The alley was narrow, its sides piled high with trash cans and cardboard boxes. The air reeked of rot.
Bucky leaned against the wall, gasping for breath.
His right shoulder was dislocated. Judging by how he had been thrown earlier, he might have broken a few ribs as well.
He clamped the blunt side of his dagger between his teeth, grabbed his right arm with his left hand, then shoved and pulled sharply, forcing the dislocated joint back into place.
His bone clicked back into place. The pain briefly darkened his vision, but he did not make a sound.
The roar of armor thrusters came from overhead. The Skrull landed at the mouth of the alley, blocking the only exit.
Sunlight streamed in from behind him, stretching his shadow long and wide across the entire alley.
"You can't run," the Skrull said. "Why not let me give you a quick death?"
Bucky straightened up, drew his dagger with his right hand, and opened his left hand. His Vibranium arm glimmered faintly in the shadows.
"You talk too much."
With that, he charged forward.
It was not a rational decision, but he had never been a rational man.
Hydra had shredded his sanity seventy years ago. All that remained was an almost instinctive will to fight.
Even if he could not win, even if he would die, he would still tear off a piece of his enemy's flesh.
The Skrull stood still, waiting for him to rush over.
When Bucky was three meters away, he abruptly changed direction, ran up the wall, and used the cramped space of the alley to shift his angle of attack.
He dropped from directly above the Skrull, driving his dagger toward the top of the armor's helmet, where the sensors were usually most densely concentrated.