Till the End of the Line

I should've died. We should've died, but we didn't. For some reason, we both survived.

He stared at the museum's elaborate display. The black panels covered with fine white writing with a black and white image of a man and the title 'A Fallen Comrade'. It was like staring at his own reflection in a distorted mirror. He recognised the face, the name, the life story, but the man on the display was not him. At least, not anymore. Those dreadful HYDRA beasts had transformed him into a murderous weapon. With many painful pokes and prods, they had created someone to do their dirty work, some to take the blame for their bloodshed. As his memories of the past began to flood back, overriding the brainwashing and mental modifications HYDRA had performed repeatedly, so did his conscience, which painfully reminded him of the countless people who had died by his hand.

None of this would've happened if they had just left me to die, he thought, his mind torturing him with feelings of guilt and regret. If I had died back in 1945, I would not be trapped in this strange world in a time so far in the future. I would not have caused all this. I could be remembered as somewhat a hero, not a villain.

Seeing images of World War II's patriotic soldier Captain America plastered throughout the exhibit brought back the most excruciating guilt of all. It shattered his cold, HYDRA-fied heart knowing that he had almost murdered the only person left in the world that truly cared about him, the one person who would always see the good in him no matter how horrifying his actions were. The pain inflicted on him by HYDRA's torturous converting methods could not compare to the pain of regret he felt for his actions. Overcome with feelings of guilt, he exited the museum exhibit, keeping his head down to hide his shameful face from those who surrounded him.

His eyes still had not adjusted to what the world now looked like. So much had changed since the 1940s. He glanced at the more advanced cars that were crammed onto the road, people walking along the path with fancy mobile devices clutched in their hands, and the vibrant electronic signs advertising a variety of events and items. He soon found himself in front of a library. He peered through the clear glass door at the peaceful environment inside. Craving a quiet place to clear his mind and attempt to forget the recent chaos, he decided to go inside. The library was relatively quiet. It was occupied with students, most likely studying or researching, a few older men and women reading novels, and some young children with their parent's reading picture books or sitting at the table and chairs scribbling on paper with coloured crayons. He stood stationary near the entrance, unsure of what he should do.

"May I help you, sir?" asked a woman, perhaps in her mid-sixties, with greyish blonde hair and oval-framed glasses.

"Um… could I please borrow a pen and paper?" he mumbled, keeping his head low. "I need to write a letter to someone."

"A letter, eh? Well, it's nice to see some young people doing it the old-fashioned way," she said with a friendly smile, then gestured to a desk over near the bookshelves. "There's some right over there."

He mumbled his thanks, then retrieved a pen and paper from the desk. After staring at the blank page for some time, trying to grasp the words that would accurately express his thoughts and emotions, he finally began to write.

Steve,

I doubt this letter will ever fall into your hands, but right now I need some way of expressing my painful thoughts at this confusing time. I know I have committed some unforgivable crimes, so I don't understand why you didn't just kill me when you had the chance. I should've died, a long time ago. We should've died, but we didn't. For some reason, we both survived…

I know you will say that HYDRA is to blame for my crimes, that is was their manipulating and brainwashing is what made me into a murderous weapon, that I was forced to shed innocent blood on their behalf. While that is all true, the innocent blood was still shed by my hand. Thankfully, I don't remember all the horrific things I've done since becoming property of HYDRA, but I can imagine they would be deeds of a malicious nature. I am still burdened with guilt. I wanted to be a respected man; that is why I joined the war in the first place all those years ago. I wanted to fight for safety and peace, not for power. I wanted to fight against the Nazis, not for them. Instead, I've become the opposite. I'm not a hero, like you. I'm a villain. What pains me the most is that you nearly became simply another name on my assassination list. Although I would've preferred it if you'd just killed me, I guess I owe you thanks for sparing my life, and for continuing to see good in me despite knowing I wasn't the man you knew in the past. Thanks to you, I now remember who I am. My memories are slowly starting to return (the 'Captain America' exhibit at the museum gave me a bit of a head start).

You survived your accident because this world needs you. They needed you back then, and they need you now. You're a hero, Steve, and I couldn't be prouder of you. I survived my accident because HYDRA needed a weapon, so I guess I no longer have a purpose in this world. Perhaps I have chance to reclaim my old identity, or maybe it's too late for that…

I don't know if I will ever get the chance to see you again, brother. But even if I don't, I want you to know that I'm with you till the end of the line.

-James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes

Author's Notes: This story was written as part of the "Survival Theme" for the Theme Writing Challenge at the forum The Hostile Takeover, but I've been wanting to write a Winter Solider fic for a while anyway. I just needed some inspiration.

Also, avoiding using Bucky's name until the end was intentional. It was supposed to show that, although he remembered who he was, he still really didn't feel it (so… yeah, it was supposed to be somewhat meaningful, don't know if it really came across that way).

Thanks for reading!

-Jaz