Bucky wakes slowly at the base of the ravine. The bitter cold river soaks through his uniform and the blinding pain from his mangled left arm makes it hard to focus. The rest of him hurts too, but his arm demands most of his attention. Each breath is a struggle and he has to fight to keep his eyes open. He vaguely remembers something about the cold making people tired and once they fall asleep they never wake up. The thought is tempting. Maybe his whole body would stop hurting if he just closes his eyes for a bit, or maybe for longer. But no matter how bad the pain, some part of him is not ready to give up so he forces himself to open his eyes. Steve has come to find him in Hell before. He hopes his friend will do it again. So he holds on, struggling for each ragged breath, waiting for a rescue he isn't sure is coming.
He drifts in and out of consciousness for a long time, he isn't sure how long. It feels like a long time. Pain usually does. When he is awake he tries to focus on something else, on memories, on Steve's inability to stay out of a fight. As he struggles for his own breaths he remembers Steve, when he was a skinny kid, struggling to breathe through another asthma attack. Bucky preferred the bullies, at least he could kick their asses for Steve, but with that he could just sit by, running his hand along Steve's back, trying to calm him, wishing he could help more.
It starts to snow again. It feels colder than before. Maybe it really is colder. But don't dying men often say they feel cold? A couple of the boys from the 107th… He pushes that though aside. He doesn't want dead men for company. Especially if he is joining them soon. He tries to remember something warm. Winters were cold in New York, not as cold as this, but cold. It was harder on Steve, with his thin frame and already poor health. He suspects a super soldier wouldn't have to worry about the cold, not much anyway. But when they were kids and it was cold they would drag the cushions off the couch and make a fort. They were both too stubborn to admit they were cold, even if Steve's teeth were chattering, but they could huddle under the cushions and call it a fort and that made it a game.
Frenchie will undoubtedly suggest that someone get naked in a sleeping bag to warm him up when they find him. Dum Dum will snort and say if he's so keen he should do it himself. They will keep bickering while everyone else gets down to the actual business of making camp. He tries to convince himself Steve is coming for him. Of course he will. He came to save him before when he was on another continent for all Bucky knew. Surely he can climb down a cliff.
He's tired though, so tired. And his mangled arm is still excruciating. "Just a little while," he murmurs to himself, but if Steve and the Howling Commandos don't come for him, he really doesn't want to wake again. He lets his eyes drift closed.
"Hello, Sergeant Barnes," a horribly familiar voice says. He must be having a nightmare. Steve would have at least dealt with Zola on the train. Bucky had made sure he could. It doesn't seem fair that he is still in pain in a dream though. The men with him grab Bucky under the shoulders and drag him through the snow. It's not real, he tells himself. It can't be. Steve would have caught Zola. Surely he would have. It's not real.
It's a hallucination, he tries to tell himself. He can feel the movement of some sort of transport beneath him, shuddering through his broken body. The movement has to be real. The pain is too sharp, too different from before for him to be imagining it. But he could be feverish, hallucinating a nightmare that can't possibly be here. He tries to convince himself that is the case. Maybe Steve came for him after all. Maybe he is in the bed of the Howling Commandos' truck, on their way back to somewhere, anywhere but here. He tried to convince himself that was real because he can't be Zola's prisoner again. That can't be real. It can't.
They, he's not sure who, delirious with fever, with hope that Steve will save him, with terror that Zola really has him again, drag him inside and lay him on a table. The room is warm and that adds a new element of pain as his body warms too quickly from the icy conditions outside.
They don't sedate him. Any hospital would have him dead to the world and in surgery if he came in like this. The squad would have at least given him some morphine or something. He tries to convince himself it is still friends. There had been a few guys they would have given something to, but they ran out after a bad run in Italy. Maybe that's what happened here. But Dum Dum had scrounged up some whiskey and they got the injured guys drunk off their asses until they could get them back to base. It wasn't morphine but it was something. No one has given him anything. They just strap him down and ignore his screams.
He hears snatches of voices as they work on the worst of his injuries. They aren't speaking English. It isn't German or French or Italian either. He has picked up bits of those since he got over here. Italian he had a head start on because of old Mrs. Martinelli down the street. He used to help her with her with her groceries and chores around the house sometimes. She was always fussing about how him and Steve weren't eating enough for growing boys. "You need to eat more, the both of you. But you, Steve, your arms look like spaghetti. One stiff breeze and 'snap'."
He thinks it might be Russian. Trying to figure it out gives him something to focus on other than the pain while they work. And Russian is good. Russia is at war with Germany too.
"Where's Steve?" he asks finally, his voice rough even to his own ears. "Captain Rogers?" he clarifies. "Captain America?" They ignore him. Maybe they don't speak any English.
They have him stable by the time Zola comes back, and this time he is coherent enough to be almost sure it isn't a nightmare. It doesn't take him long to amend that. It is a nightmare, but one he can't wake up to escape.
Zola doesn't bother telling him what they are doing to him. It's more than just first aid, he's sure of that. If they just wanted to save him life he doubts they would need to cut into his arm down to the bone, all the way to his shoulder. They pump him full of drugs too, nothing that helps with the pain, which has stopped surprising him. He gets good at losing himself in better memories. Which is all of them, really. When they cut into his arm he could get nostalgic for the first time Zola had him prisoner near Azzano. He hadn't been sure it was really Steve at first. He was so tall, taller than Bucky even. He had been sure he was imagining it.
"No one is coming for you Sergeant Barnes," Zola says in clipped English.
"That's what you said last time," Bucky says through cracked lips.
"Did no one tell you?" Zola asks. "Captain America is dead."
"That's not true," Bucky says, because it can't be. Steve can't be. "It's a lie. Like everything else you say. But why this lie?"
"Because I don't want you under the impression that there is anyone left who cares what happens to James Barnes."
"It's not true," Bucky murmurs, more to himself than to Zola.
Zola slaps a newspaper down on the table in front of Bucky.
National Hero Mourned: Captain America Killed In the Line of Duty
"You made it up," Bucky whispered. "It's not real. You made it up."
They show him some of the news reel later that day and he… it's too far to say he believes. He wants it to be a lie so badly he won't believe it completely, but he knows it at least might be true.
"If that's true," Bucky says slowly "then you should have done everything in your power to make sure I never found out."
"Why is that, Sergeant?" Zola asked.
"Because if that is true, it means that my best friend laid down his life to stop you." Bucky gives a bitterly sad smile. "I've got no right to do any less."
They cut into his arm again that afternoon, another step in fusing metal to his arm, in making him into a weapon. And for the first time, Bucky wants to die. The whole time he had been captured before he had wished for a chance to escape. When he was too weak for that he had wished for rescue. Even the first time, before he knew Steve was Captain America and headed to Germany, he had wished for rescue. Even in nearly unbearable agony he had been able to hold on to some semblance of hope. But if Steve was gone, and the war was over, no one was coming for him. No one at all.
He tried to convince himself that it was a lie, that Steve would show up any minute to save him.
Ready to follow Captain America into the jaws of death?
Turns out the jaws of death are preferable to the tentacles of HYDRA.
They finished the last of the surgeries to attach the arm and try explaining how it works. It isn't hard to figure out and he lashes out, grabbing the scientist by the throat. He feels the man's neck snap before they sedate him. It takes a ridiculously high dose so they don't use it on him very often. He is restrained when he wakes.
"What is your name?" Zola asks.
Bucky blinks. Zola knows the answer. Bucky has spent the past he doesn't know how long repeating it. "James Barnes, Sergea…"
He is cut off by a sudden vicious punch to the gut that knocked the wind out of him. Not from Zola. The scientist let others do his violence for him. He never lays so much as a finger on Bucky.
"Not anymore," Zola says. "From this point on you are the Asset. You have no name, no rank, no friends, no identity. You are what we make you."
"James Buchanan Barnes," he says defiantly. The guard punches him again.
Sometimes I think you like getting punched.
"Got you on the ropes," Bucky mutters.
"What is your name?" Zola asks again.
"James Buchan…" He is cut off by another punch. He is sure it breaks a rib.
He actually laughs. "You did major surgery on me. You really think I can't a beating?"
"I think we just haven't found your breaking point."
"Damn right you haven't."
They follow that pattern for a long time. He isn't sure how long but it feels like forever. Time moves strangely because they don't let him sleep. He will start drifting off and the guards will wake him again. He wonders how long a person can stay awake before it actually kills them. But he doesn't stop repeating his name, rank, and serial number.
He kills guards occasionally, lashing out any time they get too close when he isn't properly restrained. They learn they have to use chains because any other kind of restraint lets him nearly escape with his new found strength.
"James Buchanan Barnes, Sergeant with the 107th, 32557038."
When he is alone, he repeats other things too, things outside of name, rank, and serial number, the other things they don't want him to remember. "Bucky Barnes, I have a home in Brooklyn, my best friend is Steve Rogers. Steve will find me."
Eventually, he can't explain what changes, they give up on him. They put him on ice, which is what they called it. He heard them talking. Apparently they have a plan to break him but it isn't ready yet. That scares him, because who he is, that's all he has left.
So they freeze him. Being frozen doesn't hurt. It's just a flash of cold and then nothing. Thawing out hurts, like going out in the snow, having a snowball fight until his fingers went numb, then holding his hands over the stove to warm them too quickly, only over his whole body.
It feels like no time has passed, but Zola looks older, more worn.
"How long?" Bucky asks, his voice a little hoarse from the cold.
Zola ignores the question. "What is your name?" he asks.
"James Buchanan Barnes, Sergeant with the 107th, 32557038."
"Take him to the chair," Zola says.
Bucky tries to fight them off while they strap him in to the device. They learned long ago that guns aren't a deterrent to him so they have to restrain him physically. Zola tries to force a piece of rubber between Bucky's lips. Bucky is having none of that and bites Zola's hand hard.
"You have to bite on something or you might bite your tongue or even break your teeth," one of the other scientists says in a heavy Russian accent. He recognizes the bit as the same sort of thing they had put in his mouth during the surgeries. He moves to accept it but while the scientist puts it in he grabs him by the throat.
"Let me go," he hisses around the mouth filled with rubber. "Now!"
He snaps the man's neck when the others move forward instead of releasing him. He doesn't spit out the piece of rubber though as the men strap him down and remove the dead doctor.
"Begin the procedure," Zola orders.
Agony flashes through him, sudden and so intense he can't form a coherent though. He isn't even coherent enough to wish for rescue or for death. It takes a long time for his mind to clear enough for coherent thought and even then things are jumbled and foggy.
"What is your name, soldier?" Zola asks.
Bucky takes a shaky breath before squaring his shoulders and meeting Zola's gaze. "James Buchanan Barnes," he snaps out. "Sergeant with the 107th. 32557038."
He runs through the rest in his mind. Bucky Barnes, grew up in Brooklyn, best friends with Steve Rogers. Steve will find me.
"Very well. Begin the procedure again. Only once more today I think. We don't want to destroy his mind altogether."
Bucky takes a few sharp breaths, trying to steel himself but once again the agony steals all thought, lost in a scream of pure torment. It takes longer for thought to return and that fuzzy feeling won't go away.
"What is your name?" Zola asks
He spits out the rubber. "James Buchanan Barnes. Sergeant with the 107th. 32557038."
Zola has him beaten again for that. He never lets him say his name without consequences. But after the chair, the pain of a beating barely registers. He repeats the rest in his mind while their fists and boots do their work. I'm Bucky Barnes, grew up in Brooklyn, best friends with Steve Rogers. Steve will find me. Steve has saved him before. He had shown up like a guardian angel in… where was it? Italy somewhere? He'd been sure he'd left Steve safely in Brooklyn. For a second he can't remember how Steve ended up over here. They kept turning him down for the army, right? And he wasn't that tall. And… Bucky frowns, trying to focus. Right, Steve was completely nuts and volunteered to be a science experiment. That's how he got over here. That's how Steve will be able to save him. He knows all of that. The memories are there, they just aren't as sharp as they were.
At least they let him sleep. His mind is still muddled from what they did to him but sleep is simple, sleep is easy.
"What is your name?"
"James Buchanan Barnes. Sergeant with the 107th. 32557… 5570…38." Bucky can feel the memories fracturing, and there are things he can't quite remember, but he holds on to the important things. I'm Bucky Barnes, grew up in Brooklyn, best friends with Steve Rogers. Steve will find me.
"What is your name?"
"Bucky. Bucky Barnes." He frowns, struggling to remember the rest. "32… 55…7… 70… 3… um… 703… with the 10… 107th. Sergeant… Steve will find me." He meets Zola's eyes steadily. "And one or the other of us is going to kill you."
"What is your name?"
"B… Bucky. My name is Bucky." There's supposed to be more. He knows there is. Numbers. There are supposed to be numbers. He just can't remember any of it. "Steve will find me," Bucky whispers, trying to cling to the only thread of hope remaining to him. He doesn't even know who Steve is, not really, just a few scraps of memory that don't fit together right. A boy in a fight he can't possibly win. A man coming to find him in a lab not unlike this one. They barely look like the same person. There are no links in the middle to tell him when that changed.
"What is your name?"
He frowns, struggling to remember. There was a long answer to that question. He knows there was but he can't remember most of it. So he just repeats the part he knows, the only part he still has. "Steve will save me," he murmurs. He doesn't even remember what it means, not really, but it meant something, it must have.
"Once more," Zola says.
"Steve will save me," he murmurs again before Zola places the rubber bit in his mouth.
"What is your name?" Zola asks.
"I… I don't know," he says. There are things he knows, facts that he hasn't lost. The sky is blue. The names of places. Steve will… but he doesn't know anyone names Steve. Does he? "What is my name?"
"You have no name."
"I do… I have… Why can't I remember?"
"You are my greatest accomplishment, HYDRA's greatest weapon," Zola says.
"No. I'm… It's not… I have… I have a name. I just can't… Someone is coming for me. … not your weapon.
"I think one more round should be enough," Zola says.
Pain overwhelms him, too lost and confused to know where it is coming from.
"What is your name?"
"I don't know," he says. He's not sure he has one. "I don't know," he says again.
"You are the Asset, a weapon, my greatest success. And you are going to change the world."
"I… I'm not… What do you want from me?" he asks.
"I want you to kill someone."
"No," the man says. "I'm… I don't…" For a second the confusion clears from his features and he meets Zola's eyes steadily. He doesn't remember anything anymore but he knows this with crystal clarity. "I won't murder someone, especially not for you."
"Yes," Zola says. "You will. One more treatment and you would kill your own best friend if I told you to. But it has been too many treatments today. I'll let you rest tonight and finish turning you into a weapon tomorrow."
He curls up in the cell, hugging his knees to his chest and trying desperately to find some piece of himself, some tiny fragment of something, anything, to make him more than Zola says he is. He can't remember anything to hold onto.
"I'm not a weapon," he murmurs aloud to himself. "I'm not a weapon. I'm not a weapon." If he repeats it enough, maybe he will be able to remember it.
It takes three more treatments, three more rounds of blinding agony, three more rounds of forgetting, three more rounds of lightning burning away everything that he used to be.
"What is your name?" Zola asks.
"I don't know. What is my name?"
"You have no name. You have no family, no friends, no life outside this room. You are mine."
"What do you want me to do?" the he asks.
"You will kill Howard Stark."
The Asset nods.