ever marching as to war

It's the fire that catches Bucky's attention, smoke curling up in the air so that he spots it from his vantage point in the trees. After having been led around the island by a chaperone the past couple of days, it's the first time he's ventured out on his own, and he couldn't be happier for the promise of something interesting lingering just around the corner so soon. Relaxing's fine in small doses, but he feels like he's been locked up for a lifetime between his clinic stay and the pervasive, dull ache in his ribs.

A doctor'd probably yell at him for climbing in his condition, but Bucky's gone off to war boasting worse injuries than a few lousy bruises. Besides, as far as he's concerned, his mind's in rougher shape than his body. No matter how many times he catches a glimpse of his reflection, he can't seem to get over just how old he looks, and try as he might to remember something -- anything -- about what happened after the war, he can't seem to get drag up even the foggiest of memories. There's just this wall in the back of his mind that he can't scale for the life of him, though at least he's in better standing than he was just a few days ago when he couldn't even remember his own damn name.

Following the smoke to find the fire, the trail leads him to a scrapyard that's clashes beautifully with the surrounding greenery, capturing Bucky's attention fully as he slips inside, absently mindful of any potential security. He's been told that everything's free here, but that doesn't mean that someone wouldn't want to protect their stash, and with resources so limited, Bucky's got to think that all this stuff would be worth the prettiest of pennies if goodwill suddenly fell aside to capital-G Greed.

Eyes finally lighting on the source of the fire, his curiosity's quickly swept aside by recognition. He doesn't know a whole lot of faces yet, but he'd be hard-pressed to forget any of the men who'd been around when he first woke up. Tony Stark's a face he'll remember.

"Wow," Bucky says, stepping closer to what he can only describe as some sort of experiment, expression rapt. "Should that be burning like that?"

In the past twelve hours, James has been poked, prodded, and pressed for more information that he can't possibly give, but at least he's been afforded the courtesy of pale blue scrubs and a fancy new arm in the meantime. It's the latter that captures his attention whenever the doctors retreat to discuss their findings, all gleaming metal and carefully articulated joints, and he kills a good hour simply admiring the usefulness of an opposable thumb. While he wants to know how the hell he lost the arm, he's learned quickly that not all questions come with a ready answer.

The most encouraging tidbit he's been told since waking a second time is that he's not the only person afflicted with amnesia. For whatever reason, the eggheads have taken this for a win, and though James isn't a hundred percent sold on this whole magical island thing, having been stuck inside this concrete shoe box for as long as he can remember, he's in no position to argue. The amnesia shouldn't be permanent, he's told, but they're keeping him around for another few days, regardless; for all their assurances that he isn't a prisoner, it's hard to believe otherwise.

Flopped back onto his hard, little hospital bed, forever mindful of all his aches and pains, James runs his flesh and blood hand over his cyberkinetic arm for the hundredth time that day, and imagines all the roads that could've got him here.

[He's visibly bruised and his face is a bit cut up. Timed for July 1st. Information can be found here.]