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This was my second idea as the first one wasn't working out as I hoped. I kind of failed at creepy, this turned out more angsty and sad. :( .I wrote this in about little over an hour after work in the food court when I was waiting for my ride. This is the short version. I have a longer version that I added to this and finishing up and will post later at ao3. ( might also post the short version there too) Cross posted for week 9 at ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
mcuflashmeme Without much further ado, here it goes....
Warnings for angst, blood, graphic violence, death ( not major character). Bucky Barnes as the Winter Soldier and his point of view.
***
One for sorrow, Two for joy, Three for a girl, Four for a boy, Five for silver, Six for gold, Seven for a secret Never to be told.
***
One For Sorrow
He kept them in a box, souvenirs--mementos. He didn't know why. Maybe to jar a memory--a memory he couldn't grasp. To remember a time, a mission, a face. They let him keep it, the wood, black , lacquered box, stored away with his guns and TAC gear--let him open it and touch each item. The tactical feel against his flesh hand was comforting as he counted each one. A calmness settled in his bones as he sorted through the box. They said the contents were his--a collection. He wasn't sure of the significance of it. All he knew it was his and they let him keep it.
"Do you remember?" A handler spoke.
He picked up a brass button, flipping it between his knuckles like a coin. Not knowing why he knew how to do this, he just did.
"No." He shook his head. No, he didn't, but it didn't stop him from looking in the box. Was there more items this time? He couldn't be sure. One, two, three, four--he counted until he had twenty-one. Maybe he could add another today. He had a mission.
An important mission. One he was worthy of, that no one else could do. His skills were needed for the good of mankind. Someone was going to die today. It was for the greater good. Chaos swept clean, evil eliminated with a flick of a knife or crack of a rifle.
It was almost child's play how easy it could be. It wasn't that he enjoyed it, it was that he was good at it. He took a certain pride in that. To be needed, to be the best. Child's play--if he could remember being a child or if he ever was one. All he knows he was born from pain and strife. Born to cleanse the earth with fire and blood--until they told him it was done. But it never was done. There was always one more enemy, one more purge.
So he went on collecting--one item at a time. A ribbon, a key, a coin, a ring--each memento was one small death in the larger scheme of things. But he wanted to remember each one, each face. To know they existed at one time like he exists now. But many times he could not recall, like his name. Others had names, he did not. Not really. It was his profession, soldier--asset. But not a name. He had just a number he could recall--3255. Was he one of many or the last of his kind? A dying breed. And he wondered.
***
The knife went deep, severing through flesh, tendons--a second smile--as the head, flopped back, still attached by the spinal cord, the neck bones--but little else. The blood gushed thick, wet, sticky as he carefully dropped the woman to the floor. He used too much force on such a delicate throat, one he could have crushed with his weaker hand. He used the stronger one and the cut became deeper, longer for it.
Maybe it was that he wanted to hold the slender column of skin and bone in his flesh hand. To feel the fluttering pulse, the texture of silky skin-- which his other hand could not-- a blunt weapon of force, able to tell hot, cold or pressure but little else. Then the flood of warmth as blood had coated his hand.
Crouching down, he wiped his hand on her gauzy blouse--sheer and now painted dark red. His fingers touched her cheek, eyes still open--blank, bottle green--mouth parted as if to draw a breath, exhale. His hand closed her eyes--brushed at her ear. A small pearl dotted in red and he plucked it off, rolling the smooth, hard marble in his fingers-- white, red, pink. And dropped it into one of his pockets. Another token, another memory, another face.
Maybe he made this death more memorable, special, within perimeters, that he would recall it later. Maybe this time he would remember.
***
He opened his box. He always counted the items, each one.
"Do you remember?" A handler spoke to him.
He picked up a pearl earring. It wasn't clean, smeared in pink.
"No." He shook his head. No, he didn't, but it didn't stop him from looking in the box. Was there more items this time? He couldn't be sure. One, two, three, four--he counted until he had twenty-two. Maybe he could add another today. He had a mission.
mcuflashmeme Without much further ado, here it goes....Warnings for angst, blood, graphic violence, death ( not major character). Bucky Barnes as the Winter Soldier and his point of view.
***
One for sorrow, Two for joy, Three for a girl, Four for a boy, Five for silver, Six for gold, Seven for a secret Never to be told.
***
One For Sorrow
He kept them in a box, souvenirs--mementos. He didn't know why. Maybe to jar a memory--a memory he couldn't grasp. To remember a time, a mission, a face. They let him keep it, the wood, black , lacquered box, stored away with his guns and TAC gear--let him open it and touch each item. The tactical feel against his flesh hand was comforting as he counted each one. A calmness settled in his bones as he sorted through the box. They said the contents were his--a collection. He wasn't sure of the significance of it. All he knew it was his and they let him keep it.
"Do you remember?" A handler spoke.
He picked up a brass button, flipping it between his knuckles like a coin. Not knowing why he knew how to do this, he just did.
"No." He shook his head. No, he didn't, but it didn't stop him from looking in the box. Was there more items this time? He couldn't be sure. One, two, three, four--he counted until he had twenty-one. Maybe he could add another today. He had a mission.
An important mission. One he was worthy of, that no one else could do. His skills were needed for the good of mankind. Someone was going to die today. It was for the greater good. Chaos swept clean, evil eliminated with a flick of a knife or crack of a rifle.
It was almost child's play how easy it could be. It wasn't that he enjoyed it, it was that he was good at it. He took a certain pride in that. To be needed, to be the best. Child's play--if he could remember being a child or if he ever was one. All he knows he was born from pain and strife. Born to cleanse the earth with fire and blood--until they told him it was done. But it never was done. There was always one more enemy, one more purge.
So he went on collecting--one item at a time. A ribbon, a key, a coin, a ring--each memento was one small death in the larger scheme of things. But he wanted to remember each one, each face. To know they existed at one time like he exists now. But many times he could not recall, like his name. Others had names, he did not. Not really. It was his profession, soldier--asset. But not a name. He had just a number he could recall--3255. Was he one of many or the last of his kind? A dying breed. And he wondered.
***
The knife went deep, severing through flesh, tendons--a second smile--as the head, flopped back, still attached by the spinal cord, the neck bones--but little else. The blood gushed thick, wet, sticky as he carefully dropped the woman to the floor. He used too much force on such a delicate throat, one he could have crushed with his weaker hand. He used the stronger one and the cut became deeper, longer for it.
Maybe it was that he wanted to hold the slender column of skin and bone in his flesh hand. To feel the fluttering pulse, the texture of silky skin-- which his other hand could not-- a blunt weapon of force, able to tell hot, cold or pressure but little else. Then the flood of warmth as blood had coated his hand.
Crouching down, he wiped his hand on her gauzy blouse--sheer and now painted dark red. His fingers touched her cheek, eyes still open--blank, bottle green--mouth parted as if to draw a breath, exhale. His hand closed her eyes--brushed at her ear. A small pearl dotted in red and he plucked it off, rolling the smooth, hard marble in his fingers-- white, red, pink. And dropped it into one of his pockets. Another token, another memory, another face.
Maybe he made this death more memorable, special, within perimeters, that he would recall it later. Maybe this time he would remember.
***
He opened his box. He always counted the items, each one.
"Do you remember?" A handler spoke to him.
He picked up a pearl earring. It wasn't clean, smeared in pink.
"No." He shook his head. No, he didn't, but it didn't stop him from looking in the box. Was there more items this time? He couldn't be sure. One, two, three, four--he counted until he had twenty-two. Maybe he could add another today. He had a mission.
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