#buckynomore

It had been weeks since he’d pulled the man from the hellicarrier to safety, and the Winter Soldier was slowly starting to remember things. Bit and pieces came occasionally, clues to who he was, as well as his relationship with that man. He remembered fights in alleyways, and a sparsely furnished apartment. He remembered a small boy with ice blue eyes.

But even with this knowledge, he was too ashamed to face the man he had almost killed. So he hid himself away in the streets of DC, sleeping on park benches and in alleyways, eating whatever he could find in dumpsters. He looked terrible, in his filthy jacket and jeans, a ball cap keeping his scraggly mess of hair together. He looked like he was on the verge of falling apart, and he felt like it too.

Something wasn't right. He wasn't right. Since whatever happened to him he'd stumbled from city to city, trying to find someone, anyone, who would help. But time, memory had blurred for him. He had a pamphlet from the Smithsonian tucked in his jacket, but he had forgotten what it was about. His name didn't matter. All that mattered was satisfying this new, terrible craving that would come and go without warning.

He had no control over himself. He was in another unfamiliar city when the hunger engulfed him again. The gnawing in his stomach was unbearable, his head spun. He spied a figure in front of him and followed her, his fangs extending, only focused on one thing: to feed.

People cheered as the color burst through the sky, echoing in the sky like a gunshot. They didn't know the Asset was cowering in an alley nearby, his body trembling all over. With each blast he would curl up a little tighter, remembering the bullets he'd put in people's brains, the explosions on the battlefield.