Imprint

A damp earthy smell permeates the air, a precursor to the deluge waiting to fall from the dark clouds heavy with rain. A few scattered droplets ping against the metal of Bucky’s arm. The intricate plates tighten as he grasps the ship’s railing and rips a segment of pipe free. The small armada of skiffs is close enough to reveal the groups of black-clad men huddled together, five or six to each skiff, braced against the choppy water. The boats are splitting, swarming around both sides of the ship to surround it. He hurls the improvised spear. It pierces clean through the hull of one of the boats. Probably hit someone, judging by the shriek that rises over the noise of crashing waves. Damn. He was aiming for the motor. The pop of gunfire and burst of bullets ricocheting across the deck forces Bucky to retreat into the shelter provided by the cargo containers. It’s a terrible spot to be. The layout is nothing like the terminal in Madripoor. Here the containers are stacked into neat, orderly, grid-pattern chunks, creating a nice wide kill box occupied by one Bucky Barnes.  He runs, feet pounding on the steel deck and propelling him forward with super human speed, mind parsing down information to come up with a plan.

Open spaces: disadvantage. Enemy is well armed. Current arsenal: four knives, Vibranium arm, good right hook. Lower decks are all narrow hallways and side rooms. Pros: Reduced effectiveness of ranged weaponry and numbers, advantageous for close combat. Cons: Small nooks and crannies provide excellent hiding spots for an ambush. No room for Sam to maneuver.

A tremor shudders through the soles of his feet. The puddles of water on the ground from the light patter of rain ripple and rise off the deck. Bucky smashes his metal arm into the door of a shipping container and jerks to a halt. Just in time, too. The containers ahead of him explode across the aisle, spilling their contents as the disemboweled containers roll violently across the corridor.

A man steps out into the carnage. He’s covered head to toe in some kind of thick patterned suit. The body and mask are a subdued dirty yellow while the tactical gear and straps are mud brown. Massive metal gauntlets envelop his fists, the ends of which crackle and hum with some type of energy. Great. They brought the weird weapons.

“Nice outfit.” Bucky calls. “Quilt it yourself?” Because nobody can deny the strange patterning on the outfit resembles a quilted blanket.

“Ha Ha.” The man spits out sardonically. “Haven’t heard that one fifty times. Name’s The Shocker.”

Oh no. He’s chatty. That’s even worse. They haven’t just brought the weird weapons; they’ve brought the gimmicky guys. He makes a sour face, fiercely reminded of the annoying spider-kid. Better make this quick. The tramp of many boots and click of safetys being released is rapidly growing closer, signaling the arrival of Sparky’s backup.

Bucky yanks on the door his fist is buried in and rips it off the hinges, hurling at the guy as a distraction while he closed the distance between them. The weirdo must have some experience because he bats it aside with one gauntlet, the rain suspended for a moment in rippling waves in front of him as the shockwave blows it away, and meets Bucky’s vibranium fist with the other. The metal arm absorbs the impact like a champ. The rest of him, not so much. The pulse flings him back ten feet and he smashes into the corner of a container so hard it leaves a dent.

Rain starts pouring down harder, covering the world in a white haze and obscuring everything outside a fifteen foot perimeter. The Icy deluge instantly soaks Bucky down to the bone. He scrambles to his feet and half leaps half rolls out of the way as a gauntlet comes smashing down where he lay a second ago. The shockwave sends him skidding across the deck into another container. The four guys hiding in the shadowed side corridor next to it are taken by complete surprise.  Bucky snatches the muzzle of the assault rifle thrust in his face and jerks it to the left, causing the guy to empty half a clip into the ground. He yanks it forward, pulling the goon off balance, and then sharply shoves it back, soundly cracking the guy in the face with the butt of his own gun.

Bucky throws himself backwards around the front of the container to avoid the spray of bullets unleashed by the other three. Hot pain slices across his thigh. He leaps, catching onto the rim of the top container and heaving himself up. “Above!” Somebody screams over the pouring rain and Bucky staggers into a run. The new angle ruins their sight lines. Shots ping uselessly against the edge of the containers. Even better, they have no way to follow. Well, except for one. Quilt guy angles his gauntlets at the ground and fires, propelling himself up and cutting off Bucky’s escape. Bucky slides to a halt. It’s risky to get close. The guy doesn’t even need to punch him. Just needs to get near enough to blast him back down on the ground, then Bucky’s swiss cheese.

“Look.” The guy starts, raising his arms in a display of submission and inching towards his quarry. “I don’t like this whole killing thing. Too messy. So how about you stand down and I take you in alive. Broker can even make it worth your while. Nice digs, three squares, pretty ladies, the works. He takes care of his people”

Bucky draws one of his knives, idly twirling it in his fingers. “Kinda sounds like being a pet. Had enough of that already.”

Those raised arms lower into a shrug, then clench into fists as he brings the gauntlets up. “Gotta be somebody’s dog. That’s just the way the world works.”

It strikes a chord. Anger burns hot in Bucky’s veins as bares his teeth in a rictus snarl and hurls the knife. The air ripples as a shockwave knocks it out of the way. Bucky’s right behind it, fist raised. It’s a repeat of his earlier tactics: distract, then strike. The Quilt responds in kind, angling to counter punch.

What a sucker. Fell for the oldest trick in the book.

Sam swoops down and dive kicks the guy in the back, sending him sailing forwards right into Bucky’s fist. The metal shipping container thuds hollowly as Shocker slams down on top of it. The guy grunts and rolls sharply on his side, using his weird pulse thingys to boost himself away and avoid the kick Bucky aimed at his face. What the hell. Is this guy enhanced too? Most people go down like a limp noodle after a hit like that.

Sam lands next to Bucky. “What’s this guy’s deal?”

The weirdo answers for them, laughing wetly as he pushes himself up. Spots of red dot the mask around mouth and nose. The crackling noise of the gauntlets amps up as he cranks a notch up, the energy sparking wildly out of control “Vibration absorbent. Impact resistant. Everyone always makes fun of the suit… but it lets me do things like this.”

A blast rips forth out of the gauntlets. The man is thrown back from the force, smacking painfully into the edge of the container behind. The rain melts away, revealing the edge of the shockwave and the devastation in wrecks in perfectly clarity. The final six rows of containers go flying, burying the gun toting men below and crumpling the bridge of the ship. The carbon fiber falcon wings wrap around the pair, cradling them as they careen into the side of the ship with an awful crunch. The wings twitch and spark and ultimately fall lifelessly to either side.

Sam shoves the solid heavy lump that is Bucky off and they both slump, groaning. He twitches, rapidly unbuckling the harness as the damaged repulsor engine shorted and shock him. “Shit” He breaths while shoving the scrapped wings away.

“Prob’ly could have saved them...” Bucky groaned

Sam thunks his head back into the wall “Don’t you say it.”

“-If we’d had that-“

“DON’T SAY IT!”

“- that shield.”

Sam howls in frustration.

The rain begins to thin, revealing the destruction below. A fire’s broken out, sending thick acrid smoke billowing into the sky. The Broker’s men are regrouping and swarming over the spilled contents of the crates like ants.

“C’mon.” Bucky’s muscles scream in protest as he levers himself up, using the wall for support. The wound in his thigh is throbbing and it feels like his head’s been put in a blender. But they’re not safe yet. They’re still in danger. Sam’s still in danger. He grasps his friend’s hand and helps him up, and his ribs really aren’t happy with that, but he grits his teeth and groans through the pain. “C’mon we gotta go. Please tell me you’ve got a plan, ‘cause I’m out of ideas.”

Sam squeezes Bucky’s arm once in thanks before sliding out of his grasp. He turns, limping towards the port side, nodding his head for Bucky to follow. He taps a finger to the receiver in his ear and radios urgently. “Zemo, you better be ready because we’re out of time. Coming up port side now.” Because of course. Of course Zemo’s the one with a plan.

Activity picks up behind them. Shouting. Running. It won’t be long before they’re shooting again. Sam’s not moving fast enough. Bucky picks up the pace, pressing a hand into Sam’s back to propel him forward. It still isn’t fast enough. Something’s coiling in Bucky’s chest. It binds his lungs, squeezes his heart, and narrows his focus to a single point of thought: not safe, not safe. Get Sam safe. He pushes harder, moving faster than Sam can keep up.

“Bucky, what’re you- BUCKY!”

Bucky throws Sam onto his shoulder.

They may have to rename him ‘the chicken’ with all the squawking he does.

No longer hindered by the need to move at Sam’s limping pace Bucky breaks out into a run. All protests from his reluctant passenger are cut off as he clings for dear life. Good. Less distraction. He runs to the port side railing and looks left and right. The coastline of some unknown nation is not far off the port bow, but there is no Zemo in sight.

“James.” His head snaps down to the water below. The baron sits at the back of a stolen boat, hand on the motor, ready to go.

“Brace yourself.” Bucky orders his protesting rider, and it’s cold and flat and sounds remarkably like the rasp of the Winter Soldier. He doesn’t wait for confirmation and immediately vaults over the railing. It’s easily a twenty foot drop into the boat below. Sam digs his fingers into the Soldier’s shoulder, because he’s used to falling but that’s when he’s wearing wings. The Soldier lodges his fingers into the hull of the ship before they land, slowing their decent enough that they don’t capsize the skiff. He drops Sam into a seat, leaning in close and inspecting him.

“Bucky-“

No obvious signs of injury. Possible fractures from impact. He tries to thumb open one of Sam’s eyes to check for a concussion but his hand is slapped away.

“-Stop it. Stop! “

Condition is acceptable for now. He turns his gaze to Zemo. The man watches them carefully. As usual. Aside from being soaked through he is in an immaculate state. As usual. He sits with one hand on the rudder and one hand resting on his knee, clutching a small detonator. “Hello again, Soldat”. He greets. The Soldier nods. The baron’s lips curve into a smile. He presses his thumb down on the little red button. Nine explosions erupt around the ship. The other boats, he surmises.

Means of pursuit: severed.

Reassessment: Zemo’s plans are not entirely stupid.

Zemo guns it. The soldier almost bites his tongue off as the boat zips away, bouncing and skipping over the choppy waters as they race for land. Bullets whizz past and splash into the ocean as the attackers fire from the prow of the ship. The Soldier shifts to the back beside the baron, angling himself to block the shots with his metal arm. Sam is still fussing, pulling at the Soldier, trying to make him duck down under the seats for safety.”Get down! What’re you- Bucky get down!” Ignore. Personal safety is currently mission non-compliant. He will remain here and protect mission principals. With his body, if he must

His position gives him a perfect view of the quilt-man hefting a rocket launcher onto his shoulder.

Where do they keep getting those.

Fire blooms behind the mercenary and the RPG launches

“Swerve!” The soldier commands. The boat cuts right. It won’t be enough. It’s too late, they’re still in the blast radius. The soldier grasps both of his charges by the shoulder and heaves them all over the side. The rocket detonates on the water’s surface right as the icy ocean swallows them whole.

Salty water stings the Baron’s eyes. Choking water floods his nose. The coat drags him down, a dead weight pulling him towards an icy grave. He shucks the article of clothing, allowing it to be forever lost to the depths. He swims, lungs burning, blindly racing towards a surface that always seems one stroke away but never comes.

It’s startling when he finally breeches. He gasps for air and chokes as the frothing sea batters him. “JAMES!” He cries over the cacophony of beating rain on the water’s surface. “SAM!”

Visibility on the surface is almost zero. He dives beneath, forcing his eyes open against the painful burn of saltwater. It’s dark and murky, but he can catch the dark smudges indicating the wreckage of their boat bobbing on the surface. He surfaces again and battles against the waves, fighting to reach the one point of contact in the roiling waters. Tremors wrack his body from the cold. A faint voice rises over the waves but he can’t decipher who it is or what they’re saying.

The waves dip, revealing his destination. Bucky Barnes is latched to the side of the capsized boat, vibranium fingers twisted into the metal hull, anchoring the unconscious man. His head lolls on his shoulders, dipping in and out of the freezing waters, blood oozing from a long gash on his forehead. Zemo reaches out, grasping the mooring ropes to steady himself and pushing James’ head out of drowning range. He places an ear to his chest and listens.  Still breathing. Excellent.

The voice calls again. It must be Sam. It is the most anxious high stakes game of Marco Polo as they yell over the waves trying to find each other. His teeth are chattering and the tips of his fingers blue by the time Sam swims into sight. He joins them on the debris. James has rousted little in the time. There is little they can do to help while lost at sea.

“The t-tide will bring us in.” Sam stammers through his shivers. “W-we aren’t that f-f-far from l-land.”

Half an hour is all it takes. It feels like eternity, adrift, waiting, huddled around James because the man is a furnace even in these frigid waters. It is a miracle when their feet scrape the sandy bottom. “Come on, Buck.”Sam coaxes gently, trying to detangle the metal fingers from where they clutch for life on the boat. “Let go, we’re here, we made it.” The man blinks slowly, pupils not responding properly. A clear concussion. 

“You did well, James.” Zemo joins. “It’s time to let go.”

The fingers slip loose and James slides into the water. Sam catches him under the arms, dragging him back to shore. All three of them collapse on the sandy beach, breathing heavily, exhausted from their endeavor. Zemo’s eyes slide closed. Just a moment. Just one moment to breathe and be alive.