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A Bucky Barnes Winter Soldier Fic - The Constant	By : TheConstant1944 Category: Marvel Verse Comics > Captain America Views: 2391 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own any Marvel characters. They are solely owned by Marvel and MCU. No money is made from this story.

Chapter List
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Chapter Ninety-Four
What is it you want?

Sometimes fate lends a helping hand. Things that happen all over the world come together at the right place and time.
People often remark on it being a small world, but is that the reason for coincidence or is there a greater plan?
A young dark haired French woman walks down the sidewalk on her way to the court. Her pace is fast and so is her speech as she talks to her mother on the telephone. She looks over the top of her glasses as she comes closer to her destination, wishes her mother goodbye, and puts her phone away. She climbs the steps into the coolness of the building.
Her name is Marion, and she was named after her grandmother. Marion is here in New York for two reasons. Firstly, she is visiting and staying with family friends. Secondly, she is attending the trial of the Winter Soldier - of Bucky Barnes – her grandmother's American soldier.
When Marion was young she spent a lot of time with her namesake who was a teller of stories. She could take a memory, a reminiscent and weave it around you so that it became a precious thing. Marion is a dreamer, very much like the woman she was named after. She loved to listen to her grandmother's reminiscences but she had a favourite one - because she knew it was her grandmother's favourite; her grandmother's eyes would always be brighter when she was telling this particular story. All the stories were true, but became more embellished with each retelling; like a cake with a sprinkle of icing sugar.
Her grandmother could also draw. She would do sketches of things and people that she talked about in her memories. When she sadly passed away, Marion had inherited her grandmother's sketch books; she had already inherited her love of drawing.
The story of the handsome American was a short one. It had happened during the Second World War when her grandmother was just fifteen. She had been playing ball with her dog, and the ball had fallen into the pond on the family farm. The dog had stupidly run in after it.
“I couldn't swim, I couldn't get in and there she was bravely trying to tread water but she couldn't get out. No one was home but then I heard a vehicle up on the road so I ran and flagged it down. I was besides myself, I didn't know what to do. The vehicle stopped. It was one of those American Jeeps and was full of young men, soldiers...all in uniform.” And at this her grandmother's eyes would twinkle, “but of course at that point I couldn't fully appreciate that!” she would laugh, but then grow serious. “One of the men in the front jumped out, he was an American, very dashing, tall. He could see how upset I was. I could see he couldn't follow what I was saying but he did understand enough to see it was an emergency and the men followed me back to the house. Well, when they saw it was just an old dog some of them laughed, shook their heads and returned to their vehicle.
But the American, he didn't, he gently touched my arm as if he was going to ask me to dance. He asked me my name. He had the most beautiful eyes you have ever seen, blue like the colour of cornflowers. He told me it would be all right. He is asked me if I had any rope. One of the other men, an Englishman, had also stayed but before I could answer, my poor dog who was suffering could not keep herself afloat any more and she went under. I thought I had lost her.
Without any other words he jumped in. Oh, the pond was so deep and such a mess, scum and weeds, no one had ever drained it. He took hold of my dog and held her to his chest and then swam back. I was so happy, so pleased. I took her in my arms and hugged her as hard as I could. Later Mama scolded me for the state my dress was in but I didn't care.
The poor American was soaked, all the scum had marked his uniform. I had to stand on tiptoe but I kissed his cheek and asked his name. “Bucky Barnes,” he said and he had smiled, it was like the sun coming out on a winters day. Such a beautiful smile and I was smitten. Did I ever tell you he was my first crush? Such a beautiful man but not just in appearance, in temperament as well. The way he looked at you made you feel special, made you feel safe.” Her eyes always sparkled at the memory as if she was young again.
And then her grandmother would show her the sketches she had made later that day. They were all of the young American soldier and underneath in her beautiful script she had written his name; Bucky Barnes.
Those sketches were the spitting image of the man now on trial. The man they called the Winter Soldier.
There is something people do not know about Marion. At times she goes by a different name to her given one but only very few people know that. She uses a pseudonym on some of her work: Emgee. On her satirical artwork. People have often wondered why that simple name. Well, it is simplicity itself. They are her actual initials, MG, but of course they have never known her real name so no one could ever guess who she was.
Marion had always wanted to be an artist. Her main work is for an animation company; if I were to mention some films you would recognise the titles and some of the creations within them are Marion's. She also loves to illustrate children's books, to make them as magical as her grandmother made her stories.
As she grew older, Marion became disillusioned with things happening in the world around her. One of her uncles owned a newspaper and at the start of her career she was following a case in the news. She sketched a satirical piece of political art that her uncle was so taken with he ran it in his newspaper. The work was signed 'Emgee' as she was too shy at the time to add her real name.
The piece was taken up by the National newspapers and so her uncle commissioned her to do some more, and now ten years later on her satirical comments are well known around the globe, but still very few people are aware of the real author behind the work. She does not do them all the time, only when she feels very strongly about something. She knows when a story has grasped her imagination as she sees it as pictures in her mind.
Marion never meant to draw one for this trial, never meant to create one relating to the Winter Soldier. That is not her intention for being here. She is here to see Bucky Barnes because she feels someone that did such a good deed for her grandmother could not be the monster they portray him as in the press. So, she came to see the monster for herself.
Yesterday Marion saw him in the pen, as the press has dubbed the box they keep him in at trial, and her heart went out to him. He is no monster. She listened to the evidence given by the woman Freya Bowman, listened to how many times the prosecutor cut her off, wouldn't let her explain and as she sat there Marion seethed at the injustice on show. Surely, this trial should be against the organisation known as Hydra, not against this man who was one of their many victims.
Over the last few days she has spent the time listening to the people around her. Listening to the people out on the street, listened to the chants of the crowds outside the court. She knows of how the other countries are following the trial, how it is talked about on the social media. And she knows one thing for sure: that the world will hang him if they get the chance.
This isn't a trial. It's a parody.
And then she listens to Freya Bowman. Freya is outside on the steps of the court where she has finally lost her cool, where she is challenging the people in the crowd.
And as she listens to her a picture grows in Marion's mind
*
You feel so agitated you cannot sit still. Steve is with you. Sam has gone to get the car.
“Such a waste of time Steve, they are not listening!” you snap. “How? How can they say those things about him? I can't understand why they won't allow the films or ….” and you look at Steve and stop mid-sentence. He is looking at you seriously, nodding because he agrees and between the two of you there is no need to say any more. He understands, he knows. Of course he does.
He has your arm and is guiding you through the crowds. People are pushing and shoving, wanting you to say something, asking you questions and by the time you get outside onto the steps you have had enough.
Between you and the road where Sam will meet you is a crowd of demonstrators. They hold up placards calling for the death of the Winter Soldier. Calling for the death of Bucky Barnes. Calling him names, names he does not deserve.
News services are trying to push microphones in your face. They are asking - how do you feel? How the hell do they think you feel? You break through them and for a moment you stand on the steps by yourself looking out over humanity – that is what they call themselves.
The demonstrators are being held back by the police but you see something awful. A young child, about ten - she is carrying a small placard of her own with a drawing of a man hanging and there is hate on her face. Ten years old. A woman has her hand on the girl's shoulder and carries a placard of her own showing the same picture.
So much hate.
You walk forward and the crowd senses something and starts to quieten. You hear footsteps behind you and you know Steve is there. You stop two steps up from the crowd and look out over them. Then you hold your hand out toward the placards.
“Is this what you want?” you ask, the anger in your voice making it carry.
“He deserves to die for what he's done,” someone yells back, and there are murmurs of agreement.
You look into the woman's eyes. “Is this the justice you teach your children?”
“He's a traitor,” she spits at you and her daughter turns to look at the hatred in her mother's eyes.
You look away from her and over the crowd. “For your whole lives and I mean your whole lives, and even the lives of some of your parents, James Barnes was tortured, and kept prisoner and you want to kill him for that? When you were growing up, going to school, enjoying Christmas with your loved ones, going to college, getting your first job, all of that time this man was being held against his will.....think about it. All that time, all those years, and no one, no one came to help him. Not one person. Do you think he would have done any of those things if he hadn't been wiped, programmed and sent out like an automaton?”
“Tell me, where were you when they strapped him time and time again into the chair and wiped his mind? Did you know you could hear him scream wherever you were in the complex where they held him underground, never seeing the sun or knowing who he was anymore or even where he was? And then afterwards they would take him for programming, where hours later he would come out reeling, eyes, ears and nose bleeding and again where were all of you? Sitting down eating your Christmas dinner, or flirting with the next door neighbour or just enjoying life.”
You look at individual people, can't they understand? Do they need that hate in their eyes to survive their own lives? Is that it? “What is it you want from him?” you ask looking out across the sea of faces watching you, listening to you. “What more can you take away from him. He has nothing...nothing!”
“He has his life which is more than his victims have!” a man at the back shouts.
“And you're going to take that away from him too? Tell me, what will you do to kill him? You've heard about the serum they pumped into him, you know he will be hard to kill so come on, what are you going to do?” you ask.
No one says a word so you continue. You indicate the woman's placard.
“Hang him? Watch him plunge through the floor breaking his neck and then when they've cut him down watching him try to move away with his body broken whilst they strap the noose around his neck again because he isn't dead yet? Or how about your electric chair?” You indicate another placard. “Send bolts of electricity through him, watch him burn, watch his eyes boil whilst all the time he is begging you to stop it, begging you to help him until all that is left is a burnt husk moaning because he is still alive, trapped in his body which is reduced to a mass of burnt flesh? Unable to beg for help any more, beg for an end."
"No? Still not good enough for you?”
The crowd is so quiet you can hear the traffic out on the street.
“Behead him? Then...in a hidden lab somewhere they can take his body, pull it apart, see what makes it tick. Take his left arm to use for their own soldiers. And whilst your scientists are pulling him apart, they can put his head in a jar so he can watch them, study him screaming at what he can see and still feel even though his body is no longer a part of him?”
“Is that what you really want? Is that your justice?”
People now have their hands over their mouths, not believing what you have said to them. The awful pictures you have just painted. How dare you challenge their hatred! How dare you question their morals! And as you stand there saying these awful words you realise what you have said and you to start to cry.
The crowd are silent.
You turn to Steve and he comes forward, puts an arm around you and takes you to the car where Sam is waiting
Marion is there on the steps listening to Freya's words. They have painted awful pictures in her mind, pictures she believes the world should see. She watches as the car drives off and then hurries to get back to where she is staying.
She has work to do.
*
The next morning you and Steve are sat at the breakfast table drinking coffee, it is all you can face. Neither of you have switched on the television. Neither of you are ready yet for the continued hate.
But Nat has. She comes striding in, newspaper in her hand. Bangs it down on the table, front page up.
(Authors note: To see the image of the newspaper page use: http://i.imgur.com/CvERTVC.png )
“Quite a show you gave yesterday,” she says to you, smiling because her words are not an accusation. She is impressed, and it takes a lot to impress Natasha Romanoff. She has put the paper in front of you and Steve so you can see exactly what she is referring to.
When you look at it you are glad you did not have any breakfast.
There on the front page are your words made real. “Hit the internet about a minute after the newspaper hit the streets. Everyone's tweeting it, gone international, gone viral!”
Steve picks up the paper. “Emgee” Steve says softly. He has seen her work before.
“Who?” you ask Steve but Nat answers as Steve passes you the paper. “No one knows who she really is. They know she's French but that's all. She produces satirical messages, usually hits the nail on the head and boy has she this time!”
The pictures are gruesome especially because you know who the man is suffering in them, they bring the narrative to life. It is doubtful there is one person on the planet who doesn't know who Bucky Barnes is, hasn't seen his photograph a million times over. Everyone will recognise him as the man in the pictures.
There are three sets of drawings.
The first set shows Bucky having a noose placed around his neck. The corresponding picture shows the noose being put on him again because he is still alive despite already being hung.
The second set shows him strapped into the electric chair. The corresponding picture shows the electricity being channelled through his body, he is in agony. Smoke drifts out of his open mouth and he is begging for help.
The third is the worst.
It shows Bucky being decapitated and his body being cut open. He is still alive. The corresponding picture shows the same dingy, dirty lab with the scientists bending over Bucky's body on an autopsy table. They are pulling it apart and the look on their faces is pure evil, pure greed. They are splitting open his torso, lifting up the organs and all the while on the side is a jar with Bucky's head in it, screaming.
On the back wall of the lab is the red sign of Hydra only it is crossed out and replaced by the words: US Research Centre.
The pictures seem so real.
You put the newspaper down. You feel sick. It's as if the artist has read your mind.
“They looks so real...” Steve murmurs.
Natasha nods. “The problem is that they could be if they find him guilty,” she says, voicing your very same thoughts.
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A Bucky Barnes Winter Soldier Fic - The Constant