[II]

[onlyforthedream]

There are, immediately, the smells of motor oil; mortar; gunsmoke and the sea. Not the warm, fragrant azure waters that surround the island of Tabula Rasa, but those colder, sharper, stormier waters of the North Atlantic. I know where I am just from breathing in the air, though it shouldn’t be possible. My hands are gripping the handlebars of the DKW NZ350 bike I’m riding, was just riding, have ridden before. A ‘43.

It’s happening again. It’s happening again. No. God damn it, no, I refuse. Bucky’s arms are tight around my waist, but any second he’s going to let go to make a jump for the experimental drone plane we’re chasing after. The sharp drop off of the cliff, the end of the runway, the rocks and cold water below, the explosion waiting for us above-

No.

I drop my foot and dig my heel into the ground as I twist the bike to the side. No more. It drags another ten feet before I let go of it and roll, the unevenly hewn stone scraping hard against my elbows, shoulders, jaw. The plane is gone, up and off into the sky as I’m picking myself up, reorienting myself as quickly as I can.

Bucky is a few feet behind me, the plane far too far out of reach already, the bike teetering over the edge of the runway and then it’s out of sight, and for a moment I can’t believe it. I can’t believe what I’ve done.

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[onlyforthedream.livejournal.com]

“And it did, but it will not happen again!” I’m yelling now, shouting down his objections in a way I can’t ever remember doing before.

“God damn it, Bucky, they can’t have you! I will fight and die for this country, God knows I will, it’s what I signed up for; but I will not knowingly hand over your soul to those sons of bitches! I won’t sacrifice your life, your ability to live your life, ever again!” I say, but can’t hear my last word over the sound of the plane’s engines.