manhattan, new york city. 2018. but bucky doesn’t feel right in 2018. he stands in central park, shooting glances at his surroundings. families, kids playing. woman jogging on his right, a green lawn beneath his feet. cars buzzing, people walking, and there’s a bridge somewhere, up there, in front of him. like a vet who returns from war, he struggles falling back in line to civillian life. the war wasn’t seventy or so years ago. the war was just yesterday. he peers down at his chest and he remembers, his howling commandos uniform. it was sharp, he was proud. now he wears civilian clothes. he doesn’t recognize himself, anymore. he has long messy hair and a beard he’s skeptical to cut. change to his routine, felt like chaos right now. marks on his body he couldn’t explain, were never there, when hydra first captured him. and, worst of all, the metal arm. he peers down at the metallic fingertips and flexes each one. this was the biggest mystery on his body. how did he end up with an entirely metallic arm and not remember it? it fit like a glove, maybe because his real arm was gone. he could tell from the handiwork. it reminded him of the vibranium from steve’s shield, but that was a long time ago. each day was a new day, but his war stories felt like a recurring dream. he sleeps, and remembers falling off a train. he wakes, a soldier in a civilian world. then he wonders new york, finds himself in different places struggling to fall in line, like now. he goes like clockwork. he doesn’t belong here. his eyes raise with a steady look, jaw clenches, body tenses a little. and the question he asks himself every day, he asks again. aloud. “what the hell is this?”
