He seemed…excited. He told me I looked “like shit”, which I do not understand, and asked me if I had been sleeping with the gravel. When I confirmed, he found this amusing as well, before offering me a bed to sleep in, and, after that, introducing me to the rest of the crew. They gave me a strong drink which tasted and looked like dirt, which I did not like.
I’m confused by all of this. I find that I do not understand people at all. All the things they do are strange.
Page 88
I have discovered that at some point while I was in the gravel, the cargo ship turned east onto the River Main. It is destined for Belgrade, in Serbia, taking not the Rhine river as I expected but the Europe Canal, which links the North Atlantic to the Black Sea and the Rhine to the Danube. After that, the ship will be exchanging crews at Moldova Veche, in Romania, before returning to the Holland.
I have been invited to accompany the ship to its final destination. It has so far been a strange experience. The men are friendly, ask questions, but do not pry extensively. They give me food and water and ask for nothing in return. I am no longer thirsty, no longer hungry. They teach me to play poker, which I remember playing with the Howling Commandos. However I do not think I am very good at it, and possibly never was.
Reverse
2 playing cards
Written: Some of the cards flew overboard, so the crew gave me these for my journal.
Drawing of a lock on the canal.
Page 89
I did not speak much Romanian with HYDRA. I do not speak much at all, but despite that, I say more words in their company than I have in decades of service. I spend most of my time with the men, and sleep in a cabin bed. I write my journal, draw from the deck. I assist them with their daily tasks. They find my prosthetic intriguing, which I dislike. I wear my gloves as often as I can.
They do not think I am an American. They guess where from Romania I am from, as though I know the answer and, upon their speaking it, I will recall it at once. I have leaned into my amnesia as an excuse for my inability to answer their questions, which they consider even more entertaining. It is dull for them, they tell me, sailing always up and down the river, the same waterways over and over again for years. A clandestin breaks the monotony.
Reverse
I find the sound of the engines comforting. It makes it easier to think about Steve and those memories with the knowledge that I am in a place of safety. There is a box around me. The walls are close but not claustrophobic, and I am warm, not frozen. There is only a small porthole to the world, and I know the ways out and the ways in.
It is safe to think about those things here.
The men tell me they hear me crying at night. It is a revelation I find uncomfortable. If that is something I can do without even realizing it, then what other things might my body be able to do against my wishes while I am unconscious, and incapable of controlling myself? Relating such a state to that of the Winter Soldier is what frightens me.
Page 90
Picture of Steve (bad memory recall)
Crying at night. Hard to sleep, even after getting back to camp.
Safe but never feeling safe. Steve tries to comfort me. As though his smile might scare the nightmares away.
Always optimistic. Always so sweet. Hiding my fear with a smile. Pushing him away. I don’t mean to. I don’t want him to be alone, but he’ll be fine. He has so many people who love him now.
Chapter Text
Reverse
When we enter the Danube, the ship begins to follow the path of the flowing water, and the engines don’t have to work so hard as they did fighting their way up the Rhine or the Main. Instead, we are carried downstream, sometimes coasting. The men are more relaxed with the canal and the locks behind us. I am sure they are homesick, because they speak often of their families. They ask me if I have anyone, knowing I do not remember.
But I think of Steve. I think of Brooklyn, even though being there frightened me. I am
Am I homesick? The thought of going there again is frightening to me. I can’t imagine it would be a good idea, for Brooklyn or for me. But the thought of never doing so fills me with despair as well.
Page 91
Picture of young Steve (bad memory recall)
At the docks or by the river, sometimes on a good day at Coney Island, Steve and I spend so much time together. We know all of each other’s secrets and we will take them to the grave/
He’s so young in some of the memories that he wouldn’t be recognizable at all except for the feeling that comes alongside them: this boy is Steve. Steve sitting at the playground with a bruised knee; Steve using a dustbin lid as a shield. Steve Steve Steve Steve.
Reverse
I have chosen my path, at least for right now. I am on the other side of the planet, speaking another language. The only difference is that now I don’t fight for HYDRA, nor will I ever fight for anyone against my will ever again. Nor kill. I do not know who I am. I know I am the Winter Soldier and I know I am James Buchanan Barnes, but neither of those things are who I am now. Both men killed. I don’t know what I should hope to be, if anything other at all than invisible.
That’s what I want for now. If nobody can see me then I don’t have to be. I don’t have to be the Winter Soldier. I don’t have to be “ Bucky”. I don’t have to be anyone at all, for anybody. I know it’s selfish. I know I’m afraid. I know I’m guilty.
Page 92
I can hear the water rushing in my ears. I know that I jumped, that I am plunging into it, face first and reaching, reaching.
I heard a scream. I didn’t realize I was the one screaming. Watching him fall, as I fell. Me falling. Him falling. Into the water. Into the ice. Into the future. Dying and dying over and over again.
Reaching for him, finding him, taking hold as he never could and swimming, pulling, dragging, fighting until we’re on the shore. One arm, the other dislocated, fighting against the current, for breath.
Why does this
I can’t see it yet but it’s close. There’s nothing more frustrating than this feeling, trying to remember. He’s alive, and as the river’s water drips off me I feel nothing but shame.
Reverse
In the bank, there was a file. Paperwork. A few things. I have disposed of most of them. Perhaps I should have added this then. I don’t like looking at it. It has been loose in this book since I found it and I should place it now, so that I no longer have to wonder where it should go.
When I see myself in the ice it doesn’t look like me. Sleeping. So peaceful I could be something harmless. But I remember more than fragments now. Time on the ship has let me see more than I ever could before. This is the face HYDRA saw. The face of an innocent man turned into a monster. Loss of innocence. Me. Зимний Солдат.
Looking at this picture hurts. It feels as though it somehow carves a pit into my stomach.
Page 93
Picture from WS file, Bucky in ice
Written: It isn't really sleep. Sleep isn't peaceful. Being in the ice was like not existing at all. Quiet.
Reverse
We were on a train. It was a mission from before there were any missions. Before HYDRA when I was with Steve and the Howling Commandos behind enemy lines. In Europe, during the war. I took the shield. We practiced with it together. That’s how I know how to use it. We would play catch. I protected him, and then.
The wind roaring in my ears. Screaming, thundering wheels on the tracks. Screaming. An impact. I couldn’t have known what would happen. I can sense the incorrect stance now, the shield held too straight when I should have used it to glance away the projectile. Instead, it carries me off the train.
I hold on. He reaches for me. And as I scream I fall and fall and fall.
Page 94
Here on this ship, I sleep and I dream, and it’s clearer than it has ever been. There are nightmares. That is why I cry. I see Steve reaching for me. I see the snow. I see Zola. I hear my own scream, my own cries and sobs. I am frozen. Defrosted. Experimented on. Frozen again. Left in a dark, cold cell. Shown a newspaper telling me that Steve Rogers, Captain America, is dead.
I feel despair and fear and hunger and despair again. There’s unimaginable pain and humiliation. I hardly sleep. The new arm hurts my shoulder and I try and claw it off, make them operate on me again and again. I don’t know how long it lasts. How long I keep fighting, resisting. When they begin to introduce electricity, the fading starts. The timelessness. The disconnect.
Reverse
Those are my last memories. The last I have before training sessions and mission logs. The last I have before a string of handlers and layers upon layers of rules and a red book with a gold star on the cover. I remember Vasily Karpov strongly, but there were others too. They all left their own marks, on my mind if not on my body. Those wounds, after all, heal without leaving scars.
After all of it, after so much darkness and confusion, the fact that I can piece together these fractions of memories into a narrative of any consequence feels almost like a relief. But they are my memories, and writing them down in this book is the best protection I have against losing them again.
Page 95
We pass through the city of Vienna. On the home stretch now, there is no desire from the ship’s crew to stop or linger, nor weigh anchor. They long for home. I long for…nothing. Four walls. Nobody to hear me crying while I sleep. But it is good to be fed, to not have to wonder where my next meal is coming from, to sleep in a bed. It is odd to have comrades. I watched soldiers sleep before, when I was in HYDRA. Sleeping, for me, was not permitted. This is different. It should be uncomfortable to sleep knowing that others know where I am sleeping, as though it is too steep a risk to take.
But for now we are just travelers together. The journey is home. There is no suspicion or judgment. It reminds me of the war. Before Steve came.
Reverse
Traveling this way isn’t optimal. Three rivers and a canal, sailing over the very topmost point of Europe’s water table. Rivers do not travel in straight lines. Boats do not sail at the speed of a car or a train. It is a sedentary journey, but quiet and comforting, like being rocked in a cradle.
I have been given books to read and told to keep them, and the men occasionally watch tapes in a cramped room. They are not surveillance, as I believed. The people on the tapes tell jokes. There are subtitles underneath their words in Romanian, but they speak American English, and live in New York City. I don’t understand the jokes, but they spend time in a coffee shop called Central Perk, and I find the cameradie soothing. The crew have seen the tapes so often they can recite the lines as they are spoken.
Page 96
Another drawing of Steve from memory - Small Steve. Written: Courageous. Brave. My friend. A diminuitive hero. Steve Rogers. "I can do this all day."
Reverse
Another drawing of Steve from memory - In Uniform. Written: Compassionate. Strong. A leader. My Captain. Steve Rogers.
Page 97
I will be sorry to leave when we reach Romania. I’m not sure where I will go. Perhaps one of the places the men speak about when they talk of their homes. We pass through the center of Budapest, a beautiful city, sailing along a river shining under the sun. Perhaps one more sleep, or two.
The trip to England by sea took four days, but the Atlantic Ocean is not the same as a river. I remember the waves pounding against the metal, and the taste of salty seaspray on my tongue. The restlessness of the other men sailing away from home toward war. They would sing, write poems and letters home, or play cards to pass the time. I ask my companions if they sing, and they are excited to indulge me, accompanied by a fiddle, clapping and dancing. It is more lively than I expected, and overwhelming, but sometimes also sad.
Reverse
Frunzuliţă de lalea, dor Tulip leaf, miss
Militaru' zicea-aşa, dor The military says so, miss
Frunzuliţă de lalea, dor Tulip leaf, miss
Militaru' zicea-aşa, dor The military says this, miss:
Cătănia n-ar fi grea, dor Catania wouldn't be hard, miss
De-ar fi mândra alăturea, dor If only she were proud to be there, I miss her
Puşca-i grea, oţelu-i rece, dor The rifle is heavy, the steel is cold, I miss it
Doru' de mândra nu-i trece, dor The longing for pride doesn't go away, it misses
We weren’t much good at singing, neither Steve nor I. Tone deaf, really. Jacques would sometimes beg, or threaten us to stop. Monty and Gabe would laugh. But Morita would sing along, and that man had the voice of an angel. It was all games and jest; the relief of surviving another day.
I miss them. It’s that loss again, intense and aching. Not because I miss being at war, that part was never pleasant, but I miss belonging. The company on this ship is temporary; I will miss it too.
Page 98
It was the final night on board the ship, and I spent it sleeping on the deck with the rest of the crew. A warm night under the stars. It is almost May now. A month ago I was in the ice. A month ago I was the loyal Fist of HYDRA. The Winter Soldier. There is a quiet reluctance and also an excitement on deck as the men clear away the things left out the night before, before retiring to their quarters to tidy those for the next crew. I have left my room as I found it.
My bag is heavier. The men have given me uneaten and unfinished food, and I have been given books, pens, and a new journal for when this one is full. I will run out of pages soon. They have given me some currency. These are called ‘leu’ and ‘bani’ and they are counted in units of 100.
Reverse
A drawing of the canal boat "Alpine"
Page 99
We disembark the ship in the late afternoon. Some of the men have asked me to return home with them, but I considered that unwise. Away from the ship, with my feet on solid ground, I am aware that I am not truly their countryman. They do not know who I am or what I have done. They don’t know the danger I pose to them, or to their families; small children shown to me on dogeared, faded squares of paper.
They take me to a pizzeria and we share a final, celebratory meal. and drink palinca. I like pizza. The men are drunk quickly. They tell me I drink like a Russian, and it is supposed to be a compliment. The alcohol, palinca, is strong, much stronger than the beer drunk on the ship, yet it cannot inebriate me. Then they depart, each collected by their wives, to whom they are adoring and apologetic. Like men returning home from war, grateful and drunk.
Reverse
I am the last one to leave. It is dark outside, and I have grown used to sleeping at night over the last week. I write this morning having slept on the shore of the river simply to listen to it flow past me still. To the south, across the Danube, is Serbia. Beyond that Sokovia, North Macedonia, Albania and finally Greece. The Aegean Sea.
Steve used to find the Greeks fascinating. He would borrow books on Greek mythology and read them to me. He found the demi-Gods and heroes exciting, and would tell me about pieces of art inspired by them, some of which we were able to see together when they were brought to the city. I have never seen the Aegean. I would like to. But I am tired of running. How far is far enough?
Page 100
It is May 1st 2014.
The birds are singing in the trees. A ribbon of ducks swim by, babies led by their mother duck. I watched them dabble in the water for a while without moving. I am used to remaining very still, and this was a benefit, as the ducks came right up to me, searching for food. When they grew bored and left, I wrote this entry.
I wonder what I wrote in those journals, so long ago, when I sat at Steve’s side. Did I write about my memories? My days? Did I write about the war? Did I write about Steve, or long for home? I don’t remember. Not having the words in front of me, tangible, has allowed them to be erased from my mind. Did my journals survive? Does someone have them? Are they in a museum? I want the words back. Their clarity.
Reverse
I think a lot about the Winter Soldier as I get up and head inland. The last few days in particular, it felt as though that part of me was subdued. Or at least non combative. I did not think extensively about how to kill the members of the crew. I envied them, in some ways, but I was not planning the fastest route to their demise in case HYDRA ordered it.
I do not know if I will ever completely overcome that instinct. It was not within mission parameters to leave witnesses. Now there are nothing but witnesses. I could not have avoided security cameras this entire time. I have spoken to people and left them alive. Accepted their assistance. Sat with them on trains and boats. Allowed them to see my prosthetic. Planned all their executions and walked away. They live.
Page 101
A day’s walk allows me to cross the Jiu River into the city of Craiova. There are small villages along the way, clinging to the roadside, the landscape stretching away in every direction. Farmland, scrubland, beauty, poverty. I know the history of this country only from the songs the men sang, their stories, and a few sparse memories of reading about Stalingrad.
It is jarring to come from France, where every wall and fence is meticulously maintained, down the Rhine, where wealth flows from Switzerland all the way through Germany to the sea, and has done from the time of Rome–to this. A grieving empire. Communist era buildings, blocks of concrete in disrepair. Shabby fences. Crumbling brick. Life continuing nonetheless. This reminds me of home. The Brooklyn I knew. The Russia I knew.
Reverse
It is the first day of May. May Day. Everyone is in their gardens. People entertain friends. There is music coming from many of the houses, and laughter, and sometimes singing. The country is alive with joy somehow. It makes me homesick. I only remember one May Day, and it is from my time in HYDRA. A mission from 1963. Fidel Castro, visible in the scope of my rifle. I was to hold position in case the order was given to fire. I strongly remember Собор Василия БлаженногоSt. Basil's Cathedral and Red Square; the confidence of being on my own home soil.
The year previous had marked the Cuban Missile Crisis, and Castro was a guest of Никита Хрущёв. Nikita Khrushchev. Relations had…deteriorated. It was one of the few missions I had which did not end in bloodshed. The same can not be said for Dallas, at the end of that same year.
Page 102
I sit in the sun. It is warm on my face. The center of Craiova is a muddle of modern houses built by way of limited order, shambolic beside vast rows of elegant buildings constructed in the Venetian style. Wars and wars and wars have ravaged the region, fought north to south and east to west and west to east. It is beautiful, as survival is. It is also, as survival is, sometimes ugly, particularly in the north of the city. Here, freight cars sit and rust in the sun and rain, emblematic of decaying industry. Unwanted. If I sit here long enough, perhaps I will rust as well.
I could, I suppose. This place likely has security patrolling it, but I am not a teenager causing trouble, or a family huddling for shelter. I am still the Winter Soldier. I can be a ghost. I will sleep here tonight, at least, amongst the train wagons.
Reverse
People speak different languages in the city. There are signs in the windows declaring the languages spoken of each business. English, French, Russian, Austrian; Romanian, of course, is assumed by default, but Romani accompanies it everywhere, on every road sign.
This, too, reminds me of home. Brooklyn was, in my time, a place of immigrants. I worked on the docks, and often that would mean knowing snippets of other languages. French and German. Yiddish. Mandarin. So too, could a word or two in a native tongue hold the charm and attention of young women. I remember that there were many of them, but I could not remember any of their names even then, so it is impossible for me to start now. I suppose when it comes to languages, HYDRA only expanded my natural talents.
Page 103
Movement feels less urgent now. Yes, I want a safe place to stay, and it is best I accomplish that before I run out of food, but with the desire to walk to Moscow and prostrate myself at HYDRA’s feet is put to rest, at least for now, I find it easier to breathe. It is as though there were a leash wrapped around my throat, choking me, pulling me in a direction, and its hold on me has finally relaxed. Perhaps it is merely the architecture, or the words that are occasionally written in cyrillic, enough to soothe that part of me. But my mind is restful and calm, and there is no pain between my ears as there was before. No battle continuing in my head.
It’s such a relief. I hadn’t realized what a tumult it all was until it ended, and now there’s so much more quiet and I feel less conflicted.
Reverse
I have read until midday, when all the church bells ring. The book is in Romanian, but it is a paperback copy of a British work about a man named James Bond. I think Bond is fictional, like the stories I would read with Steve. Mr. Ian Fleming however, was a real person; a man known not to me anecdotally but to Peggy, who would covertly tell stories about the man when she had had ‘a tipple’. The Howling Commandos being the force it was, was specifically inspired by his work.
I do not know how much Fleming knew but it is alarming to me how much the story has in common with my experiences. And the title cover claims the book was published in 1956.
Page 104
There is an assassin in this book, a defector from the British Army who joins the Soviet Union and is assigned to СМЕРШ (anglicized: SMERSH), a counter-intelligence agency. His extensive training is described, in killing, in martial arts, in marksmanship–even that the Russians change his name. A blonde haired man with blue eyes, who becomes an unstoppable killer on each full moon.
This assassin is sent to kill the hero, James Bond, on a moving train, The Orient Express. And thereafter this is where he dies, in the Alps north of Lausanne. The fictional logo of СМЕРШ in this book is a globe encircled by a serpent, an image featured on the front cover. It bears great similarities, therefore, to HYDRA’s symbology.
Reverse
It began to rain as I left Craiova. It rained on the barge, also, but there we could go below deck. The rain has never bothered me much before. Now, it is an inconvenience at most. I couldn’t write again, despite my instincts to do so, until I had finished walking. I make it as far as the banks of the River Olt. Here, I find cover under a lean-to in a cattlefield. There are no cattle, at least, and it is quiet and dry, though cold, especially since I am still wet from the rain.
I should like to be dry again, and it would be nice to be warm as well. To choose when I get cold or wet from now on–I think that would be a kind of freedom. Perhaps the desire for me is simply that elementary.
Page 105
It is still raining this morning, and I am still cold. I don’t wish to stay here any longer, so I will stop writing and walk.
*
They must call it the plains because there is nothing here. Just an endless expanse of green and brown and blue. A rolling ocean of nothing but farmland and straight road, oppressive in its own way, just as the skyscrapers of Manhattan were.
But the truth is I find this place so beautiful. Alive, and old and new at the same time. It feels strong somehow, or resilient. It feels like an outward mirror of how I feel inside, and there is something I find very forgiving, comforting, about that familiarity.
Reverse
I have been taken in by an elderly couple, here in the city of Alexandria. Their names are Mara and Sorin. They insist I call them by these titles while they sit with me in a small cafe. I am reluctant. I have never used another person’s name before. Such a thing would never have been beneficial to me, and would have ended up with my being punished previously. But they are firm, and encouraging, and they do not seem as though they intend to hurt me. They give me more coffee, and it tastes no better this time. I’m not sure why the Friends drank so much of it.
I wish I had asked the names of the men on the ship. Names seem important, and I can’t remember what my mother’s name was. It seems like an oversight for it not to have been written in the museum.
Page 106
My boots have worn through. I hadn’t noticed, but Sorin did, at once. He asked me which size my feet were, but I do not know. How could I? It is a fact which would preoccupy my handlers, not something which has ever concerned me.
They have brought me to their home and given me dry clothes and also a replacement pair of shoes. They also allowed me to wash myself in their bathroom, which made me nervous at first. I am not defenseless without weapons, however, and the couple are aged, and fragile. They have fed me, and given me something called hot cocoa (which is delicious), and Mara showed me how to shave myself when I told her that I did not remember how.
They don’t know who I am. Would they visit such kindness on me if they did?
Reverse
It is raining again. Mara and Sorin speak in Bulgarian when I am not in the same room. They wonder whether or not I am a threat, or if I have amnesia. They don’t realize how correct their assumptions are–at least some of them. Sorin is afraid to leave his wife alone in the house with me. She asks him what he is planning to do if I am dangerous, and reminds him that he is an old man.
Mara suggests that having a young man’s help around the house might be helpful, and reminds her husband that I owe them gratitude for their hospitality, which I do. I am exceedingly grateful, and I know that I struggle to perform that gratitude correctly.
I will wait for him to leave, then ask her what assistance she needs.
Page 107
The jobs were simple as much as they would have been dangerous–to anyone else, but most of all the couple. It is raining, and Mara promises that my own clothes will be washed and dried by the time I have finished working. I insist that she does not wash Steve’s jacket. The gutters have not been cleaned in a decade, and water falls, almost in a solid wall, from where the gutter sags over the kitchen door. With a step ladder I clear them all, despite the pouring rain, fixing the gutter back in place by pushing the nails into the brick with my prosthetic.
I remove a tree that has fallen down across the path in the back garden, scrape moss from the paving stones with a shovel, and climb onto the slippery roof to replace several missing ridge tiles.
Reverse
Mara is making pork and cabbage casserole. She allows me to watch her while I write, though her interest in my journaling is less welcome. I allow it only because she shows me how to prepare the raw food. I know nothing of cooking. I have faint memories of other people cooking around me. I remember stealing carrot sticks from the stew pot. She recognizes that my writing is in English, but she cannot read it. She even gives me a carrot stick.
I don’t tell her that I am American, and she says that it doesn’t matter where I’m from; that she is grateful for the chores I’ve done for her. When her husband returns and the meal is served, I thank both of them in Bulgarian for their kindness, and she asks if I would like to lead the prayer. I don’t remember how.
Page 108
It is Sunday morning. So early that I do not think the birds have yet risen. Mara and Sorin have woken me. They are going to Bucharest to attend church. I will bring my things, and go along with them.
I am not a believer. I don’t think it’s even possible for me to believe in God, especially considering everything else I have endured in my life. Mara and Sorin are Catholic, and the signs of their faith are in every room of this house. They surely, then, believe in repenting for sins. I wonder if I began to speak them out loud, would I ever be able to stop?
There is no forgiveness for what I’ve done. No prayers of redemption can come close to grasping how unforgivable my crimes are. If I can’t forgive myself, no higher power can grant it to me either.
Reverse
I agree to attend to alleviate the pressure of their request, but tell them that I will be staying in Bucharest, something which they seem to have prepared for. Sorin has given me a waterproof backpack for my books, and Mara has prepared food for me to eat. Mara presses a photograph into my hands as we leave. It is an image of her son, she tells me. She instructs me to keep it.
He is so young in the photograph. There are no more recent ones in the house; no wedding photos, no grandchildren. I can see the similarities between the boy and myself. Blue eyes, dark hair. He died in the Revolution, she tells me. At least now their benevolence makes sense to me. We drive together to Bucharest. I sit in the back seat, and write, and look at the photograph, imagining another life.
Page 109
Photograph of a young Sebastian in uniform from Kings. Written: What was he like? Did Mara mourn him the way my own mother might have mourned me? Did she keep my picture too?
Reverse
The church of St. Theresa is beautiful as so many of them are. There are crowds waiting here; waiting outside the doors of every church we pass, in fact, while the bells ring out in invitation. Most are Eastern Orthodox; elegant churches with the sort of architecture that makes me, again, think of a home that is not my home. More than half of my missions were in Russia. I remember towering spires. The call to praise. The priest, when blood burst from his chest, and mouth, and spilled over the gold brocade of his sacred vestments.
I cannot go inside. As the crowd begins to move forward I allow myself to retreat through it. The street is empty when they have all gone inside, swallowing the kind old couple and leaving me to the bells and the empty street.
Page 110
I sit beside a fountain and write this. The sky is gray, but it promises the return of the sun. At least I am dry, and my clothes are clean. It is Sunday, and I am not at service because I am unclean, sinful; a killer. So there is not much to do but sit here and wait for the weather. It would be unwise to start looking for somewhere to stay while everything is quiet and closed. But I wish to remain here. To make this my new home.
I can’t be homesick if I have a home, can I? The ringing of the bells won’t remind me of Brooklyn’s bells, as they do now, when what’s familiar is this city and its rhythms instead?
I can only hope that is the case. There is no going back, now, and I am so tired of running.
Reverse
I move without direction. I don’t know this city at all, but it is at least a city; a melting pot of cultures. Some have enclaves, others cling only to street corners. Greek cuisine is represented, as well as Czechnian, Hungarian, Soviet, Turkish. One place I pass has a German menu, offering schweine schnitzel und kartoffeln.Pork schnitzel and potatoes. It smells good, but I have food in my bag, so I save my money.
I find myself on the Bulevardul Timişoara Timişoara Boulevard , standing near the entrance to a market called Bazarul cu Aminitiri – the Bazaar of Memories. Isn’t that intriguing? The temptation was too much to ignore. Here, in the sunshine, I allow myself to step back in time amongst the tourists and vendors selling trinkets that, to them, are as antique as I am.
Page 111
How odd to see ancient telephones polished and preserved, presented as valuable. Old but young, like me. Wireless radios, made long after I fell from that train; fell to HYDRA. They are marked with their decades as though to count them out like the years afforded to wine. The older the better, it seems. Old fabric is traded for more than my mother would have ever paid for it new. What was her name?
I am lost amongst passers by when it comes to me, looking at old sewing machines, of all things. My mother’s hair graying early, the song she hums as she works, an open window behind her blowing the drapes. I think of her like this as I write her name on an envelope, my nails cracked, my heart full of terror, the night before being deployed to Azzano. So close.
Reverse
Winnifred Barnes .
I feel as though I am floating, senseless, moving without form. I sit in the parking lot and write with shaking hands, so that I don’t forget again. How could I have forgotten? Winnifred and George. My parents. Writing to my sister, after my father left to raise her in Indiana, sending home money, finding her a suitor. My mother’s sadness at the quiet house. The way Steve visiting would bring her to life. Sewing. She was sewing my sister’s wedding dress, in the memory. White silks. I don’t remember my sister’s wedding. It must have happened after I left for war.
Did she grieve the loss of her only son? Better that she thought I was dead, but my heart aches to imagine her with another letter addressed to her, the details of my demise within. And Steve’s. She had loved him too.
Page 112
I wish I could see the details of her face. They’re foggy when I try. It’s so long ago and it makes me so angry that the curb crumbles where I curl my hand against the concrete. HYDRA stole my mother’s name, and even my mother’s face from me. They took away what made me a person, dehumanized me, and for what? Could they not have done their dirty work themselves? Why turn me into their monster? Why not kill me? That would have been decent . Reasonable.
And how could I
How did I allow them to do it?
Why couldn’t I stop it from happening? Resist harder? Hold out? Am I so weak? So helpless? Is my mind so fragile? My constitution? My courage?
Reverse
I already know the answer to that, because I remember, too, Steve rescuing me after my first capture. My first. Captured twice . I remember feeling wrong. The wounds I had endured at the hands of Zola had healed during the march and I couldn’t tell him. I couldn’t tell anyone. The men walked days without food, drinking from puddles, carrying the dead so that their families would have something to bury. And I felt strong .
But the humiliation? The shame ? Here, Steve, the impossible transformation, the very vision of an American hero and me . Pretending to have volunteered only to be captured. Knowing that my mind had been on the very edge of shattering, even then. Prisoners of war aren’t raised as heroes, are they? Who was I? Who could I ever be compared to that? I praise him too, so that people look away from me.
Page 113
And to stand next to him? To dare to? I was given the option to return home; a broken, fragile thing, like putting down a sick animal. I had the paper folded in my pocket when he told me his plan, and I was considering going. Had he been the little Steve I remembered, I would have dragged him back with me there and then.
But he wasn’t. He was the noble Steve. The unleashed Steve. He couldn’t not save the world–he’d wanted that his entire life, and of course he expected me to be standing at his side when he did it. Just as I always was. How could I deny him his greatest wish?
The shine had already worn off me by then. In every way. Women didn’t look at me. Steve didn’t look at me. I felt that, and it became a dark, cold, buried part of me.
Reverse
Then HYDRA. Spectacular failure. The loss of my arm. A cold prison cell, bad food, physical abuse, torture. Steve dying because I wasn’t there. Laughter. Russian faces, sneering. Cold cold cold. Every day losing sight of myself more and more and more . When I thought there was nowhere lower to go, always there was somewhere beneath that.
And I learned how to avoid pain. I learned how to lean into it when it was demanded of me. I let them put me in the Chair. I was so afraid and so cold. So afraid. Constantly overwhelmed with fear. Obedient. I stopped trying to remove the prosthetic. The scars healed and they praised me. Молодец солдат. Well done, Soldier. It became my whole world to hear those two words. Молодец солдат. Молодец солдат. Молодец солдат. Well done, Soldier. Well done, Soldier. Well done, Soldier.
Page 114
Photograph of Captain America in uniform during WWII, war bonds poster "Cap Salutes You!"
Reverse
Poster of Captain America (war propaganda) "Our boys have got your back Capt!"
Page 115
I have some currency, given to me by each set of benefactors I encountered. Their kindness isn’t lost on me. There is still more than enough for me to feed myself, even if I only know from restaurant menus how much food costs. But I will find a way to earn more. I have a unique set of skills. I have food remaining, also. Chocolate chip cookies, baked by Mara, and a tin of sardines from the river barge. Everyone has been kind, and I have been frugal, as I know how to be.
This frees me to spend at least a little of my money on memories for sale at Bazarul cu Aminitiri. There are surprisingly many of them. Reproductions as well as originals. The reproductions are less expensive, and I only need the image for my journal. It is a memory aid, and I have precious few.
Reverse
I remember Steve being shy about the recruitment posters. He would tell me it was strange seeing his picture up there, beckoning young men to their deaths. But I was proud of him, even as I reassured him that it was a picture of Captain America, and not really a picture of him.
I don’t think he ever thought too much about it until that point. To him, Captain America was him. Who else would it be? Everyone who knew him called him Cap. Only a few of us called him Steve. But I was the one to help him understand how Captain America was a symbol; not of war or death, not even of America itself, but symbolic of hope and courage and fighting for what was right. Not as a soldier–defying orders if need be. But what those values should be. What they could be.
Page 116
Despite my efforts, that isn’t really what Captain America resembles here. How could it be? The stars and stripes mean only one thing in what was once the Eastern Bloc, and it is very different to how we saw ourselves. He resembles something different. I have seen sentiments like it quite clearly in the marks and graffiti. Even in New York it was the same.
In Siberia, my handler would sometimes remark “Какое будущее ждет человечество, если некоторые люди стали богами?” What future awaits humanity if some people have become gods? I saw the destruction caused when the Avengers resisted in the Battle of New York. They were not the ones who suffered, who were affected long after the battle was over. Who lost their businesses, livelihoods and homes.
Reverse
Handdrawn copy of Romanian graffiti, the word ‘Terorist’ with the O drawn as Cap’s shield.
Page 117
As the bazaar clears up, the storeholders leave behind piles of rubbish and unwanted items in neat piles. I don’t understand why they’re being discarded, but I find a perfectly adequate red thermos in one of the boxes, and a floral towel, slightly sunbleached in one corner, that is apparently no longer wanted.
In New York, we learned very early that things left out on the sidewalk were considered to be “free to a good home.” I don’t have a home yet, but next time I am wet, at least I can use the towel to dry my hair. That is far better than throwing it away. The thermos will be useful too–I can fill it with tea, or soup.
Now all I need is a home. A place to put these things. A place where I can sleep peacefully and undisturbed.
Reverse
The little money I have is insufficient to rent an apartment, I think, but I look in the windows of estate agents and mark down the addresses of buildings where the price is low. I don’t require comforts. Four walls. That’s all I want. Four walls. And a roof would be nice, of course, to keep most of the rain out.
I have climbed the fire escape of one of the buildings so that I may sleep on an empty roof. There is abandoned, rotting furniture here, unsuitable for sleeping on, but it is relatively dry here at least, and warm, and I think I will sleep well enough. The stars are lost to me as well. Lost again. Yes, the city is quieter than New York, but there’s still enough light spilling over to blot them out of the sky. It has a sad familiarity.
Page 118
I think I should like to have a cat.
The owner of this building has one; a tortoiseshell with large blue eyes, who rubs herself against my legs from the moment I step inside. The room smells of cigarette smoke. It is so dense it has yellowed the wallpaper, smears of ash in the carpet, streaks of tar grease on the appliances and door frames.
Over chamomile tea, the owner expresses the possibility of renting me a room in exchange for cheap labor. Under the table, of course. I will not officially live here, nor work for him. 400 lei per month is not much, but I have not been paid for my labor for seven decades. It suits us both. I will be invisible, unofficial, a ghost, and perhaps those looking for me will not find me; Steve included.
Reverse
Drawing of Romanian tabby cat curled up in Bucky's lap asleep.
Page 119
He has even allowed me to choose from the empty rooms. Most are on the top floors of the building, given that there is no elevator, and the consequent lack of use has left them even more undesirable to most tenants. The stairway, however, is an excellent deterrent to unwelcome guests. I can see all the way down to the bottom, and there is access not only to this roof but - with sufficient momentum - the roof of a nearby building as well. An excellent escape route with more than adequate warning, in case of pursuit or a raid.
I will be alone, and it will be quiet. No neighbors questioning my screams at night. So I must climb stairs? Irrelevant. Perhaps the landlord’s cat will visit with me, as she has done while I sit to write, and I can draw her more often.
Reverse
There is a small kitchen on one wall. The landlord has told me I can take furniture abandoned in any of the empty apartments to furnish the room as well, so I take a table, an old mattress, a sleeping bag, a lumpy sofa. I don’t know why I want these things, as much as they are available to me, and it is frugal to reuse them. I build shelves out of breeze blocks and put my few things on them. There is a refrigerator, and it turns on when I plug it in.
I will be paid at the end of the week, after proving I am useful, and that - at least - is something I can excel in. I can be useful. When haven’t I been useful? I can build and paint, change lightbulbs, drive deliveries, and nobody - nobody - will expect me to kill.
Page 120
I will keep filling journals with my memories. Already I have another, full of empty pages waiting to be filled with… I don’t know. Whatever comes to mind. Whatever I remember about Steve, or my family, or Brooklyn. Whatever I remember about the war. I will put HYDRA’s secrets in the pages too, as much as my pen will allow me to do so.
I will keep them in the bag given to me by Mara and Sorin. Keep safe, too, my handler’s gun. A reminder? A keepsake? I do not know. I will hide them where they can be recovered quickly, should I ever find myself ambushed here in Bucharest. I will protect them. My mind. My memories. My past. Everything I am is in these pages.
Reverse
I am not James Buchanan Barnes.
I am not the Winter Soldier.
I am both, but I am someone else now. Someone new.
Making a new life for myself in a new city. A new home, far away from home; far away from when I belong.
I may never see Steve again. I may never go back. But I will be good and I will not kill, and I will try to exist in as little space as I can.
Whoever I am to be now, this is my promise:
Nobody will ever take my memories from me. Not ever again. They are mine, and I will do everything I can to keep them safe–always.
121
Two pictures of the Howling Commandos in sepia.
Reverse
Two pictures of Steve and Bucky laughing. Written: More souvenirs from the Bazaar of Memories. Steve's smile. Contagious. I like to sit and look at these photos, even if the memories are bittersweet. Maybe one day I will see him again. Maybe one day I will smile.
Notes:
If you've made it this far, thank you so much for reading! I always read and swoon over comments, so if you feel like leaving one below it would be appreciated. Merry Christmas for those who celebrate, and I am grateful for each and every one of you.
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-Dogsled
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