Part II: You Are Every Inch A Soldier

[onlyapassenger]

When at last he's given leave from the clinic (under the promise that he'll return should any memories start to surface), James is granted the gift of new clothes and a tour guide in the form of Steve Rogers. The island itself is beautiful, not that James could've guessed as much from inside his windowless cell, and he spends a good part of the morning simply enjoying the fresh, warm air as his alleged best friend gives him the grand tour of the immediate surrounding area. Unlike the aptly named Compound, the other buildings are largely made of wood instead of concrete, giving the main drag an overall sense of having been lived in that the sterile surfaces of the clinic can't afford.

He keeps the subject of his questions limited to the history of the island rather than whatever history lies between them, though this tactic fails him when Steve steers them into an art gallery and reveals this is where he holds his classes.

Because Steve, it turns out, is an art teacher, which James doesn't believe for a second. Amnesiac he might be, but he's sure as hell not gullible.

"You teach art," he says, dubious. "What, the art of war?"

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[onlyforthedream]

It's the first time since he woke up that he's broached anything military, and the incredulity and skepticism in his tone makes my expression wry and vaguely long suffering when I turn back to answer it.

"As it happens, I teach advanced drawing and painting techniques."

[onlyapassenger]

James folds his arms over his chest. The robot one's heavier than he'd like, but his body seems accustomed to carrying the extra weight, even if his head's still trying to get an explanation for how he came by it in the first place. Given what little he knows about himself, his best guess is some kind of battle, though the circumstances beyond that elude him.

"Come on," he replies. "You're actually expecting me to buy that a guy who looks like you teaches a bunch of kids how to hold a paintbrush?"

[onlyforthedream]

"Not just kids, but yes," I tell him, unable to suppress a smile. I pull out a roll of canvas, unfurling it to show a basic beach scene, the place the path empties out on the southeast side of the island, around dusk, half painted over with acrylics, the sketch still visible beneath.

"Before I was a guy who looks like this, I was an artist. Pulps, comics, nothing impressive. Everyone has a life before a war, it just took landing on a desert island out of time for me to get back to mine."

[onlyapassenger]

"Yeah? What was mine?" James asks without thinking, peering down at the canvas. There's no nagging sense of familiarity at looking at it, no recognition of what techniques might've been used in its creation. If he was a painter, too, he's got a feeling he wasn't a very good one.

[onlyforthedream]

"Your father was career military," I reply, rolling the canvas up again to go back into the stack of test sheets, the ones I use to demonstrate technique and that students can refer back to for any given lesson.

"And you got into the fight early. You told me once you wanted to be a park ranger, though."

[onlyapassenger]

Park ranger seems a more logical alternative career choice than artist for a soldier, he thinks. But with the ice now somewhat broken, Steve's answer only demands more questions. James looks back up at him, curious.

"...how early?"

[onlyforthedream]

I sit on the edge of the table that serves as my desk, leaning forward to cross my forearms over the top of my knee. I told him I would answer his questions, I'm not about to renege.

"Sixteen."

[onlyapassenger]

Sixteen. Jeez.

"Seems awfully young," says James, but even as he does, he almost seems to bristle at his own words. "What'd they need a kid for?"

[onlyforthedream]

"It was a propaganda measure, really," I explain.

"The Nazis had the Hitler Youth, all of these images coming out of the country of these teenagers in uniform, working and fighting for Germany. They also had the Red Skull, a terrifying mascot for the Reich that the U.S. brass felt they needed to counteract. I filled that role, but they wanted a younger face for the country to root for, too, something to counteract the Nazi's hyper visible youth movement. That was you."

[onlyapassenger]

In his mind's eye, James sees a splash of color -- a drawing of a young boy standing in a tent while a man dressed in the American flag holds onto a mask marked with a capital A. The memory -- if it is a memory -- lasts only for a disorienting second, but it makes a hell of an impression. His brows furrow as he tries to revisit what he saw, catch some detail he missed the first time around, but he's unable to recapture the moment in its entirety.

"Bucky," he murmurs, glancing up. "That wasn't just a nickname, was it?"

[onlyforthedream]

"No," I reply honestly.

"It was your nickname, and the only thing I ever called you, but it was also the name you were known by. We were a highly publicized team- Captain America and Bucky."

[onlyapassenger]

James' face lights up with recognition. He knows that name, he's sure of it, the pair of them together painting his memories with red, white, and blue, stars and stripes, the terrifying visage of a man with scarlet skin. The images start to bleed together in an indistinguishable rush, knocking him breathless. It ends as suddenly as it started. Blinking, hard, he steps back and pushes an exhale through his teeth.

"You had a suit," he says, gaze distant when he looks up, not at Steve, but at the opposite wall. "A... a costume. Big A across the forehead."

[onlyforthedream]

I'm careful not to straighten up too quickly, not to assign the fact that he's remembered something, however small, with too much significance.

It means he can remember, is already starting to. That's all it needs to mean.

"...Yes. Like-" I search around briefly and grab up a pencil and a piece of scrap paper, taking seven seconds to sketch something out, and then offer it over.

"Like this." I'm not going to show him pictures- the photographs from my footlocker or the drawings in my sketchbooks- to jog his memory, but if it's already jogging itself...

[onlyapassenger]

It's just a few rough lines, but the shape is distinctly familiar, like Steve plucked the picture straight out of his head and committed it to paper. He stares at it for a few moments longer, and another image springs to mind.

"And a shield."