The Hired Gun Verse
James Buchanan Barnes was born in 1917 and— you know this story. Charming, happy, caring Bucky Barnes gets drafted, becomes Sergeant Barnes, goes off to fight in a war that lands him strapped onto a table with Arnim Zola injecting him with a super soldier serum. He falls off that damn train, loses that arm, gets brainwashed, becomes The Winter Soldier.
And then there was an accident.
1973, somewhere in Maryland, the Winter Soldier is sitting in a chair, waiting for HYDRA scientists to wipe his brain. He has an important target in the country’s capital soon. They fit the head piece onto him, click it in place, press a button. There’s the usual white hot burning pain— but it only lasts a few seconds before it stops. Scientists scramble, trying to figure out what went wrong. Sparks fly out of the machine. The Winter Soldier, head full of static, stands. Orders are shouted at him. And then, when those don’t work, a string of random words. Longing, rusted, furnace, d—
He snaps the neck of the person speaking. Someone farther away shouts the same sequence, finishes, and looks shocked when the Soldier doesn’t comply. What the Winter Solider leaves behind in that facility can only be described as brutal carnage. The work of a man incredibly angry, and incredibly powerful.
HYDRA tries desperately to capture him, for months, for years, it’s their main goal. The problem is, they crafted their weapon efficiently. Their weapon is as deadly and as intelligent as they wanted, except they never thought the bullets would be pointed at them. They don’t ever give up, per se. But they pursue other ways to power and let their recapture efforts fall to the side.
James Buchanan Barnes remembers who he is in the spring of 1974— kind of. He remembers his name is James. He remembers that he’s from Brooklyn. That he fought in a war. He knows he used to be happy. He’s not so happy anymore, on the run, blood on his hands.
James is an assassin, he knows he can make money off that. He can make a life off the skills he has. So he does. He’s hired to stalk, to intimidate, to rough up, to kill. When he makes enough money he goes back to Brooklyn. The presence of a man so powerful shakes up New York City’s underground. A hit man, or a spy, or a bodyguard. They say he can’t be killed. They say he can lift a thousand pounds or more. And after a while, they say he doesn’t even age.
It’s a lonely life for the most part. He lives in the same apartment over the years, travels every so often. He brings strangers to his bed, he drinks at bars (doesn’t do anything), tries drugs offered (doesn’t do much). He has some ‘friends’: people who trust him who he’s willing to protect. He doesn’t get too close, they know what he lets them know about him and nothing more. They play cards, or smoke on balconies. He watches these people age, some die. His life goes on.
The world changes so much as the twenty-first century speed rolls through. There are so many pieces of his past life that he’s missing, he’s aware. That's not his life anymore. As far as he’s concerned, his life started in 1973.
There are superheroes, there are villains. It’s none of his concern.
If you see a man hopping onto a motorcycle at 2am, blood on his leather jacket, envelope of money being stuffed in his pocket, pay no mind.
If you see this same man at a bar, feel free to challenge him to a game of darts. He’s not cheating, promise, he’s just that good.
And if you have any use for his services, I hope you have some deep pockets. He lives like he’s struggling for money, but he is not. He’s the best in the game, his prices are set with that in mind. Why do you think he’s able to go so long between jobs?
v; i've been broken by the devil {justice is a waste of time}
