Now that the adrenaline has worn off my whole body aches. Every step further away from civilisation I trudge my legs threaten to give out on me, my head pounds, my right arm is in complete agony and I can barely move it or lift it, I'm freezing cold and damp and it's now getting dark and if the headache wasn't enough, the amount of unanswerable questions running through my mind is enough to make anyone want to throw up or faint, or both maybe, at the very least have a mental breakdown.

Who am I?

A simple question yet I can't answer it. All I know is that my name is possibly James Buchanan Barnes, but it doesn't seem to fit. My whole life I've been called The Winter Soldier. My whole life I've never met Steve Rogers. So how do I know him and how does he know me? He seems to know me better than I do.

I don't know how long I've been walking for but by now the sky is turning a dusky pink. Through the thick blanket of branches and leaves that the trees are making above my head I can see a variety of pastel colours. I must've been walking for at least a few hours now right? Surely I'm far away enough by now to be hidden.

No. Everyone is going to be after me. If Steve Rogers is literally the Captain of America and I just tried to kill him and if I'm a bad guy like I think I am, then I've probably got the world's biggest target on my back at the moment. I wouldn't be surprised if people are on a man hunt for me right now and any moment they're going to show up with pitch forks and snarling dogs.

I'm moving slowly, I would barely even consider walking. My whole body feels like led, like I've got chains tying me down and every step I take they tighten further, dragging me further down to the ground. By the time the sky is completely dark I can't take another step. I collapse down against the base of a tree, shivering from the cold, puffing for breath, my feet throbbing my mind racing.

I squeeze my eyes shut and role to my right side only to yelp in pain being reminded of my injury. Everything hurts so much anyway that I forgot about this one particular thing. I wince as I try to sit up and roll my shoulder around. I can tell from the way that my uniform feels tight and constricting around it that it is swollen and now it's seized up too to make matters worse. I try to lift it, even with the help of my other hand but it's really stiff and even the slightest movement sends sharp twinges of pain shooting up my right arm and shoulder. I'm sure it's dislocated.

Dislocated. What do I do? When I was in training, Hydra taught me about all different kinds of injuries and how to treat them in case I was ever away on a mission and was injured and alone so that I could treat them quickly and get back to work. I wrack my brain for the symptoms and treatment of such an injury but this in amongst all the other questions running through my mind at the moment makes it hard.

Hanging, immobile and numb. That's the only conclusion I can come to and it fits. Good enough for me. I'm too tired and I can't afford to spend too much time worrying about it. All I know is that I have to relocate it. How do I do that? Pull it down and away from my body then up, slowly, steadily and in one movement.

This is going to be the hard part. It's honestly going to hurt like hell and ideally I should have someone else to help me but obviously that is impossible and I have to do it now before any further injuries occur. So I shuffle into a better sitting position and prepare myself for the pain. I should take my jacket off but there's no way that that is going to be possible right now. So I just bite down on the collar of my leather shirt and get on with it, bracing for what is to come. All I have to do is touch my arm lightly and I'm in agony already.

I screw my eyes shut and clamp my teeth down hard, wincing and breathing rapidly as I start to gently tug my arm down. The pain only gets worse and I gasp, tears springing to my eyes and streaming down my cheeks. I can't help but cry out despite my attempts to keep quiet. Even though I'm well away from civilisation I still don't want to risk being heard.

My mind is full with nothing else except for one word.

STOP! STOP! STOP! STOP!

It hurts so bad but I know there's no turning back now, if I let go it'll only make it worse so I hold my breath and in one swift movement, pull my shoulder up until I hear a pop. The pain is so sudden and intense that I nearly blackout and a strangled scream leaves my lips before I can even stop it.

I clamp my metal hand over my mouth in fright as a sob escapes me. Ideally I should make a sling out of something but I don't have the energy or the will power to move another inch right now. It's over and although the pain is still there it is subsiding. I just have to remind myself that I heal quickly so it should be completely fine within a matter of days.

There are so many questions running through my head, so many obvious things like why did I never realise that my enhanced abilities were something out of the ordinary? How did it not occur to me that all the training I was going through was unusual? And most importantly, why do I not know anything about who I am? Why did I never click on to the fact that this was all wrong? Because I may not know much right now, but everything I can remember, all my training, all my battle tactics, all the information about my enhancements, it all isn't normal.

As much as I want to find the answer to all my questions I'm just too exhausted right now and I know that I won't get anywhere but more frustrated and confused right now. Perhaps with a good nights sleep I'll be able to focus a bit more and think straighter.

                               ~~~~

But sleep doesn't come. At first I think that maybe it's because of the constant throbbing in my shoulder or because it's so cold out. But the longer I lay there, huddled up and shivering, the worse my head gets.

What if I fall asleep and forget everything again? Not that I know anything right now anyway but I don't want to hurt anyone again.

And then it gets even worse. I don't know what happens but suddenly a whole tone of images flash through my mind. It's as if I'm looking through a photo album and watching old films, and I'm in every single shot. I don't remember any of it happening, but I know that it's definitely me. What are these? Memories? I don't have any of those. Only my training and programming.

There's a stark difference between the images and I can kind of divide them into two different categories. One, where judging by the style of the clothes and the buildings are from a long time ago and it's like I'm seeing everything through my own two eyes. That guy Steve Rogers is in nearly every single one of them, except small and puny like that first picture of him I saw in my head.

The memories consist of anything and everything and although I understand what's happening it doesn't make sense because I don't remember it ever happening. But it's me, it's definitely me. School, hanging out in someone's small house and at a diner, flirting with girls, fighting in back alleys, fun fairs, two older people and three younger girls, could they be... My family? They come up a lot too. But I don't have a family right?

Majority of these memories elicit happy feelings. Happiness, I don't think I've ever felt that.

But then there's the other ones. The awful ones. These ones it's like I'm watching from a distance, but again I am in these images too. I'm watching myself. The things I am doing, I don't even think I could ever possibly imagine. But I'm doing it, because I'm watching myself doing it. Dressed in what I'm wearing now, if I thought what I did to Captain America was bad I should times that by ten. Sniper guns, rifles, knives, grenades, you name a weapon, I've used it. I know how to use them all. And worst of all, I'm using them against people. Killing murderously and heartlessly, relentless and unphased by their begging. I can't see their faces but I know that they're innocent, yet without thinking twice I line up my gun and shoot a bullet through the brain of countless people for reasons I can't comprehend. I'm just doing it because I was told to and I know that I have to.

Unlike the other memories that were happy these ones just leave me feeling cold and angry, with a pent up violent frustration in my gut that scares me.

What is this? Are these even real? Is that really me?

Suddenly my hands start to tremble, my vision starts to blur, it becomes hard to breath. I feel this massive pressure on my chest. I try to suck in deep gulps of breath but my airway seems to be constricting. I'm absolutely terrified. What is happening to me? What happened to me? How could I do those things? Why did I do them?

Am I dying right now? It feels like I'm dying. This is it. Good. I'd rather die than deal with the fact that I killed all those faceless, nameless people.

My vision starts to go black, I can't see the leaf littered ground before me, I can't conjure up the memories anymore. Then all of a sudden possibly the worst one yet comes along and I feel like I'm reliving the whole thing again.

                               ~~~~

A strong blow throwing me backwards. The shield - Captain America's shield - ripped from my grasp as I'm thrown out the side of the train. I throw my arms out desperately to grab hold of something, anything to stop me falling. And I do, there's a rail. I grip onto it for dear life because my life literally depends on it. Frantically I look around. The side of the train has been blasted open and hangs raggedly by a thread, the rail I cling to barely holding up too. Beneath me, nothing but white snow and black, jagged rocks for hundreds of metres.

The icy wind stinging my exposed face and hands as I hang helplessly from the frozen metal.

"Bucky!" A familiar voice shouts frantically.

My head snaps up and there he is. Steve Rogers in that Captain America uniform. Reaching for me, stepping as close as he can to get to me.

No don't do it! The thought runs through my mind without my permission.

"Hang on! Grab my hand!" He begs as he reaches for me.

I throw my hand out in a desperate attempt but miss. Trying to shuffle closer I extend my arm out once more, feel our finger tips brush just as the metal rail I'm holding groans threateningly and then gives way. A sick feeling in my stomach as I fall through nothingness.

"No!" Steve yells panicked as his terrified, heartbroken face shrinks further and further from my view.

"Noooo!" I scream as I flail around, desperately reaching for him but grabbing nothing.

It feels like I'm falling forever, tossing and turning, a blur of white, black and green rushing past me as the tree tops come into view. I've lost sight of the train by now, it's disappeared around the corner, long gone. A rapid filled river comes into view. Finally, the end. I thought it was never going to come.

Automatically, I throw my left hand up to protect my head from the impact - I don't know why, I'm going to die anyway - but suddenly there is a sharp, searing pain that rips through my left shoulder and I'm flipped over once more, thrown around in the air like a bouncy ball. The last thing I see is the bright white sky and snowflakes falling around me before I hit something hard, and everything turns black.

I'm dead right? I died? Surely.

But no. What comes next is even worse.

I blink my eyes open. My whole body numb, yet in pain at the same time. I can't move. Where am I? The shallows of a rivers edge. I turn my head to see the snow around me stained a deep red before I fall unconscious again.

Next thing I know I feel like I'm floating. I look up to see two men carrying me in a stretcher. I recognise their uniforms. Soviet soldiers. I look down to where my left arm is in agony to see nothing but a bloody, messy stump.

When I wake again it's a surgery, I'm being strapped down to a table as they operate on my severed arm. I'm awake, but slipping in and out of consciousness. Too weak to fight them off or scream at the pain. Doctors surrounding me. A heavy weight hanging from my left shoulder. I look down to see a metal arm, my metal arm, the one I have now. Anger and fear boils up inside of me and I reach up with my new limb, locking my hand around the closest doctor I can finds throat.

"Sergeant Barnes," a menacing voice whispers.

Dr Zola comes into view. How do I know him? Why do I feel a terror of unexplainable heights at the sight of him?

"You are to be the new fist of Hydra," he explains. "Put him on ice."

My reflection in a small window, I reach out my hand desperately before an intense cold envelopes me and everything goes black.

After this it's like a montage of everything that happens next plays in my head.

I see me being trained except it's not how I remember it happening. I always knew I got punished if I failed or did something wrong, but this, this is next level. Any excuse for a beating, even a toe out of line I get whipped, electrocuted, dunked in water, punched, kicked, tied up, abused in any way possible. Thrown back into what they call cryo-freeze or a cryo-chamber. But the worst thing of all is the strange contraption that I can only describe the feeling as turning my brain to mince meat. Sharp pains shot into my face while I'm tied down in restraints, unable move, convulsing and rything around in helpless agony as the blinding pain continues to be administered through some kind of face cover. In the end when it finally stops I can think of nothing, remember nothing as they drag me back to a cryo-chamber. All I ever feel is a want to lash out, a need to kill, no memory of anything at all except for my training imprinted deep in my mind.

                               ~~~~

What is this torture? Even when the flashes of what I'm guessing are memories stop, I don't recover for a long time. I can feel everything that I was seeing. Remember it all at once, all of a sudden. I break down crying, my head in my hands, my knees drawn up to my chest as I rock back and forth, sobs wracking my body.

Occasionally the cries of one of my innocent victims rings in my head and I claw at my ears, begging for it to stop, apologising profusely. I'm no longer aware of what is around me or care about being quiet.

I ball my eyes out for I don't know how long, shaking and trembling, ripping at my hair, getting myself so worked up that I actually have to throw up in a nearby bush, until eventually I'm too exhausted to cry another tear and weak with fatigue and pain, both mentally and physically, I black out.

                              ~~~~

When I wake up the sun is already high in the sky. I don't remember falling asleep but it can't have been for that long anyway. I feel terrible, every inch of me aches and I'm still exhausted. Plus, despite my concerns the previous night I still remember everything. Every little detail from that eventful episode last night.

Groggily I lift my metal arm and look at it in disgust, turning it over and examining it, ripping off my glove.

You did that. I think to myself.

My mouth is dry and my stomach is rumbling demandingly but food is the last thing on my mind at the moment. I notice that my dislocated shoulder already isn't so sore, although I can't help but grunt in pain as I try to put pressure on it. However, I do have more movement in it and think I could be able to get my jacket off to have a better look at it.

I shuffle into a sitting position and slowly start to undo the buttons and straps of my leather jacket and peel off my gun holster and belt, chucking all the weapons to the side. I would be quite happy to never touch or see those things again. Then I carefully slip my jacket off inch by inch, flinching and wincing every single time my shoulder twinges.

Finally, after expending a lot of energy on what should be a simple task, the jacket comes off. But something's wrong with me. I'm weak and maybe it's the pain in my shoulder but even this causes me to need a break. Next comes my skin tight Lycra top and I can already see through that how swollen my shoulder is, there is a huge, hard lump. Great, maybe it wasn't such a simple dislocation after all. Thank you Steve Rogers. I guess I deserved it anyway.

Actually, that's a good point, I wonder where he is now. Did someone find him? Is he okay? For a second I think about maybe going to check, it's probably the least I could do but then I think the better of it. Let's be real he probably hates me and never wants to see me again after everything I've done. I wouldn't blame him. But then again, why would he have been saying all those things to me? Oh god, now I feel even worse thinking about that.

I begin to peel my top off but it's damp and sticking to me with dry sweat. One thing about the fight, despite my shoulder and a few cuts that I can feel on my forehead, I've come off relatively unscathed in terms of bleeding.

Once I get it off I can examine my shoulder properly. It's badly bruised a mixture of deep purples and blues and even more swollen than I first thought but when I have a good poke at it I can tell that I have got it back in place so it should be okay now.

I sigh in relief and lean my head back against the trunk of the tree allowing myself to relax for just a few seconds, realising how tense I am about everything. One thing about this morning is at least I seem to be thinking straighter and I'm a whole lot calmer now too, but I'm definitely still shaken and confused about the whole thing.

I give myself a once over to find no more wounds before coming to a hard decision. Where do I go from here? I guess there's only one answer. I have to find out who I am. But where do I start? Well, for one thing I can't spend the rest of my life in the bush, especially not dressed like this.

So I haul myself to my feet, painstakingly pull my shirt back on, turn my jacket into a make shift sling and after thinking about what to do with the gear that I don't need - or want for that matter - I decide to leave it here because even if someone finds it I plan to be long gone from here and I can't see myself coming back.

After all this I start walking, not in the direction that I came from, I don't want to go there, but in that general direction is where I head because at least I know there is something in that direction.

First things first I need to find food or else I'm going to have no energy for what I'm guessing is going to be a big few days at least. I don't have any money so looks like it's scavenging out of rubbish bins for me.

As I walk more questions come to mind. What year is it? How long ago are some of those memories from? I swear some of them looked like they could have been from last century. Why can't I remember specific details? Why don't I remember anything?! If Steve Rogers knows me, and clearly at some point in my life I knew him, then why can't I remember that? I guess I'm just going to have to do a whole lot of research.

After a few hours of walking I'm parched, practically panting. And when I come to the edge of a riverbank it takes everything to not just buckle to my knees and crawl into the water and drink it all. But instead I simply walk over to it, cup my metal hand and dunk it in before drinking it straight from my hand. I have a few handfuls of the soothing, cool liquid and wash the dried blood off of my face before getting up and walking along the outskirts of the bush, following the river in the direction of the city which I can see in the distance.

How am I going to walk right through there without drawing attention to myself? I cannot get noticed but I don't exactly blend in looking like this, just the make shift sling is enough to turn heads. I decide to go raid the clothing bins. There must be some of those at a park around here somewhere.

I wonder around kind of aimlessly for a while in no particular direction, ducking down side streets, taking the route under the bridge where less people walk, sneaking through alley ways until I finally stumble upon a park. At least all of this looking around is giving me a basic idea of the city and where everything is. Luckily no one is around either. Why is no one around?

Surely this is something I should know.

Think soldier, think. No, not soldier. What did he call me again? James? No, there was another name too. Bucky. Which one do I use? If James is my real name then that's what will be on record. Looks like I'm going with Bucky then in case someone ever asks me my name.

This decision brings me some kind of strange peace. I have a name, that's a start.

Then I realise that kids will be at school and adults at work. From what I can remember that's what used to happen right? Does it still happen? Again, the fact that I can figure this out makes me proud, which is kind of sad really.

I sneak over to the clothing bins and grab out the first bag I get my hand on, hitting the jackpot. Inside is a whole stack of men's clothes and they just so happen to be around about my size too. In the end I pick out an outfit that from what I can gather from what I've seen of people walking around and the memories that I think are the most recent seems suitable and something that will blend in; jeans, a black T-shirt, a plaid shirt, a thick, khaki jacket and a cap. Perfect. I even dig around a little more and find a pair of gloves which I can use to hide my metal hand. It's a good thing the weather isn't overly hot today so I won't look stupid for wearing all of this stuff.

I slip into a nearby alleyway and quickly change into the outfit. Let's be honest, my makeshift sling wasn't doing anything so I just discard it in the bin with everything else and shove my hands in my pockets.

Next stop is the public bathrooms across the street to see if I can tidy myself up a bit and check if I look okay. I jog across the street unnoticed and manage to get straight into a free one. Through the graffiti scratched, spray painted etchings in the mirror of the bathroom I can just make out my face.

It's a weird experience looking at myself. I don't think I've ever done that properly, or at least this is the first time I ever actually remember seeing what I look like. Blue eyes, long, dark brown hair, stubble that looks like it should've been shaved a couple of days ago, plump lips. Luckily the cuts on my face have already healed so I actually look pretty much like a regular guy. I could maybe do with a haircut and potentially a shave too but other than that I should blend into a crowd easily enough. Besides, unless I were to do it myself I can't risk getting a haircut, people would get too good of a look at my face and the idea of having scissors snipping around my head puts me on edge at the moment for some reason. 

I pull my cap down low over my face and head out onto the street, keeping my head low and even though they are gloved I still keep my hands in my pockets, it helps support my right shoulder and for the left one it is just piece of mind - plus I feel kind of ashamed of it. Walking at a quick pace I don't even think about going into a shop to buy something, too many people, too many risks. It just makes me feel kind of anxious.

Weird. A lot of simple things are making me nervous today, things that you normally wouldn't think would. But that's the thing I guess, I'm clearly not normal.

I reckon my best bet will be to check the trash cans out the back of a restaurant, surely there will be something in there. I must've woken up later than I thought because by now the sun is starting to set and the rush of people heading home for the night seems to be starting all around me. Luckily for me this also means that all the bakeries are closing so all the leftovers from the day are being thrown out.

So when I see a worker disappearing back inside a particular shop I slip straight down the side alley leading to it. Bingo. Pies, sandwiches, cakes are all right there. I quickly grab a sandwich and head back out looking as inconspicuous as possible and head back in the direction of the woods where I'll spend the night again.

I feel like a homeless person which I guess I technically am. I devour the sandwich in the blink of an eye and although I'm still hungry I don't go back for anything else because I already feel bad enough as it is for technically stealing that one. But I had no other choice, I was starving and have no other money.

As I'm walking along a mother and her son are just ahead of me and I can't help but hear their conversation.

"Mummy can we please do something for my birthday tomorrow?" the little boy asks hopefully.

"Of course sweetie! I was thinking that we could go to The Smithsonian and have a look at the Captain America exhibit," the mother replies.

My ears prick up at this. Guess I know where I'll be going tomorrow.

"Oh my gosh yes please! I love Captain America!" the boy exclaims excitedly. "I just hope he's going to be okay," he adds more sadly.

"I'm sure he will be sweetie." The mother sighs. "Luckily his friends found him in time, but unfortunately the bad guy got away. That's why I want you to be careful and stick with me when we are out and about at the moment okay?"

"Yes mum, that Winter Soldier guy sounds scary," the boy mumbles.

"He definitely sounds dangerous and I don't like the fact that he's on the loose right now. But at least it's all over the news and the police are searching for him," the mother agrees.

My heart sinks.

They're talking about me, I think. That's the name that Hydra called me by.

I want to run up to them and apologise and say I'm not like that, thar I don't know what happened. But I can't. How could I ever look anyone in the eye and say that? Why would they ever believe me? If that awful nightmarish flashback thing I had last night was real than I know I would never believe someone who tried to tell me that they were innocent after doing things like that.

If I did do all of that, I'm not innocent. No way. I did all those things whether I remember it or not. There is innocent peoples blood on my hands, that's the closest I'll ever come to being innocent.

Suddenly my attention gets drawn to something that I hadn't noticed before; my face on posters plastered on every couple of doorways, on benches, on lampposts, on billboards. You name it, it's on it with a big WANTED written in bold above it. I feel my breathing become more rapid, my chest tightening as panic rises within me.

Oh my god, I think. Someone is going to see me. Luckily it's getting dark out now but I'll have to figure something better out for tomorrow. Still, I pull my cap down lower.

"I'm just glad Captain America is alright," the little boy says, interrupting my thoughts.

So am I kid, I think to myself in somewhat relief. If he's survived at least that's one less thing to feel so bad about on my conscience

"You know what I'm interested to look at?" the mother suddenly says.

"What's that mummy?" The little kid frowns curiously.

"The piece on his best friend, James Barnes. Apparently it's quite sad."

I nearly gasp. That's me!

Best friend. Were we best friends? Are we best friends?

"Oh yeah Bucky! He sounded so cool, if only he ended up alive now like Captain America," the little boy exclaims. "That would've been so awesome!"

Okay now I'm seriously confused. How can the same two people have two completely different opinions on me as if I'm two different people? They seem to know more about me then I do. To be honest everyone probably does. They just don't know that I am in fact still alive, of I am this James Barnes that is.

I suppose there's only one way to find out what I want to know. I'm definitely going to this exhibit tomorrow.