This is so short but rest assured the other chapters will not be. I do not own anything affiliated with Marvel; any/all characters, organizations, and places.
This was it. This was how she was going to die. A cold metal hand attached to a cold eyed man slowly squeezing the life from her lungs. At this point she only wished he'd pick up the pace. Make it quick. She didn't think her heart or body capable of more pain. But of course, for him, there was always room for more. She met his eyes, her deep brown, the ones he said we're beautiful, stared on in defeat into his icy blues. There's nothing there. No recognition. No Bucky. No hope.
And then blackness. Sweet death. Really, it was a welcome relief.
*some weeks earlier*
Clouds rumbled loudly overhead the gathering. Their black attire in stark contrast with the polished white marble structure. Faceless people and silent tears floated in front and around the lone sitting figure. These mourners did not notice her, nor she them.
She only cared for one name. One face. And he was there, inside the stone prison that will be his forever resting place. He didn't get a ceremony. He was simply chalked up as collateral and tossed in here with the rest of the S.H.I.E.L.D.'s employees who lost their lives. The agency that was supposed to be the good guys. The building that was supposed to be the safest place. Not for Mark. Not for any of these bodies who lay cold and broken.
She sighed heavily. Knowing that she was only working herself up to a righteous rage that would not only be embarrassing, but also end in the eventual emotional breakdown. She took several long and deep breaths. Meditation was supposed to help with her... overacting emotions. Mostly her temper. A trait shared by her now deceased best friend and adopted brother, Mark.
She stood slowly, feeling the tension in her muscles. Maybe she'd run to the gym, beg Boney to spar with her. Kickboxing was also a great release and she found she liked it more than meditation.
With stiff shoulders and a heavy heart, Tasha silently wove her way through the throng of dark and mournful people. Her soft soled shoes not making a single sound against the stone floors.
She paused at the Grand doors, rain coming down in bitter sheets, pummeling umbrellas and black cars. Weather that matched the hearts. Just before she stepped out and back into the fray she felt it. The tingle that ran up her spine. The tightness in her chest and buzz ringing in her ear.
Someone was watching her. Not glancing. But watching intently. She clenched her jaw, hating the way her body automatically tensed for battle. She should be used to this. The staring.
Instead of finding and confronting the offender, she made a fast and angry b-line for Boney's gym several blocks down. Rain be dammed.
His head hurt. It always aches.
But he had a mission. A target. A plan. After weeks of wandering; of narrowly avoiding the man from the bridge, he had found a woman. She would help him. That was her job.
He watched through the rain, his stolen jacket soaked through to his hidden vest. The armor of who he was. But the soldier felt nothing.
He closed his eyes for a moment. His head... Fuck it hurt.
That strange man; the Captain did this. Had him remembering things. Clips. Pieces of someone else.
The soldier knew him from somewhere. But instinct drove him to run.
He hid. He stole nourishment and disguised himself. These concrete streets were easy to disappear in.
His head hurt.
Why did he stay? He had no master now. No orders.
He had a mission.
To find his memory. To find out who that man was.
To figure out who the hell is Bucky.
His head hurt...
Ok. So this is going to be a new thing for me. I just hope it works out. It's darker than what I've done before.
Understand that the way I write Bucky is going to be jagged and hard to read. It's about how his head is working. I hope that doesn't bother you.