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The first thing he felt was numb. The blessed absence of sensation that lasted precious seconds before it gave way to the agony. It was freezing and boiling all at once. He felt trapped in his own skin but at the same time wanted burrow deep into the recesses of his mind to feel warmth.
The torture slowly abated and he began to wake up, registering people discuss his heart rate in hushed voices. He felt a small prick in his neck before more syringes prodded him. His eyes began to open, the bright light stinging his eyes, making them water. He looked around and saw only light reflecting off of sleek, silver medical instruments. He turned to his left and looked at his arm. A hollowness crept through him, seeming to choke off his next breath, blocking his airways until spots danced before his eyes. He quickly turned away, sucking a greedy breath into his lungs.
He could almost remember the feeling of having a flesh and blood arm. He thought about the seconds he could remember, where he saw hair the colour of spun gold, and a laugh that made his stomach spin circles. He spent a few precious seconds in his reverie before the people in coats surrounding him took notice of his consciousnesses. They streamed out of the room hastily, sending wide-eyed looks of fear at him. He vaguely remembered seeing men in coats with that same expression and a glinting arm reaching for their throats before the memory slips through his mind, like sand through his fingers.
He fought the cloudiness in his head, trying to keep it at bay until his lids drooped, succumbing to pressure of the sedatives he now realized were in the needles.
***
His eyes snapped open, suddenly alert, taking quick stock of his surroundings, quietly thankful of the painless awakening. He barely registered the paperwork and the new clothing on the table beside him, just pulled them on and picked up the folder on the bed. Opening the file, he looked at the image.
The old man seemed eager to have this target dead. He spoke to the man with fish lips next to him as if he wasn't really there, just a pawn. He spoke of how good it was going to be to see "The high and mighty Captain America" fall for the last time. They laughed as if it was the funniest thing in the world, leaving the room without so much as a backwards glance.
He closed the file and tried to forget the icepick feeling he got when he saw the name. Steven Grant Rogers. The name burned his brain and the more he tried to remember the more acute the pain became so he let it go, knowing in a matter of days he would forget it all over again, even if he could find the memories.
He stood and began to arm himself. Not bothering to put the flesh coloured sleeve on his arm, he went straight for the weapons cache. Sliding Kevlar body armour on, he grabbed a semi-automatic and strapped it to his back. Adding a selection of pistols and a Sig Sauer, he began to walk away but a glint caught his eye. Before he could think on the rash decision he grabbed the familiar pocket knife, sliding it into the sleeve holster.
Closing the door to the suite, he left the cheap motel and walked straight towards the group of heavily guarded SUVs. Ostentatious, he thought, jumping into the back. He soon focused on his target, studying all the files they had on him, reluctant to suffer another failure as he had done with the man in the eye patch. He had finished the job eventually, but his handlers felt the mistake warranted consequences. He couldn't remember if he had been punished before, but the feeling of the jammed nerves in what remained of his left arm being electrocuted held a familiarity for him. The car rolled to a stop quietly, not far from the motel. He stepped out and completed a rendezvous with the extraction team. The monotony of his actions lulled him into a kind of daydream.
The next thing he knew he was on the roof of a car, grabbing the steering wheel. As the car veered to the rails he jumped off, falling back into autopilot. He felt as if he was watching someone else reach for a knife, desperately trying to kill the man from the file. Launched out of his stupor by a rough fall to the ground, he didn't notice the absence of the muzzle. He began walking towards the blond man with hair like golden sun-no, target, his mind fought back-and was jerked backwards when he sent him a look that knocked the wind out of him.
"Bucky," the man asked, eyes confused and happy and desperate, taking in his face like a dying man.
Shaking off the shudder that ran through him at the almost childish hopeful voice, he gave him an empty look.
"Who the hell is Bucky?"