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  • Writer's picturebucky

"Screen, Mass, Beat" - MCU, Marvel, Winter Soldier (2023)

๐šœ๐šŒ๐š›๐šŽ๐šŽ๐š—, ๐š–๐šŠ๐šœ๐šœ, ๐š‹๐šŽ๐šŠ๐š;

Barnes stared into the small, square screen as green letters flashed in front of his eyes.

๐™ผ๐šŠ๐š›๐šŒ๐š‘ ๐Ÿท๐Ÿพ๐š๐š‘, ๐Ÿธ๐Ÿถ๐Ÿท๐Ÿน. ๐š๐šŽ๐š™๐š•๐šŠ๐šข. ๐šˆ/๐™ฝ?

It would be his third repeat of that tape alone, having exhausted the archives surrounding the small computer in search of something specific. A few frames, a moment frozen in time and committed to celluloid, or gigabytes, or ๐™ฌ๐™๐™–๐™ฉ๐™š๐™ซ๐™š๐™ง ๐™ฉ๐™๐™š ๐™›๐™ช๐™˜๐™  film existed on these days. He'd given up trying to keep up.

Leaning over the computer, a chrome finger pushed down on the Y key. Watching again, blue eyes glued to the small screen, Bucky followed the crackling, staticy footage as some version of him, a shadow he didn't remember, moved almost unseen around an elaborate mansion. Deftly utilising corners and dark hallways, the Soldier had broken into the compound, surpassing flashy security systems with ease as he hunted for his target.

He looked a different man here. Svelte, underfed and honed to an idea of perfection, a mass of dark, dirty hair framed a masked face. Smears of darkness smothered both eyes, his body tightly done up in belts and leather - a prisoner, truly, barely allowed out on day release to commit atrocities for the cowardly eight-legged beast holed up in bunkers beneath Eastern Europe.

Bucky watched, as his tortured past self found it's mark, slipping into a locked bedroom to approach the man he'd been hunting.

He'd stood over the man's bed as he slumbered, target oblivious. He'd watched, for far longer than he should have, staring down at his vulnerable prey without moving, without striking, despite the chance. He'd stretched out a metal hand, one that ๐˜ด๐˜ฉ๐˜ฐ๐˜ถ๐˜ญ๐˜ฅ have beaten the man to death right there on his crisp, white sheets - and he'd stopped, instead laying his palm over Steve Rogers' chest while he slept.

A heartbeat. One he'd known even then, without a name, or a reason.


Originally written and shared as part of Verbuary 2023:

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