Chapter One: Prologue
He was intimately familiar with darkness.
For the longest time he sought the comfort and relief it promised, so sweetly soothing the aftershocks of the chair and numbing the agony of his disjointed psyche. Although he despised the sensation of having his breath stolen, of that burning cold mist clawing and biting at his skin like thousands of knives, of plummeting temperatures rendering his muscles stiff and useless, of sharply being forced into an unnatural sleep - vulnerable, can't fight, death imminent - the blank darkness that followed was a small kindness. If the scientists ever found out, he was sure they would have taken that away, as well.
As it was, the Asset never knew, never understood, never remembered a kindness like that, not for the duration of his code-name: Winter Soldier operations. He didn't know what it was called, didn't know how to categorize it, didn't know the purpose of it, and so it was discarded with the cold indifference he'd been conditioned to feel. It was nothing more than a distraction - which, somehow, was steadily growing into a quiet craving - and the Asset was determined to prove that even internal threats failed to compromise his service as an effective tool. It was a dangerous addiction that he kept hidden from his handler and the maintenance team, if only because they never thought to ask of it.
Even so, he couldn't help but look forward to those moments of reprieve, of when the darkness pulled in his battered mind and body, cocooning him from countless threats, and spat him out as a more useful weapon for the State that his superiors were deeply loyal to. He was made whole once more, a true instrument of destruction as he was meant to be.
Because the longer he stayed away from its grasp, the more vulnerable the Asset would be to a potential breakdown - and no amount of maintenance could heal, no, repair the damaging aftereffects of prompting a malfunction. Memories, he heard them say. The scientists never really figured out how to permanently remove them, but they became extraordinarily gifted in blocking certain neural pathways in his brain. What they hadn't realized, however, was that those blocks would erode, given enough time and a proper trigger.
That was something they all learned the hard way.
It happened during the preparation stage of his development, not yet approved for actual missions, when the Asset had been performing below the expectations of the scientists responsible for improving him and, much worse, his superiors. Even the relatively recent upgrade of his left arm hadn't helped his growth, as hoped, and only spurred more bouts of aggression and disobedience. In those days, he was still resistant to the changes they implemented - although he'd long forgotten why he'd been fighting, the budding Asset had known that he must. Daily memory wipes were then deemed mandatory, combating his subconscious and eradicating any trace of his initial personality.
After a particularly brutal wipe, leaving him weakened and vulnerable and docile, he didn't fight the stream of code commands, instructions and skill sets that was transferred to the blank slate of his mind; terabytes of information were neatly uploaded and stored.
Any personality had all but disappeared in place of a semi-functional Asset.
From there it had taken little to no time to get accustomed to his left arm, his greatest advantage, and he moved as though it had always been a part of him. Further progress was induced by intense programming and conditioning under heavily monitored and controlled conditions. A veritable cocktail of experimental serums were injected into the Asset, all designed to increase his durability, endurance, strength, precision, intelligence - factors that the organization wanted to exemplify in their greatest creation. The Asset knew this, listened to his handler explain the glorious details as his body burned with the chemical mixture, his cells forced to adapt to the unnatural changes that would prolong his lifespan and turn him nearly indestructible. This is a good thing, his handler had smiled to him. The beginning of something truly remarkable.
The Asset could only scream in response.
But he believed it. Just as he was programmed to.
Still, as a precaution, tranquilizers were kept handy on all authorized personnel and armed guards lined the room whenever he was awake. Especially so whenever his handler was absent.
He quickly grew accustomed to those white lab coats flitting around, though he always remained alert, and recognized whenever they wanted him positioned a certain way or to remain still. His days were filled with countless odd, often unpleasant, experiments and invasive exams that aimed to establish a baseline for his state of mind. Whenever they found something they didn't like, he was immediately wiped and reset to their specifications.
It came to the point when he passed all their tests and no longer required to be recalibrated; when the scientists grew confident and complacent with their work on the Asset. Nearly a week out of cryogenic sleep and running without a single memory wipe, it seemed like he was finally shaping up to be the perfect tool. It was the longest he'd ever been out with minimal episodes of insubordination. It gave the scientists false hope -
"We believe the conditioning has finally broken through, sir. The Asset defers to our designated handler and remains docile around other authorized personnel. There haven't been any casualties thus far and our findings show that the subject's body has accepted all current upgrades."
"Excellent work, doctor. Report any immediate findings to his handler."
"Of course, sir."
- until one of the scientists, tasked with adding yet another component to his left arm, approached. The man bore a startling resemblance to - to someone, someone that made his chest constrict and his head throb. Dulled blue eyes darted across the nervous scientist's features, becoming more and more aware of an impending incident - what are they doing to me, no, no, no, what have they done - that would surely disappoint his superiors. Male, approximately aged 26, blue eyes, blond, lanky form. Assessment: weak, civilian, non-threatening.
Yet, it triggered something in him. Something familiar.
Ten seconds and thirteen corpses later, standing protectively in front of the trembling scientist, the Asset was sedated and immediately sent to be wiped. He knew they would send him back to the cryogenic unit immediately, back to that engulfing darkness, as the scientists made their evaluations. It was then that they proposed systematic memory wipes to secure the Asset's optimal and consistent function.
Later his handler had told him that he'd nearly been decommissioned for the incident – he still couldn't quite recall what the cause had been – but their superiors were pleased enough by his potential to methodically dispose of perceived threats. It would be a simple matter to direct his effectiveness toward approved targets. They'd devised a method to ensure another glitch couldn't spark such malfunctions, in the form of an initiation sequence that primed his mind to their desired function.
His memories of the resulted conditioning were blurry, but he recalled the pain well enough. The Asset's body had trembled under the strain of it, shuddering in an effort to restore his equilibrium, and blotted out all but one of his senses.
Though he couldn't see who'd programmed the activation words, he heard them clearly.
"Longing, rusted, furnace, daybreak, seventeen, benign, nine, homecoming, one, freight car."
His breathing slowed, vision cleared, and mind calmed.
"Soldier," he heard them call.
"Ready to comply," he heard himself respond.
To test whether or not it'd been a success, his first real target was one of their own scientists. Male, approximately aged 26, blue eyes, blond, lanky form. Assessment: weak, civilian, non-threatening.
He didn't hesitate to pull the trigger.
From there, only a few more revisions to his programming were required before he was ready for field-testing.
Code-name: Winter Soldier was officially primed and on stand-by, pending further directive from a superior – it was the beginning of a ghost story that would haunt the darkest corners of the world, whispered among seasoned mercenaries and assassins working for various organizations. For decades he was but a shadow in the annals of history, dusted off the shelf for brief moments of time (no longer than a week) to complete an urgent assignment, and largely unaware of the changes he'd wrought. To him, there was only the mission and nothing else. It was his purpose.
It remained so until one day in a small Belgium town, November of 1978.
He was en route to rendezvous with his handler after a routine assassination, threading through a thin crowd of civilians, with his gear hidden underneath plainclothes. The mission itself was laughable for someone of his talents - tracking and terminating a rogue scientist who'd made off with delicate research - but his superiors wanted to be absolutely sure that it was properly done.
So, it was unexpected when, in the middle of a bright, sunny day, there was an explosion several blocks ahead. Such was their shock that the people simply froze, entranced by the sight of a building on fire, in horrified silence. Sharply honed instincts and training had him running towards the alcove of a flower shop, narrowly missing a green ray of light, with his back pressed against the entrance. Panic and fear finally seemed to grip the hushed crowd as screams filled the air, along with whoops of crazed laughter, and the Asset knew this was separate from his business as the Winter Soldier.
There'd been rumors of skirmishes around Europe, what few eye-witnesses described as terror attacks, but there hadn't been any evidence to support it. No debris, no remains of victims, and no motive - other than the rise in sudden disappearances, there didn't seem to be anything out of the ordinary in this region.
It definitely didn't look that way, now.
Peering around the corner, the Asset saw several masked individuals dressed in hooded, black robes. Distantly taking stock of the small group - four visible, two hidden, others likely - he noted that they all held some sort of narrow device in their hands, too far to see exactly what it was, where various beams of light were produced and aimed towards their scrambling victims. He watched as people fell to the ground upon contact with the light; writhing in pain, suffering some sort of bodily injury, or stilling in either unconsciousness or death. The only thing his mind could find to explain the phenomenon involved some sort of mechanism that could produce a multipurpose laser - as far as he knew, a weapon of that level had only been theoretical.
Unfamiliar with such technology and the effects it might have on him, the Asset defaulted to emergency procedures. He lifted a hand to the communications device in his ear, broke the standard radio silence, and initiated contact by releasing three small bursts of static.
"Status, Soldier," came the brisk, Russian response of his handler.
"Approximately six unknown threats have appeared, carrying advanced weapons of unknown origin. Mission unknown," he responded in kind, though much more quietly, and proceeded to summarize his situation candidly. "Currently out of sight, with depleted munitions and several alternative escape routes."
As he waited for his orders, he noted the streets steadily grew quieter, and calculated that he'd only have two minutes until he was discovered.
"Noted," his handler's voice finally came over the radio. "Do not engage. Continue to the rendezvous point and-"
Just then, a jarring crack sounded to his right.
"Soldier?"
Withdrawing a blade from its holster, the Asset whirled to face an ordinary-looking man with dark, windswept hair standing four feet away. He kept the sharp weapon raised defensively, effortlessly slipping into his Winter Soldier designation, and made a swift appraisal of the bewildered newcomer. The man didn't expect to see the Asset there, if his wide-eyed look was anything to go by, which suggested that he wouldn't attack. However, the line of his frame was coiled with tension, as if prepared to fight, and - his eyes flicked down to note that the man was holding... a stick?
The object looked too ordinary, almost like a toy, which belied the confidence it's wielder carried - the same sort of confidence the masked group had broadcast. It didn't take much to piece it together.
"Hello there, please don't panic, we're here to help. Do you understand? Do you speak English?" the man spoke softly yet hurriedly in an English-accented voice, as one would a startled child. Narrowing his eyes in distrust, the Asset gripped his blade even more firmly. He was ordered not to engage, but he had a standing order to defend himself from unknowns, if necessary.
Distant pops and cracks were filling the street now, but he didn't dare take his gaze off his potential enemy. The man obviously lacked any intense physical training - advantage: close quarters combat - but the weapon-stick he carried was unpredictable enough to warrant a bit more consideration.
"Winter Solider, report," his radio harshly crackled to life.
"You there, mate?" the odd stranger called out at the same time, clearly wary and unsettled by the stony silence. He could see how desperately the man tried to hold his cheery composure together, keeping a strained smile in place. "Might help if you say something. Anything."
Maintaining his solemn gaze, the Asset very deliberately raised a hand to his earpiece. "I've been spotted by one of them. Orders?"
"Bloody hell, is that - were you speaking Russian?"
"Eliminate the witness and retrieve the weapon for testing," was the sharp command, evidence of his handler's displeasure. "Don't be sloppy."
He released a single burst of static to signal his understanding, and his gaze hardened with intent.
"Oh, now wait just a moment," the man objected knowingly, yet raised his own weapon higher.
The Asset didn't waste any time, dashing forward as he brandished his blade. With reflexes quicker than he'd anticipated - never underestimate your opponent - the man shot a blast of white-blue light towards him, and he just barely dodged to the side. Skidding from the force of his momentum, the Asset smoothly regained his footing and started again, mindful of the colorful streams of light.
"I'm not your enemy!" the man growled, shooting off another white-blue light, inches wide from where the Asset had been.
He ignored his opponent's pointless babble, instead focusing on weaving through the predictable pattern of his fighting style - or lack thereof. Within seconds, he'd successfully sidestepped the blast of the laser and gotten close enough to make a deep slash in the man's favored arm. As he dropped the weapon-stick to cradle his injury, exclaiming in pain, the Asset ruthlessly hooked the man with a metal fist, heard a satisfying crunch, and watched him to crumple to the ground.
In one stride, he pocketed the weapon-stick and went to crouch beside the fallen stranger. Briefly considering him, he noted that the man was disoriented - most likely suffering from a fractured jaw and concussion from the impact - and was feebly trying to stop what would come next, clutching at anything within reach. He could respect the man's spirit, his refusal to submit without a fight, despite the foolishness of it. Detached, the Asset brushed away the weak hold and raised his blade, already stained with his target's blood, and brought it down for a swift death -
"James! No!"
Centimeters from piercing the exposed throat, the Asset froze.
The anguished cry was feminine, also English-accented, and the desperate tinge in it shouldn't have been enough to stay his hand. No, her voice seemed familiar in a way that prodded at him, but - he must be malfunctioning - that couldn't be all. No, there was something else that had him motionless, trembling from the effort to refrain from completing his mission, and feeling as though he were about to have an incident - James, no, no, not James, not anymore - a combination of her voice and that name, that name was unraveling his mind, and his head spiked with overwhelming flashes, flashes, flashes -
He almost didn't register the rapid thud of approaching footsteps, but the Asset managed to glance up in time. Locking eyes with the determined gaze of a flame-haired woman, he only had enough time to wonder how he could recognize the voice of someone he'd never met.
"Stupefy!"
If there was one thing the Asset could always count on, it was that the darkness was blissfully empty of everything. His mind was given reprieve from his regimen of treatments and he could rest - or an imitation of it, at least - without having to linger on the things he'd done. It was a kindness. It made him stop.
This wasn't the same.
His mind felt foggy, just out of the grasp of consciousness, and it left him feeling as though he were disconnected from his body. That was a small relief, because he was growing more and more aware of a tugging sensation on his left arm, insistent and irritating. A mild sense of alarm fluttered through him as the feeling only persisted, steadily numbing his shoulder area, but he didn't understand why. Cryo-sleep was supposed to make him a better weapon, more effective, so it stood to reason that the scientists might be upgrading him. They were always precise, especially when it came to their Asset, so there was little to no possibility that the unit could malfunction -
"Dear Merlin, what sort of contraption is this?" a faraway voice mused, quickly followed by fire -
Gasping at the agony that was his left shoulder, the Asset distantly felt his body seizing up as it tried to endure the sensation. It reacted the same way whenever he was strapped to the chair, being wiped of any internal threats, but it was usually distributed throughout his whole body. So they couldn't have placed him in the chair, he was laying on something that was too soft, he was going to sink down, it was too soft. They wouldn't waste time with pointless comforts and since when did they speak English -
"I don't think we can remove it safely, Healer Prewett!"
"Nonsense, child, the Muggles can't have had -"
Another excruciating spike of pain burned through his left shoulder and the ghost of his original arm - it hadn't ever felt that bad, not since the first surgical procedure, and the Asset was assaulted by images of waking up to blurry scientists around him, testing him, experimenting, and after that - the shadow of hands holding him down, cutting, urging, ordering him to comply, to accept their gift - after he was captured - oh, oh -
Memories blazed through his mind faster than he could follow, but the residual emotions left him breathless by their intensity - fear, sorrow, regret, resignation, paincoldpainpain, numbness, horror - and then he was slammed with a desperation, an imploding dread, so deep that he couldn't help but turn away. He didn't want it, didn't want to remember, and eagerly tried to embrace the darkness that floated just beyond his grasp. The physical and mental strain was breaking him, searing and unforgiving, exposing just how fragile his mind was, and his arm was being butchered -
The pain ended abruptly, along with the stream of emotion, and his relief came in the form of short, rasping breaths. He was no stranger to acute torture methods, having soldiered through the works as a part of his training regiment - along with his frequent sessions in the chair - so he was alert enough to realize that something was wrong here.
Fever-bright blue eyes snapped open along with a choked gasp and an aching head. All he could see was white.
"Did you Rennervate him?!" he heard a man hiss.
"No, he's done it on his own!" a woman responded, panicked.
"That shouldn't be -"
Alarmed by the foreign voices - not the scientists, not his handler, not safe - and acting on instinct, the Asset lashed out; his left arm felt like a dead-weight, it was wrong, so he swung his other arm. Muffled yelps and curses rang in his ears, echoing louder than the pants of his heaving breath. He blinked away the black that spotted his vision, promptly taking in his surroundings as he curled in on himself, shielding his metal limb protectively. He was being kept in a pristine white room, oddly lacking in equipment aside from the bed he was laying on, and, as there didn't appear to be any windows or doors, no clear exit in sight.
From the corner of his eye, he noted a bright blur of color where his captors were having a hushed conversation. It was a far enough distance that anyone without enhanced senses wouldn't be able to hear them, so they obviously weren't aware of his abilities - he'd have to be careful not to reveal such advantages to them. Furtively allowing his hair to cover his face, the Asset tilted his head to listen.
"- are a Healer-in-training, Miss Meadowes," the man from earlier, Prewett, whispered sternly, evidently chastising his colleague. Was he being kept in a medical research facility? That would explain their interest in his arm. "Despite the nature of our work, because of it, we must always be cautious of patients such as this. Especially this sort of patient. No matter how damaged or powerless they may seem."
"Yes, Healer Prewett."
"That's a good lass. Now, keep your wand at the ready."
Wand? Was that what they called their weapon-stick?
Glancing up at the sound of footsteps, still trembling from the aftereffects of his relapse, the Asset saw two green-robed forms. Giving them each a once-over, he discerned that the woman, dark-haired and fair-skinned, had a calming presence about her that he recoiled from; the man, however, wrinkled and gray, was grim-faced and tight-lipped with a professional strictness that reminded him of the scientists. Careful enough to be wary of both, the Asset remained as he was and regarded them closely as they stopped four feet away. Seeing as the woman, Meadowes, deferred to the older man, he kept the majority of his attention on the highest authority present.
Prewett frowned as they locked gazes. "Do you remember what happened, boy?"
Bristling at the sharp tone, the Asset clenched his teeth and glanced away. He wasn't supposed to answer to anyone other than his handler. Without weapons of his own, burdened with a disabled arm, and facing unknown threats equipped with advanced technology, he knew was severely handicapped.
It was an odd experience.
At his prolonged silence, his captors shared an uncertain glance. Meadowes reluctantly spoke up next. "Do you know why you're here?"
Ignoring the inquiry, he ran his fingers across the plates of his prosthetic, attempting to find evidence of tampering and mentally reviewing what sort of damage was within his ability to repair. The maintenance team hadn't thought to show him how to care for the metal arm, other than the absolute essentials, but, after keenly observing them, the Asset had picked up a thing or two on how to make his own in-field adjustments. Depending on how long he'd be held captive, or if they decide to take it apart for study, the Asset would have to tread carefully.
"What is that?" Meadowes asked, gesturing to his arm when she noticed his quiet inspection. "We've never seen a prosthetic quite like it."
Avoiding her expectant look, he continued checking components.
Prewett sighed impatiently. "What's your name then, boy? At least tell us that much."
The Asset rolled his shoulders, grimly noting the abnormal stiffness surrounding his left side, fully intent on keeping silent and gathering as much information as possible while planning an escape. Though he couldn't contact his handler, he still remembered what his last orders had been. As long as he remembered his orders, everything would be fine.
Eliminate the witness and retrieve the weapon for testing.
"Potter did say that he was speaking another language. Russian, I believe," Meadowes interjected tentatively, eyebrow raised. "Perhaps he doesn't understand?"
The older man gave a tight nod, then lifted his hand - which now held a weapon-stick. Stiffening suspiciously at the sight of it, the Asset prepared himself for a brutal interrogation, lungs heaving and pulse hammering in anticipation. So, he was confused when it was simply given a perfunctory wave without any light coming out of it. He didn't understand what they thought to achieve -
His thoughts came to a halt as a strange sensation fluttered over him, as if a gossamer blanket had been draped over him like a second skin. It felt itchy.
"There, now do you understand?"
He didn't notice a difference, other than that irritating itch, but Prewett seemed to think they could communicate now. Narrowing his eyes, doubtful that they'd somehow implemented a translator, the Asset spoke in Russian, testing them. "I don't."
"Now, now, there's no need for that," the woman sighed, placing her hands on her hips. "We know for a fact that you do understand."
The Asset scowled at her, slightly surprised to find that she held his stare, and tried to decide how to proceed. Meadowes wasn't as timid or demure as she appeared to be, if the steel in her dark eyes was any indication, and her unwavering conviction made him suspicious. He wouldn't fall for whatever ploy they were trying to pull.
"Ah, yes, there's a few things we need to ask," the man stepped in, brow furrowed. "Of course, the first of which would be your name."
He refused to comply, coolly turning his attention to the smooth ceiling.
"Well, it seems it shall remain a mystery," Meadowes remarked dryly. "Perhaps we should consult the Aurors now?"
"Yes," the man agreed, a contemplative expression tightening his features. Uneasy, the Asset watched as he raised his weapon-stick, waving it in several loops before tucking it away.
At first, he wasn't sure what the man had done, but it became apparent when he found himself frozen in place, unable to move from his hunched position. It paralyzed him completely, rendering him vulnerable to their whims, and infuriated the Asset. He didn't understand how such a weapon - no, it was more than that, it was a tool - could possibly have such a varied set of functions. Did they all perform with the same results, or were they calibrated according to the wielder's preferences? Were the colored lights indicators of more dangerous settings? How was it powered? How were they manufactured?
With such thoughts to keep him company, the Asset watched in rapt fascination as Prewett and Meadowes exited the room by walking through a wall. He'd never seen technology the likes of which these people used so effortlessly, almost habitually, and it troubled the part of him that was his Winter Soldier designation. He couldn't be an efficient weapon if he wasn't updated on the latest technologies - his current situation was evidence of that.
Blinking, he thought of how his handler might be responding to his sudden disappearance. Would Hydra spare a thought for their malfunctioned asset or cut their losses? Would they mark him as a failed project and start anew, or would their investment in him be too great to discard?
The Asset tried to shake his head, tried to disperse the direction his mind had gone, but was only reminded of the strange restraints placed on him.
He'd never been allowed to remain idle for too long - always moving, mind on the mission - for this precise reason. His mind began trailing off into matters that were trivial at best and distracting at worst, constantly moving from one thought to another in a clinical manner that satisfied his superiors, when applied usefully. For assignments. Otherwise, they would prepare him for a wipe, to clear his slate and prevent any incidents. They were careful not to allow anything to slip through their established parameters.
Without it, he knew he'd steadily grow unstable.
Trying to focus on how to escape, the Asset tensed when several more oddly dressed people re-entered. His steady gaze tracked them intently, searching for weapons and making swift assessments.
The first man was dark-skinned with an air of calm assurance, reminiscent of his own handler. The second, more visually striking, of the pair was a heavily-scarred man with some sort of mechanical eye - he wondered whether or not his captors brought their own Asset to pit against him - however, it seemed to be malfunctioning. The artificial eye jerked around aimlessly, uselessly.
Even so, he tracked their movements as carefully as he'd done with the first pair, his breath heaving as they drew near, and prepared himself for whatever was to come. He'd been trained extensively for such situations.
Then the dark-skinned man gave him a polite smile.
"Hello. I'm Kingsley Shacklebolt, and this is my associate, Alastor Moody."