how did it all come to this, this bitter taste of heartbreak and betrayal burning hotter than any bullet wound or old siberian winter? long enough to form at least some mutual respect, Barnes and Wilson were brothers in arms, comrades, two sidekicks forced to carry the expectations of long-gone heroes. yesterday, Bucky had Sam’s trust, now there’s nothing but static: Sam won’t pick up, his name grayed out on Bucky’s phone, missed calls stacking like regret. trying to say something, anything, Barnes is blocked at every turn, his words drowned by Sam’s accusations: thief, traitor, fraud — charged with stealing the team’s name, as if Bucky himself branded them «the avengers». ridiculous. it was never his to give. this was Valentina’s doing, her venomous tongue spinning stories for the world, weaving chaos from shadows and half-truths. yet it’s Bucky’s face on the broadcast, his name in every headline, his allies in black cells and silent halls.

and yet, the consequences weren’t long in coming. Bucky was genuinely disappointed in the concept of peace the moment he turned to dust in front of Steve, what is there to expect from current situation? don’t even speak of hope. James Barnes learned a long time ago that «everything will be fine» is a fairytale for children. the only certainty is this: things will, in fact, get worse, his mind replaying failure after failure — a cursed filmstrip stuck on repeat. he’s lived with pain, but this isolation slices deeper than any mission ever could.

pretty angsty, huh? maybe, but «angst» is all that’s left when his team — the only people who learned to trust him post-hydra, post-everything — are thrown in shackles. Barnes tries everything. diplomatic channels. old favors. he attempts to find Sam, to talk, to fix things — not as winter soldier, not as the broken killer the world remembers, but as Bucky, friend and ally, desperate not to lose everything. his pleas to congress fall on deaf ears, cold efficiency snuffing his pleas like candles in a storm. Valentina’s busy turning calamity into spectacle, feeding the pr machine but never lifting a finger for the thunderbolts. everywhere Barnes turns, he finds locked doors, dead phones, silence.

welcome to the cruel reality where only Helmut Zemo didn’t look away from Barnes. the one adversary, the one person with eyes sharp enough to see through all pretense and history — still lingering, as if drawn to Bucky’s catastrophe like a moth to flame.

Barnes didn’t want to ask Zemo. no, never again, he told himself, yet this option haunts him now, claws at him in the sleepless midnight hours, offering one sliver of hope at the cost of everything good that remained. needles under his nails, memories of cold cells and colder eyes — how did it come to this, begging Zemo for help again? absurd. unthinkable. but what choices remain when abandonment is your only company, when no one is willing to stand by you? helpless frustration settles deep in his bones. the next sunrise finds Bucky hollow-eyed, unshaven, fatigue etched into every line of his face; yet his jaw is set, grim determination settling heavier than vibranium.

to the raft, then. for the record — he may not walk out again. the raft isn’t just legendary; it’s a warning to all who threaten its order: a fortress encased in iron, floating alone and inescapable at the end of the world, riddled with sensors, battalions of elite guards. it was built for monsters, for people like him, like Zemo, like the nightmares they once unleashed. but the world seems determined to blur all those lines now, to cast Barnes as villain again if it means a good story. maybe that’s all he’ll ever be allowed to be: the weapon, the mistake, the one left alive to carry grief no one else will bear.