#walkitoffrogers

Blood had been flowing steadily from the bullet hole in his shoulder but Brock pushed through the pain all the same, carrying his vest and things in the other hand. The rest of the STRIKE team had already gone ahead to clean up weapons before they turned in their reports to him and headed home for the day. It wasn’t until the last member of his team had left did he acknowledge the pain he was in, his hardened exterior breaking in the slightest with a grunt the searing heat in his shoulder as he moved to grab the first aid kit on top of the book case in his office. Dropping the bag on his desk, he back down and resolved himself to what he was going to have to do.

A quick drink from the bottle of whiskey he had hidden in the back of one of the desk drawers for such occasions. The sleeve of his tact shirt stuck uncomfortably to his arm with every movement, slowly but steadily pulling it up and over his head before Brock sat back in the chair with a few deep breaths to work through the hot pain. He had dug far worse out of his flesh over the years than a bullet but it didn’t mean he enjoyed it.

Brock pulled the tweezers out of the kit and resolved himself for what he was about to do with several deep breaths but before he could lift them to the wound, the chair was suddenly spun around and was staring into Steve Rogers’ eyes. “What the he-“ Cut off by his cry of pain as fingers plunged deep into the bullet hole, muffling the sound behind clenched teeth. His hand clutched tightly around the tweezers as Brock fought the urge to gouge the Captain's eye out, other hand white knuckled around the arm of the chair.

"What the fuck?!"

Kara smiled at Natalia as she placed a kiss on each side of her cheek. " I need about three more drinks and to dance." Just as the words came out of her mouth, a drink was put in her hand but she looked at who handed it to her. Brock, so she drank it all down in one swallow. The song changed and it was something slower, darker and she couldn't help herself and she leaned in and whispered to Brock that she was going to go dance. As she walking with Wanda one of her other friends from the Heathens side of school.

She noticed that Brock went off to do something and as she walked past. Kara stopped for a moment, looking up at him. He was so tall and intimidating but there was something else there. She could see a darkness but a lustful darkness not angry. She grabbed his pocked of his jacket and tugged it gently. "You know, if you smiled, I'm pretty sure that every woman or man in here would drop their panties and beg for you to take them... " Her eyebrows raised as she walked away, her hands in the air with Wanda as her hips moved in time with the music.

With her hands up, Kara's lacy see thru bra was almost on display. She forgot just how short her sweat was. Her torso was long, every muscle that of a dancer. She closed her eyes knowing that there were people around the edges watching her and she loved it. She could never get enough of feeling someone's eyes being focused on nothing but her. It wasn't long till Kara moved as though the music was there just to highlight her.

“You’ll realize soon enough that no one appreciates you like I do.” (Karina/Hydra!Cap @walkitoffrogers)

Karina stood in the center of the destruction that she'd caused. It hadn't taken long for her thoughts to trail to her friends that had defected. She wanted to cry at what she'd done to their safehouse. Maybe she shouldn't have let them know in secret, to make sure no innocent people where there. Her powers were erratic since she'd lost the one man who meant anything to her. He was something she believed would stay with her and she would only grow colder with him gone, distant in a way that she'd been before he'd warmed her body and soul.

Now, she stood looking at a man that had the same voice, the same face, his uniform was the same only with the hydra on his shield. When she looked in his eyes, she saw a darkness that the other only had pain and loneliness. He was like her, born into hydra, their world being controlled by what she believed in.

Then his words were whispered in her ears as he stood behind her. She swallowed the lump in her throat, the man she loved never saying such a thing, never standing so close on a mission and in truth, she was quite sure she'd never really had him with his loyalties being with Bucky and Natasha.

‘ Not an asset. Not an asset. NOT AN ASSET!’

Nails dug into palms; the last mantra a SCREAM of desperation as fingers grasped hair, tugging, ripping strands free. White-noise, computer code, it all overloaded him, compromising his being, VIOLENT outbursts to be expected. ( The poor fragile car was effortlessly upturned in his path; a crack running across the street as lungs burned like acid. ) He was breathing and yet…he was suddenly numb to the core, the STABBING sensation easing away, for he’d just spotted something - there on the street. It might as well have been a neon sign, because the POSTER of Captain America, brought focus. Slowly he composed himself; removing it from its residence; a destination now in mind.

Feet THUDDED without permission, blindly staggering up the street, shoving people aside considering them as mere obstacles in his way, protocol followed. ( He had no choice but to activate remnants of programming, suffocated by his existence, and LACK of superiors; requiring a handler to be…fully operational and yet he was not an asset, was he? ) So why was he still acting like ONE? Answers did not come, slipping through his fingertips; the anarchy causing all hell to break loose, a foundation of forbidden memories.

——-

‘ The blonde boy must be protected.’ ‘ The blonde boy is irrelevant, a fantasy. Do you understand me?’

Zima was being struck by a firm hand, the operative grasping the electrical cattle prod and the scream the soldier made cut right through him. Zima wasn’t fighting back, he was complying with their harsh orders to stay still, allowing the sizzling searing agony to remind him of his place; for…pain was order - so Pierce said and it…was staring emotionlessly, watching as Zima was torn apart and put back together. Blood filled its mouth, vaguely aware it was trying to bite its own tongue to stifle any sound; for if they knew it had reacted….

——-

‘ Duck.’

A metallic hand was aimed in its direction, fists flying, it acted on instinct. Rolling across the training mat, somersaulting through the air, landing in a crouch and returned the assault. This too was dodged by Zima who bared his teeth against his muzzle and soon they were sparring at an impossible speed. Superiors watched with sick enthusiasm as the final strike came in; Zima hitting it full force, breaking its jaw. The deafening crack, the fire lacing veins; pain detected. It didn’t hinder it and the android was like a wild thing; kicking, shoving, biting.

——-

The chair was operated and it was to witness what was coming to it soon enough. Zima had gone rigid against the straps, eyes darting with fear for he’d been out of cryogenesis too long and they’d left him unstable. He glanced desperately over at Valentin, who clenched a jaw and did as was told like a good tool should. Obedience didn’t stop the shock collar giving it a taste of what was about to happen - the electricity, the mouthguard shoved in Zima’s mouth; he was trying to hold onto reality, to remember it, to remember anything….but he couldn’t, the forces were too strong and he was soon staring it dead in the eyes and now he would be ripped away from it too. It could do nothing, muscles moving to take his place, the process about to re-begin.

——-

‘The Winter Soldier has defected. The Winter Soldier is dead.’ They had to be lies, blasphemy leaving superiors lips? It nodded numbly, for what else could it do? It wan’t capable of fighting back; it wasn’t Zima. It wasn’t strong like him, and hell it wasn’t….human, or close. It was their creation, purely theirs and this was home, the home Zima…should have come back to. Foreign liquid filled its eyes, and it was at….that moment it realised, it had to get out, to see the body. It reacted automatically, taken by new…emotion, overwhelmed, outraged - anguished. It flung itself at them, as it had once at Zima…who was now gone, having abandoned it and by the time it was done, there was nothing left but crimson which stained its skin, HAIL HYDRA having attempted to leave dying lips, echoing from its own…

——-

NO; no, no. It-he couldn’t think of that, it was going to destroy him. Red, white and blue, red, white and blue, but why? For a creature so devoid of colour, why did those shades mean something? ( Why did that….man, that blonde boy…MATTER? It was his target; his one last remaining mission and yet…Zima. ) Traffic blared and he had to slam on his breaks to avoid being crushed under a vehicle; not that it would KILL him… nothing could, could it? Immortality wasn’t a choice, he reminded himself; bitterly. Hands clenching around that vibrant poster he’d ripped off; trying to let all else FALL away.

It worked for a while, there was nothing but his abilities at play. LOCATING Captain America PARAMOUNT and well, by the time he’d memorised his scent and found him, he was back to that mess, being eaten away by…sentiment. ( He had no idea why people were screaming at the sight of him, RUNNING in the opposite direction as he finally gained entry to the building he knew was right. ) Cared little as his quivering hands almost knocked the door down with one desperate hit; for he’d already COLLAPSED to his knees, hanging on by an invisible thread.

‘Captain-’ ; ‘Steve-’ ; ‘Blonde boy-’ ; ‘The star-spangled man with a plan-’ ; ‘Stevie-’ ; ‘Punk-’ ; ‘Pal-’ ; ‘With you til the end of the line-’

He was rambling EVERYTHING he’d ever heard Zima say about the patriotic superhero, trying to find something to grip onto but they weren’t HIS words to remember - they were Zimas…and Zima was dead; they’d said so, and they weren’t lying, were they? ( Was this what it was like to grieve? Is this what it was like to go insane? ) The NAMES continued to spew from him in a terrorised fashion until he was pleading for things he’d never been permitted, and well, he was practically SOBBING.

‘ Please, please kill me, deactivate... END me, Ste-please. I can’t, I can’t take this, I don’t understand what’s happening? Oh god it hurts, make it STOP; make it stop, it hurts.’

@walkitoffrogers asked: “Press that against the wound, I’m going to get the med kit.”       ↳ a meme i can't find idk

It was one thing to get into a fight and get the shit beat out of him. That was NORMAL these days, though he often came out on top regardless. It was an entirely different thing for Captain-freakin'-America to get involved right when Barney was sure he had it handled. He looked like shit, had collapsed the minute it was done with as the last remnants of adrenaline receded, but he had it HANDLED. Not that he was in much of a condition to complain about really anything and his current state would have most scoffing and rolling their eyes. Been through worse, so who CARED?

His body was shrouded in the dark room. Silence. He took solace in it. He worked at night. Prospective only ever changed when it was a criminal looking down the barrel of his shotgun or throat being crushed in with piano wire. He was lonely. Always lonely but never wanted to admit that he needed help getting pulled free from the hole he was in.

Till he heard the door to his secret safehouse open. His eyes raising as he raised a pistol up to point it at the intruder. Only to stop as he took notice to the blonde super soldier. The reason why he joined the military..went to Vietnam and fought for his country..why him..? Why here? Now? He took a deep dilapidated breath and shook his head.

"Rogers..how'd you find me..?" He asked as his only good eye glanced up at him while the other was covered in bandages with fresh blood seeping through them." Don't matter.."

"That something you wish for often?"

The words were quiet, out before he could think better of them. Curled up in the big chair in the corner of the living room, Bucky let the book he'd been flipping through rest on his lap. After the awful night he'd had, nothing had really grabbed his attention, but mindless television on a low volume and a book normally helped his brain turn off, at least for a little while.

He kept a stack of them next to the chair, which he'd claimed as his own. But the top one, the one he'd picked up without checking the cover, was a history book. And, would you look at that, they featured pretty heavily. One of his great-nephews had written it, sent over a copy. He'd skimmed a few pages, but come to a stop at an old photograph he hadn't seen in years. One of his sisters must have still had it.

Two boys, mid-teens. One already on the other side of a growth spurt, the other who wouldn't have one until Project Rebirth. Their arms were slung around each other, Bucky's head ducked down, but the curve of his grin was easily visible as well as the answer on Steve's face. It was simple. Easy. Just two kids.