[ the bench beneath him is cold, sterile... metal. a half-finished fabricator meal, some sort of bland, unrecognizable mush meant to pass for oatmeal, sits pushed away and slightly askew in front of bucky, done in a rush.

no. wait.

the bench beneath him is cold, dirty... stone. it sits atop a hill between a copse of naked trees, simultaneously the best vantage point and the best cover available to him. he kneels behind it, elbows braced over the flat surface, looking through his scope. the rifle is aimed down at an expanse of road that hugs a curve around the foot of the great hill.

the smooth cr-cr-cr-cr-rrrrrunch of tires rounding the bend on damp winter asphalt echoes across the little valley before the car moves into view, no foliage on bare branches to absorb the sound. it's coming quickly, a little too quickly for the curve — the driver is in a hurry — and dancing white flurries obscure the target momentarily, but he is unconcerned.

he won't miss.
he never misses—

one metal arm grips the edge of the mess hall table. it starts to shake. ]

[ bucky spends a significant amount of time scanning the network for past messages, looking for anything he might recognize: a name, a location, even a turn of phrase.

nothing.

he flips his communicator open to type out his own message, finally: ]

UN: barnes
scouting for crew maps that may have been left behind. something to indicate what's behind these locked doors.
contact me if you spot anything useful. willing to work together.

[ well, that's not exactly true, but it's better for information fishing. ]