Inspired by 'In The Dawn Of Change' by seasidewriter1.

Summary: Saskia Vasiliev, A.K.A. The other Winter Soldier. After 70 years of HYDRA brainwashing, she barely remembered her own name, let alone her affections for the metal armed man she completed her missions with, but at least the asset wasn't alone in her attempt to remember just who the hell she was.

Lest We Forget

Siberian Hydra Facility, Russia
November 20th, 1963

"Agent Vasiliev?"

The asset raised her head slowly, her head throbbing with pain—although, she knew it would fade quickly; the asset's wounds always faded quickly. She recognised the name. Agent Vasiliev. HYDRA assassin. Operative. Soldier. Her.

Name required response. Especially after those words—always those words, only ever those words—she was programmed to respond. Only certain words acceptable—only certain words necessary. Response language required: Russian. Other language options: English, German, Romanian—some Italian, incomplete knowledge.

"Ready to comply." Toneless, but clear strain in her voice. Most likely from excessive use of voice. Most likely linked to pain in her head (subsiding quicker with each moment). The soldier did not get ill. The asset was immune to illness. Most probable cause: strain on vocal chords. Specifically: Screaming.

Comply.

The word echoed through the asset's mind.

Comply. Only to HYDRA, only ever to HYDRA, she complied. Her purpose was to serve them. Her purpose was to fulfil whatever mission they gave her. A soldier, loyal to HYDRA. She complied. Always.

The soldier—or, as she had been addressed, Agent (Asset, Soldier, Lieutenant, Miss) Vasiliev—assessed the man stood in front of her. She was unsure whether there was any recognition of the face, but she understood that she had to take whatever orders the man gave regardless (he had said the words, and she always—always—complied upon hearing those words). The room was dark, only lit by somewhat dim orange lights, the light glow causing extra shadows on the man's face. It was cold, but she couldn't feel the coolness against the skin of her right arm, only her left. Vasiliev (no first name, she didn't have or know a first name) knew she had seen the room before. She had sat in this chair before, surrounded by the same equipment she was now—screens and equipment and metal.

Urge to flinch at equipment: Resisted.

There were armed guards; four armed guards, two at each of the room doors. Two escape roots—but no escape. She was not allowed—she could not, she had been trained to not—escape. Under no circumstances whatsoever was she allowed to escape, nor breakout, nor run, nor fight.

She could only submit and serve. That was her purpose. To submit to HYDRA, and to serve HYDRA. She served HYDRA, and only ever HYDRA.

Agent—Soldier—Asset Vasiliev looked at the man once more. Features: not particularly memorable. Light skin, of European descent. Hard laughter lines, harsh cheekbones, bony facial structure. Brown eyes. Square jawline. Thin eyebrows. Greying, balding. Most likely in mid-fifties. Nothing of recognition; simply a face of a man she lived to serve. Urge to strangle man (with the right arm, her mind insisted, always the right arm): Resisted. Too many risks. Four armed soldiers—Heckler Koch MP5 submachine fund held, Makarov Pistols in holsters. Chance of escape: close to null.

She looked at the doors once more, only momentarily. Images flashed through her mind. A shout. A name, faded and distant. A train. A person. People. Two people. And falling. Falling. Falling. Vasiliev felt her heartbeat increase, as well as a sickness in her stomach.

Urge to panic: Resisted.

She concluded that the images were irrelevant, unnecessary in assisting her in whatever mission she needed to complete. They only served as hindrances. The images, though she had no understanding of what they were, needed to be dismissed. The images caused acute emotional distress. (Emotion: an affective state of consciousness in which joy, sorrow, fear, hate, or the like, is experienced, as distinguished from cognitive and volitional states of consciousness) Emotion caused distraction, distraction hindered a mission. She could not risk making mistakes.

"You have a mission, Miss Vasiliev."—Vasiliev. Not wrong, but not right either. It was her name, but not what it was supposed to be—"Assassination. You'll be accompanying Sergeant Barnes." She ignored the constriction in her chest at the mention of the name. It was purely coincidence. Barnes was a fellow assassin, she reminded. That was all. Another HYDRA assassin. Another Winter Soldier.

(Barnes. Another option to Vasiliev. Barnes. She could recall nothing else but that.)

She nodded, showing acknowledgement of the mission. Looking down, she saw that she was already fully clad—combat boots, black cargo trousers, tight black leather jacket. Only one sleeve, she remembered, because her other arm had no requirement for it. It was metal. She knew that fact, yet it felt odd looking at it. It wasn't right, she knew, but it was all she knew. It was drilled into her mind that she was indebted to HYDRA; they had enhanced her. They had saved her. They had given her purpose. She served them because of this.

She was created to serve them.

"The year is 1963." The man begun, his thick German accent becoming apparent. He turned toward the door, left exit, white lab coat swinging behind him. The asset lifted herself from the chair (no more confines) and simply followed. The soldiers moved out of the way on command of the man—of her handler—keeping a firm grip on their guns as she walked past. The fidgeting movements and the whitening of their knuckles signified to the soldier that they were nervous—scared, even—of her presence.

("You are one dangerous woman, S…"—the name blurred in her mind—"Even without a gun.")

More concrete walls and cold, damp halls followed the room.

"We're currently at the Siberian base, but we're moving to the United States. Your next mission, Agent Vasiliev, is to assassinate the president."

She simply nodded and followed, ignoring the inkling of what one could only identify as dread.

Her hair was plaited after she boarded the plane, the HYDRA agents tugging just a bit too hard for comfort. It didn't bother the asset, however. It didn't make her feel anything. Just mild discomfort for a brief moment.

She had put her mask on, leaving nothing but her eyes and forehead visible (the asset didn't know what eye colour she had, and only knew her hair was black, seemingly, from the odd strand that had fallen in her line of site). She had expected to feel the material of it against her fingers as she put it on, but was once again met with the cold metal of her right arm—only processing the pressure of the action, never the feeling.

Her right arm was her stronger arm. Her gift from HYDRA. Her saving.

It didn't evoke any emotion, only a lack of sensation.

It was a weapon. She was a weapon.

"Barnes will be boarding in a minute or so, so start to prepare for take-off." She heard one agent exchange to another. The soldier kept her head straight, eyes forward, never moving her gaze from what was directly in front of her (unless given otherwise instruction, she always did so; she never acted without instruction).

Her eyes did shift, however, when the other when the other winter soldier boarded the plane, mask donned on his face yet still was immediately recognisable to her. For a brief, split second of a moment, their line of sight met, but then she returned her own eyes to the boring interior of the plane, staring at nothing in particular.

(She had done missions with him before. She knew him only because he was another assassin, another operative, another soldier.)

The long hair felt wrong. It looked…wrong. She didn't know exactly what he was meant to look like instead, but it wasn't that. And the blue eyes—

("You have the prettiest eyes I've ever seen.")

The bluest of eyes—

("Have you seen your own, doll? God, we're going to have the bluest eyed babies ever.)

Completely void of life.

She felt something for a moment, but it left as quickly as it came.

The turbulence of the flight didn't bother her. Nor the passing hours spent in silence. Her mind positively blank.

All she knew was her non-metal hand had somehow found a way to intertwine with Barnes' own.

(He sat on her left side, and it was his right arm that was normal.)

He made no protest, and simply kept her hand between his.

The asset didn't understand it, but it seemed instinctive.

And the asset was programmed to never fight against instinct.

I'm sorry if the writing is odd and choppy. That's kind of how it's intended to be since the OC has just had her brain frazzled by HYDRA (again). Saskia's backstory will of course eventually be revealed, but I wanted to start from a point where she's brainwashed and can't remember anything about herself. Also, to my knowledge JFK wasn't assassinated by Bucky in the comics or movies or anything, I just thought that'd be a fun idea to play with.

Anyway, I've never written for this fandom before so I am somewhat nervous about posting this, but hopefully my writing isn't too awful and I won't get flamed or anything. Constructive reviews on anything and everything are always appreciated and encouraged!