I Am

“We’re in position.” Captain America’s voice came through his kimoyo bead, barely audible through the howling wind.

Psylocke, Hawkeye, and the Winter Soldier were standing outside the secondary exit. Not one of them was stationary; they were all fighting the cold in their own way. Hawkeye was doing star jumps, counting under his breath, with little puffs of steam escaping his mouth each jump. He had put up his hood, and it flopped around with each bounce. Psylocke was doing some kind of poses and movements with her sword; Soldier thought maybe she was practicing sword strokes. He himself was in a boxer’s pose, going through the drills they had taught him at Camp Lehigh. Even after all this time, his old instructor’s voice echoed in his head as he struck. Jab, jab, cross. Jab, jab, up. Faster, come on, faster! Jab jab cross!

At the voice in his ear, Soldier dropped the stance. In the corner of his eye, Psylocke sheathed her sword in one fluid motion. Hawkeye landed lightly with his heels together. He nodded at them, dropped to one knee, and put a finger to his ear. 

“‘Bout time,” he responded. He was tired of freezing to death. “Sound off.”

“Steve Rogers, in position.” Captain America’s voice was calm and confident. He envied that.

“Frank Castle, weapons locked,” came the Punisher’s voice. Of course that’s what he said.

“The icicle formerly known as Clint Barton, ready to party.” Hawkeye’s voice, barely audible through the wind, mingled with the voice in his kimoyo bead. It gave the Soldier an uncomfortable sense of doubling.

“Sai, ready.” Psylocke’s calm voice betrayed no eagerness or impatience. She sounded like an office worker, clocking their 9-5 so they could get home. I bet she could’ve waited for years if she had to.

“Bucky Barnes, ready,” he finished. “We know the plan. Sai, Clint, we get to the deepest part, figure out what the hell is going on, put a stop to it for good this time, and get out. Steve, Castle, you raise as much of a stink as possible without getting yourselves killed.”

“Don’t worry about us, Barnes.” Could he hear a smile through that voice? Why was it that now, as everyone else was tensing up and readying themselves, that the Punisher’s usual sharp tone had softened? “We’ll be having the time of our lives.” Right. ‘Cause he’s a psycho. That’s why.

“See you boys on the other side,” Hawkeye grinned. He pulled his bow over his head, and tucked it under his arm.

The Winter Soldier stood, unclipped the catch on his sidearm’s holster, thumbed off the safety, and brushed snow off his knee. The cold had disappeared, drowned out by the buzz of adrenaline. He drew a deep breath. Held it. Released it. He turned to look at his companions. They met his gaze steadily. They were ready. Was he? He looked inside himself. Damn straight, I am. He approached the door.

The fire escape was craftily built into a cliff face, a simple metal door. At a glance, it served as natural cover against the wind and snow in case of an emergency, disguised the entrance from flyovers, and led easily into the natural rock. The Soldier felt a reluctant admiration for the cunning behind its placement.

Evidently, the architects had decided the hostile elements were security enough, because there were no keypads in sight - just a press bar to unlock the door. The Soldier placed his vibranium hand on that bar.

James.

His head whipped round. A few paces behind him, Psylocke raised an eyebrow, while Hawkeye gave him a clueless smile. Didn’t they…? He adjusted his kimoyo bead, turned his head back to the door, and waited.

Half a minute passed, the seconds moving like treacle. Just as the Soldier was about to check with the other team, an alarm began to blare, a whooping that reminded him uncomfortably of an air raid siren. “Go time,” he muttered to himself, and slammed the bar down. The door swung outwards, inviting them in.

Past the door was a dismal stairwell, grey walls illuminated in a pale beige by lights set into the walls. Durbar steel stairs spiralled down in a corrugated steel scaffold. A faint coppery smell seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere to mix with the musty smell of age. The Soldier’s practiced eye scanned the walls, searching for traps, and found none. He turned back to his companions. “Clear,” he declared, and they started down the stairs, their rapid footfalls ringing off the steel.

It didn’t reach as far down as they would’ve liked. Barely a minute of descent passed before they reached the base of the stairwell, where another plain steel door waited before them - this one with a window. As the Soldier pressed himself against the wall, he gestured, and the others fell in behind him. He craned his neck to look through. 

Past the thick glass was a hallway so dreary it made him want to cry. The fake plastic plants did nothing to alleviate the sheer mind-numbing boredom the off-white walls seemed to ooze. Panelled ceilings were broken up by flat square lights, bathing the room in a dingy artificial light. He could smell the stale air through the cracks under the door; the pine-tree-shaped air freshener that hung in one corner was faded and beaten. A thin grey carpet decorated the floors so drearily that it stretched the word “decorated” to its limit. If this was the hallway, he could barely imagine how awful the offices must look.

God, it’s almost enough to make me feel sorry for those scientists, he mourned. 

For a moment, the hallway seemed devoid of life. The Soldier rested his hand on the door handle, ready to move up - but something made him pause. Barely two seconds later, a figure in black fatigues, a helmet with goggles, and a combat vest stepped out of a door on the right. He held a hand back in a “stop” gesture, and scanned the hallway. The Soldier ducked back as the figure - some kind of security team, he guessed - looked towards the stairwell. He counted to five, and looked back. The security guard had turned away once more. 

He gestured for some unseen person to come forward. The Soldier watched as a gaggle of scientists in lab coats moved into the hallway, chattering nervously. Five… six… eight, nine… twelve… It was a large group. At the rear, another security guard followed, watching them like a sheepdog over its flock. 

The one at the front began to speak into a radio on his chest. The Soldier locked eyes with Hawkeye, and gestured for him to take a look. The archer stepped forward gently, looked for a moment, then turned back with a short nod. He jabbed a thumb at his chest. Back, he mouthed silently. He pointed at the Soldier. Front, he mouthed again. The Soldier nodded. Hawkeye glided silently to the other side of the door, nocking an arrow, while the Soldier drew his combat knife from his ankle strap and pressed it against his chest. Ten metres. Easy. He looked at Psylocke, and made a “stand back” gesture with his free hand. She did so. The old allies exchanged a nod.

The security guard was still reporting that the scientists were all accounted for when the stairwell door flew open. In a whirl of olive fabric, the Soldier pivoted around the doorframe, extending his arm in a smooth motion, and let his knife fly. The blade whistled through the air, a sliver of silver lightning streaking across the hallway. It made a soft cluk as it hit the first guard a few inches above his sternum, coring the apple of his throat. The wide-eyed looks on the scientists’ faces told him quite eloquently it was the best shot they’d seen in their lives. That was, of course, only because they had missed Hawkeye’s shot. From his position on the stairs, the arrow had passed through the crowd, racing past ears and over shoulders, to collide with the second guard’s helmet with a resounding thunk. The Soldier saw, with a faint hint of amusement, the scientist at the back of the pack turn to see their protector fall, stone unconscious with a dent in his helmet, and put two and two together with the arrow next to him. Hawkeye turned to his partner and winked. 

The scientists stared at the two agents through glassy, frozen eyes. Not one reached for a weapon, or turned to run. The only sound was that air-raid siren blaring. The Soldier was faintly reminded of bug-hunting with Steve when they were children, of turning over a stone and finding a cluster of critters baffled by the light. For a moment, the memories of the tortures they put him through came back, and he felt the urge to turn the hallway into an abattoir. But no. These weren’t the same people. And if they are, what does it matter? They were just another sucker on just another tentacle of the HYDRA. They’d get more. He drew his sidearm - still resisting that red urge - and fired a single shot into the air. That snapped them out of it. As one, they turned and stampeded towards the fire escape, their screams mingling into one ululating note. Hawkeye stepped aside to allow them to flee, and gestured like he was signalling for traffic to pass.

The Soldier gave the sheep a few moments to flee, and as their bleating faded, he stepped into the corridor. He was disappointed to see it was just as dour as it had seemed; he felt as though he had stepped into the very concept of corporate monotony. “Jeez,” came Hawkeye’s voice from behind him. “At least Avengers Tower has a coffee machine.” 

The knife came free from the dead man’s neck without the slightest hint of resistance. The Soldier was wiping its wet souvenirs on his sleeve when he felt eyes on him. The culprit was a few paces behind. Psylocke had a curious look on her face. “Something wrong, Sai?”

“No,” she replied. For a moment, she said no more, until: “That was quite the display of teamwork.”

It was? Hawkeye and the Winter Soldier had worked together, put their lives in one another’s hands, so many times, that they had built up a shorthand. A rapport. He would never say it - not least because he would never hear the end of it - but if the Winter Soldier had to walk into hell blindfolded, he would want Hawkeye there with an arrow nocked. Well, I’d want Steve there more. But Clint’s a close second. 

“I guess,” he replied finally. “We just trust each other, is all. He’s got my back, and I’ve got his.”

Psylocke’s eyebrows furrowed at that. It was the biggest display of emotion the Soldier had ever seen from her, yet he couldn’t pin down what it was. She paused for a moment, and he saw her eyes flick to Hawkeye, who was collecting his arrow, then back to him. Then she turned away. She seemed deep in thought.

At a rough estimate, the corridor was one hundred metres. The team made their way through it at a brisk walk, not rushing but wasting no time. The Soldier caught brief glimpses into rooms as he passed them, but he had learned to take in information with a quick glance, and each seemed just as depressing as the corridor. The kitchen was painfully industrial, with the same off-white walls, and cupboards painted with stains. In the middle of the room sat a small coffee table, flanked by wooden chairs that looked marginally more comfortable than an iron maiden. A faint smell of limescale reached his nose, all the way in the corridor. On one wall was a poster showing a cartoon polar bear, clinging onto a tree branch with one paw, labelled “Hang in there!” A boiler squatted in one corner like a toad, with laundry machines next to it. 

The laboratories were computer laboratories: big rooms with minimal furnishings and rows and rows of desktops built into brown desks. One room had the audacity to have a fake window on one wall, showing a clear sky. Most of the computers were still on, but there were no workers on them to be seen. I guess that’s where the scientists came from, the Soldier thought. 

The rec room was, for some reason, a stone floor, clashing horribly with a wallpaper of wooden panels. A snooker table sat square in the middle of the room, taking up most of the space. In the back corner, a table was built into the floor, outlined by a couple of benches. An ashtray sat on the table, with a board game laid out next to it, abandoned mid-game. Is this really how they lived? The Soldier resolved to stop checking the passing rooms, before he felt the instinct to slit his remaining wrist.

Beyond the final room - an infirmary that singed his nostrils with the smell of isopropyl alcohol - the corridor turned in a right-angle, with a sign that read ELEVATORS, and an arrow pointing right. The Soldier strode toward it with a purpose - and froze at the sound of a man clearing his throat around the corner. He peeled to the wall, and Psylocke and Hawkeye fell in behind him. He turned to Hawkeye, and unfolded his fingers one by one with a confused expression on his face. How many? Hawkeye listened for a moment, his features furrowed with concentration, before shaking his head, his lips pursed. Can’t be sure. He opened his eyes, tapped his ear, and spun his finger. Siren’s too loud. The Soldier thought for a moment. Can’t tell how many, base is on high alert… Could get hairy. Gotta do this right. 

He was considering whether to use his firearm when he felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Psylocke, a mildly impatient look on her face. “Allow me,” she said, in a voice barely audible over the siren. The Soldier felt his nostrils flare at the sudden noise. He wasn’t the only one who heard her. After a couple of seconds, a voice came around the corner. “Hello?” it inquired. It had an edge to it. Heavy footsteps began to clump, clump towards the corner. They had a couple of seconds at most. Go!, the Soldier mouthed at Psylocke. She went. 

What followed was unlike anything the Winter Soldier had seen in all his life. One moment, Psylocke was behind him. The next, a rush of air that puffed his fringe up, and she was gone. An awful sound came from around the corner, a sound like cracking and cutting, like a butcher preparing meat. He poked his head out, and saw three bodies falling in unison, each garbed in arctic-patterned combat gear. One - the guard coming to investigate, evidently - fell right at his feet, its face glaring up accusingly. One pupil was dilated to a grotesque size; the other, shrunken to a pinprick. A trickle of blood fell from its ear, but it was the gaping wound, almost to the bone, on its throat that drew his attention. The man was already dead. Three more corpses - two men and a woman, all in similar gear - had been likewise dispatched. Psylocke stood over the farthest one, ōdachi in hand, the blade spattered with crimson. She's not even out of breath, the Soldier realised in wonder. 

He gave Psylocke a nod and a half-smile as he stepped around the corner into the scene of destruction. She returned the nod (but not the smile), tucked her blade between upper and lower arm, and wiped off the blood with a single practiced stroke. Hawkeye followed, and as he saw the bodies, a look that was a combination of fear, impression, and admiration came over his face. “Jeez,” he muttered, and for once, he had nothing more to say.

The Soldier pressed the “down” button on the lift. Hawkeye fell in behind him, still gawking at the corpses. A soft footstep confirmed Psylocke present as well. The Soldier’s eyes scanned the room as they waited, but the only thing that distinguished itself was a large sign that read, Welcome to Hell’s Heaven Research Centre. Welcome to the future. After a moment, the lift doors opened.

“-fired on the first floor. Moving to investigate and confirm casualties now.” The guard was speaking into his chest radio, eyes fixed on the buttons, as the doors opened. This was not a gift the Soldier was willing to pass up. Acting on pure instinct, he lunged forward, the force of an avalanche behind him, and grabbed the guard’s head in his hand. The inside of the lift was steel, and it was steel that the guard’s helmeted head impacted as it was driven backwards by his vibranium arm, with such force that the kevlar cracked. Or was that his skull? Not sure.

Hawkeye went to step into the lift as well, sighed, and grabbed the maybe-corpse by the foot. “You ever thought about contact sports, Buck?” he joked, as he dragged it out. “Maybe football? Might get some of that aggression out.” He stepped in, and brushed himself off theatrically.

Against his will, the Soldier felt a half-smile make its way onto his face. He watched as Psylocke stepped cautiously into the lift, and thumbed the button marked “B”.

James.

It was louder this time. The Soldier’s face shifted into alarm. He looked back at Hawkeye, but that jokester’s grin was still plastered across his face. 

Oh, no. No, no, no.

He recognised that voice now. It was the voice that questioned him in his dreams; the voice that called his name in the dark. It was the voice of the thing he had shut away on his last trip here. The thing that had hitchhiked into 2099 with him as its driver. Except he hadn’t picked up this hitchhiker on purpose. In fact, he would’ve done anything to get it out. 

Come to me.

It had never spoken while he was awake before. Every morning, he would tell himself it was just another figment of his imagination, and he would forget. 

But no. Now he was awake, and it was awake, too. Because he was here.

And so am I.

An image came to the Soldier’s mind. He hadn’t summoned that thought. The image was a spiral staircase, turning endlessly down. 

I’ll be waiting.

And then it was quiet.

“Buck?” Hawkeye’s voice, leaden with concern, dragged him back to earth. “Bucky? You all right?”

No, he wanted to tell him. He nodded. 

“Good.” The word was thick with relief. “You were miles away. Heck, wish I was. Let’s head down so we can make that a reality, huh?”

“One second.” The Soldier tapped the kimoyo bead in his ear. “Steve? You there?” He heard a tremble in his voice, and willed it away. For a moment, the bead was silent. Then - 

“Castle here. The Captain’s busy. What is it, Barnes?”

As much as the Punisher rubbed him wrong, the Winter Soldier realised that he was relieved that he didn’t have to speak to Captain America. Not when he was still shaken. “How’re things looking up there?” he asked. 

“He was right.” The Soldier could hear the smile on the Punisher’s face. He hated it. “We’re hitting ‘em like a train. They’ve got no time to regroup; they’re trickling in, and we’re mowing ‘em down. Airfield’s locked up tight. We could play ball up here for years.”

“Okay.” The Soldier considered for a moment. Grounding himself. Getting his mind back on track. “We’re making our way down right now. When we’re done, I want to send this place to hell. How many explosives do you have?”

The Punisher laughed. It was a harsh sound, a laugh more suited for laughing at people than with them. “We’re in an airfield, Barnes. There’s gallons of jet fuel here. We could level this place ten times over.”

The Soldier found that thought vaguely comforting. “When you two have a free moment, I want you to rig this place to blow sky high. Ashes in the wind, you got that?”

“Gladly.” From the tone of his voice, he meant every word. “I’ll make my way down. Anything else?”

“No. Out.” The Soldier stood once more. He caught Hawkeye eyeing him in the reflection on the steel, and turned with a pang of irritation. “What?” he demanded.

“What’s going on, Jim?” Hawkeye’s voice had lost all levity. Now it was just anxiety for his friend. 

I can’t tell him. Not yet. Or he’ll do something stupid.

“It’s just… nerves,” he lied. “Not looking forward to going back down there. Seeing the other… canaries.”

Hawkeye’s face softened. “You’re gonna be fine.” His hand squeezed the Soldier’s shoulder encouragingly. “You’ve got me, and the Seventh Samurai over here.” He nodded at Psylocke, and smiled. “There’s nothing HYDRA can throw at us that we can’t handle together. Mkay?”

You saw what was down there as much as I did, Clint. “Yeah,” he replied, and pressed the button.

Psylocke started as the lift began its descent. Her hand went to the sheath at her back, then stopped as she saw her companions’ lack of reaction. “We are falling,” she remarked in a voice shadowed by caution. 

For a moment, the Soldier was lost. Wait. Feudal Japan. “Sai, have you… never been in an elevator before?” he asked. She shook her head, her normally stone face twisted in guarded confusion. He felt a grin spreading. “It’s a controlled fall,” he explained. “We’ll be fine.” Psylocke nodded, recovering her composure.

The doors slid open. A vicious combined scent of sweat, leather, and mold assailed their senses, and their noses wrinkled in unconscious sync. It was a boot-camp smell, but if the boot camp was never aired, so the smells of close confinement could fester and ripen and mingle, and seasoned with a hint of pesticide. The Soldier immediately resolved to spend as little time on this floor as possible, before he got trench-foot by osmosis (his companions reached much the same conclusion in their own linguistic flavours). 

As the team made their way through, the sheer emptiness of the level became abundantly clear. A barracks it might have been, but there wasn’t a soldier in sight. They’ve probably all been deployed to deal with Steve and Frank, the Soldier mused. Besides our friends in the office.

These walls had more decoration, but one quick look told the Soldier that it was all HYDRA propaganda. Be Part Of The Face Of Change!, one poster challenged the reader, over a picture of an Aryan man and woman smiling at the camera, holding hands. Shape The Future With Us!, read another, while two white blond male scientists looked into microscopes. Science And Cooperation!, over a man toiling in a prosperous farm, while another wiped sweat from his brow. And of course, at the bottom of them all, was HYDRA’s brand: Hail HYDRA! The Soldier felt his anger boiling, and turned away, his eyes trained on his destination. They never change. They’re still trying to twist humanity for their own ends. Still playing God with their eugenics and their “master race” rhetoric. It’s just a new lens to filter their Nazisms through. 

“Buck.”

I’ve seen what the future could be in Wakanda. But “scientific advancement” will always circle back to scientific racism with them. “Science and cooperation” will pick up the torch of Lebensraum. Yeah, they’re shaping the future. Shaping our future into their future.

“Hey, Bucky!”

The Soldier blinked. He turned around, and saw Hawkeye a dozen paces behind him, half-leaning out of a doorway. “What is it, Clint?” he asked.

“Starbucks. They’re doing a 9-millimetre special.” Hawkeye pointed to the sign next to the door. ARMORY.“Come get your juice,” he grinned, and vanished back inside.

The Soldier had fired one round so far, and that was to scare a group of scientists. He was rather proud of that. Plus, I don’t think any amount of bullets can kill that. But hey…

The armoury was the size of a library, and Hawkeye was strolling through it like an especially-agitated librarian when he arrived. “No,” he muttered, as he passed a shelf of rifles. “No,” as he breezed past a rack of ammo vests. “Aha!” he finally exclaimed. He drew a small sidearm off a shelf, and returned to the doorway, where Psylocke was waiting, her face its usual camouflage of patience. 

“Something for a beginner,” Hawkeye smiled genially, and offered it to her, handle-first. Psylocke took it. Beneath her mask of professionalism, her face was a study in distaste. Only then did Hawkeye see the Soldier in the doorway, and the smile faded into exasperation. “No arrows,” he said in a Can you believe it? tone. “I mean, surely at least one of these HYDRA thugs likes to let fly every now and then. I’m not asking for much here, I’ve brought my own, but, come on. Really?”

It was the Soldier’s turn to smile. “She turned four guys into scrambled eggs a few minutes ago, Clint,” he pointed out. “I don’t think she needs a gun.”

“She’s got a sword, Buck,” Hawkeye replied, in the tone of one talking to a toddler. “Something with a little more range might keep her alive.”

“You’ve got a bow and arrow.”

“Yeah. And?”

“It’s the twenty-first century, Clint.”

“All the more reason she should have a gun!” He flipped a hand at the Soldier in exasperation. “I dunno what your toy takes, but the ammo’s over. There. Somewhere–” He pointed vaguely to the back-left corner of the room. “-- So I’m sure you’ll figure it out.” He returned to the shelves, giving them one final once-over in search of the arrows that weren’t there.

The Soldier obliged him. He made his way to the back-left corner, where he found a large revolving shelf of weapons magazines, reminiscent of a book stand. The labels were all white with black text, so he ran his finger along the nameplates as he searched. Steve’s fine, Frank’s wiring the place. I can take my time. Make sure everything’s ready to go. Right? 

“James.”

He jumped. Psylocke was at his shoulder, looking at him expectantly. 

“Sai,” he replied, as the shock flushed adrenaline through his system. “Firearm not to your taste?”

“I believe my powers make such a weapon unnecessary.” 

“Yeah, I’d say.” The Soldier turned back to the magazine racks. No. No. Clint, this is rifle ammo. He turned away from the shelf. Psylocke was still standing there, looking at him. Looking through him, it seemed. “What?” he said for the second time today, exasperated.

She paused for a moment. “In all my travels, I have met many different yokai,” she began. “They all had different aspects that made them a unique challenge. I have slain them in the form of spiders. Snakes. Even dragons.” That look was back. That look that might be pity. “But very few of them relied on physical strength or speed. The yokai of my world played with minds. 

“The Buddha tells us that mind, body, and soul must all be nurtured. I believe this is true. I keep my body well-trained, that I do not lack physically. But the mind is more important. A warrior who has lost their mind is not one who can fight.” 

The Soldier turned to her. “You reading my mind?” He paused, and in that moment, with no evidence at all, he decided he could trust her. “...That how you know?”

“I cannot read minds, James.” Though that pity was still there, her voice was flat. Unchallenging, yet unyielding. “But I know when a fellow warrior is troubled. I know you are now.

“You promised me that you would have the strength to do what is necessary. Do you still believe you will?”

I have to. “Yes.”

She paused for a moment, taking his measure. At last, she nodded. “Then I will still be there.”

The Soldier took a deep breath. “Thank you, Sai.” He looked half-heartedly at the magazine rack, and found that he had lost all interest in stocking up. “Clint!” he called.

Hawkeye strolled over, with a vague look of disappointment. “Yeah, bud?” he asked, the slightest hint of misery in his voice. 

“Let’s get moving.”

That perked him up. “We finally off to see the wizard?”

“Yeah. Yeah, we are.”

They passed through the rest of the foul-smelling second level in silence. The Soldier had no complaints; he had a lot on his mind. She saw right through me, he thought. She was helping then, but… I need to be careful with her.

At the very end of the corridor, tucked around a corner, they found the door. AUTHORIZED ACCESS ONLY, it read. A keypad ensured that rule was followed.

“Aw, gee, Buck.” Hawkeye had put on a ‘boy scout’ voice. “I think we’re authorised, dontcha think?” He grinned, reaching into his quiver. The arrow he revealed with a flourish was tipped with a cylinder painted red, with a hint of glitter. The Soldier knew from experience that this was another toy from Hawkeye’s bag of tricks: a thermite arrow. He nocked the arrow and backed up several paces. His companions followed. “Stand back, ladies and gents,” he muttered, and loosed. 

The arrow struck the keypad, and an intense light blasted the Soldier’s retinas, coupled with a fizzing sound, as the chemical reaction worked its magic. After about a minute, the fizzing faded into nothingness, and they turned back around. Where the keypad and lock had once barred their entrance, now their path was unimpeded. Hawkeye pushed the door, and it swung open, revealing a narrow, claustrophobic staircase leading straight down, illuminated only by the haunting green flicker of fire safety lights.

“Wonderful,” he commented, eyebrows raised. He turned to the Soldier. “Well, it’s your mission, Big Buck. Age before beauty.”

The Soldier stood at the top of the stairs. All right. You’re waiting? Well, here I come.

He took the first step down into the dark.