James "dumpster fire gijinka" Barnes (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
frostythehitman) wrote2026-03-16 10:54 pm
frostythehitman) wrote2026-03-16 10:54 pm
memshare: THE WINTER SOLDIER YEARS
You have no idea where you are. You have no idea where you've been. You have no idea who you are even supposed to be. But that doesn't matter. There are more important things to pay attention to--like the fact that the helmet is off and no longer hurting you, and that the men in suits and white coats tell you you have work to do.
There is a war, they tell you, and you are to be their secret weapon. A war fought in shadows, secrecy, and influence--and you, a man who can perfectly impersonate the enemy, are a key strategy in it.
They give you some training and then send you out into the field. A test. Impersonate an American soldier at a bar in West Berlin, pretending to be among your own. Tear out some wiring from an American Jeep, let it lose control and kill its three occupants when they try to return to their base after the bar. It's chalked up to a drunken accident--you made sure it would be--but even if it wasn't, you're already long gone, back to your masters.
They're delighted with your performance. And from there, it's a blur. A UN diplomatic negotiations team, trapped in a hotel as the building goes up in flames. A NATO general, sniped from a block away. A British ambassador, and everyone else at the party, slaughtered so neatly the police can't find any leads. The French defense minister, murdered with carefully planted evidence to implicate a populist movement in your wake. A peace conference convoy, bombed to shreds in the streets.
You thought you were doing well. Everything they ask of you, you execute flawlessly. Except one day, you nearly kill a fellow operative with your bare fists. Or so they tell you--you don't even remember it, or have any explanation as to why. Between that, and a failed mission where you broke cover to spare a young girl the sight of her traitor father being murdered in front of her, they decide to...put you away.
That's the best way you can describe it. They put you in a tank and it's so, so cold, it settles in your bones, and they walk away and you're alone, and then--
You have no idea where you are. You have no idea where you've been. You have no idea who you are even supposed to be. But that doesn't matter. They give you a mission. And when it's over, when the pulse vanishes, when the blood stops flowing, when the poison goes into effect, they put you back in the tank.
And then you have no idea where you are. You have no idea where you've been. But that doesn't matter. They give you a mission.
You have no idea where you are. You have no idea where you've been. But that doesn't matter. They give you a mission.
They give you a mission.
They give you a mission.
They give you a mission.
But then, one day, they--don't. You blink and realize that you never returned to your handlers after the kill. Instead, you're at a train station. Where? When? How did you get here? You have no idea. But something in the air smells familiar, which is not a word you've ever thought before, and you have a train ticket in hand. You bought the ticket, you take the train, you catch a bus--but you have no idea how or why. It's as if you sleepwalk your way through this land that feels so familiar it makes your teeth itch.
You're in a homeless shelter and you've been alive longer than you ever remember being (not that you remember anything before this anyway) when they finally come for you. Dressed as policemen, they incapacitate you and drag you out of the building, into an unmarked car, and next thing you know, you're back to where you started. The labs with the men in suits and white coats. Familiar, but in a way that makes you feel cold again.
They interrogate you for hours on end. Why did you not report in, where did you go, who did you talk to, were you seen on any cameras--you don't know. You can't explain any of it. You weren't even aware for half of it. As if you were piloted by some other thing entirely. They poke and prod and study you, but they can't seem to find an explanation either.
At the end, they put you back in the tank.
They give you a mission.
There is a war, they tell you, and you are to be their secret weapon. A war fought in shadows, secrecy, and influence--and you, a man who can perfectly impersonate the enemy, are a key strategy in it.
They give you some training and then send you out into the field. A test. Impersonate an American soldier at a bar in West Berlin, pretending to be among your own. Tear out some wiring from an American Jeep, let it lose control and kill its three occupants when they try to return to their base after the bar. It's chalked up to a drunken accident--you made sure it would be--but even if it wasn't, you're already long gone, back to your masters.
They're delighted with your performance. And from there, it's a blur. A UN diplomatic negotiations team, trapped in a hotel as the building goes up in flames. A NATO general, sniped from a block away. A British ambassador, and everyone else at the party, slaughtered so neatly the police can't find any leads. The French defense minister, murdered with carefully planted evidence to implicate a populist movement in your wake. A peace conference convoy, bombed to shreds in the streets.
You thought you were doing well. Everything they ask of you, you execute flawlessly. Except one day, you nearly kill a fellow operative with your bare fists. Or so they tell you--you don't even remember it, or have any explanation as to why. Between that, and a failed mission where you broke cover to spare a young girl the sight of her traitor father being murdered in front of her, they decide to...put you away.
That's the best way you can describe it. They put you in a tank and it's so, so cold, it settles in your bones, and they walk away and you're alone, and then--
You have no idea where you are. You have no idea where you've been. You have no idea who you are even supposed to be. But that doesn't matter. They give you a mission. And when it's over, when the pulse vanishes, when the blood stops flowing, when the poison goes into effect, they put you back in the tank.
And then you have no idea where you are. You have no idea where you've been. But that doesn't matter. They give you a mission.
You have no idea where you are. You have no idea where you've been. But that doesn't matter. They give you a mission.
They give you a mission.
They give you a mission.
They give you a mission.
But then, one day, they--don't. You blink and realize that you never returned to your handlers after the kill. Instead, you're at a train station. Where? When? How did you get here? You have no idea. But something in the air smells familiar, which is not a word you've ever thought before, and you have a train ticket in hand. You bought the ticket, you take the train, you catch a bus--but you have no idea how or why. It's as if you sleepwalk your way through this land that feels so familiar it makes your teeth itch.
You're in a homeless shelter and you've been alive longer than you ever remember being (not that you remember anything before this anyway) when they finally come for you. Dressed as policemen, they incapacitate you and drag you out of the building, into an unmarked car, and next thing you know, you're back to where you started. The labs with the men in suits and white coats. Familiar, but in a way that makes you feel cold again.
They interrogate you for hours on end. Why did you not report in, where did you go, who did you talk to, were you seen on any cameras--you don't know. You can't explain any of it. You weren't even aware for half of it. As if you were piloted by some other thing entirely. They poke and prod and study you, but they can't seem to find an explanation either.
At the end, they put you back in the tank.
They give you a mission.