I don't own anything in this story. Marvel doesn't belong to me. I am not making a profit off of this.
"Wipe him."
"Sir," one of the scientists said. "We can't wipe him in the middle of a mission."
Secretary Pierce glared at the man.
"And why not?"
"It'll wipe everything about the mission," the scientist explained. "You'd have to debrief him again, and there isn't time for that. At the same time, sir, if you've read his file, you'd know that . . . certain things . . . make it harder to wipe him completely. Until the end of the mission, you'll have to resort to the old fashion techniques."
Secretary Pierce huffed and glanced back at him. He stared back at the man, like the good little soldier he'd been programmed to be. Only now, as he continued to stare at the man calling the shots, other things flashed through his mind. The man from the bridge. A train, falling, pain, fear, Dr. Zola—whoever he was—cold, more pain, beatings . . . .
"What are you?" a man demanded.
"J-James Buchanan Barnes," he answered, a whimper escaping his throat. The man brought a leather strap down across his shoulders. He yelled and curled further into a ball. Around him he could hear others whispering. Sometimes he could just make out what they were saying.
"We'll have to try wiping him again," someone said.
"N-no," he whispered back. "Please." He yelped as his hair was grabbed by the man with the leather strap. His good arm—his real one—reached up and grabbed the hand. His metal arm, the disgusting foreign thing, struggled against the shackle securing it in place.
"What are you?" the man demanded again.
"James Buchanan Barnes."
"He's still fighting too much," someone else said. "We need to wear him down more before another wipe can be attempted."
"I got just the thing," the man with the leather strap sneered. He dropped the leather strap and, still holding onto his hair, unzipped his trousers. He stared in horror as the man pulled out his cock.
"No!" he shouted, pulling back at much as he could. "No—," his cry is cut short as the man shoved his cock into his mouth. He choked, his head knocking against the wall behind him. The man set a brutal pace, continuing to choke him. Around him, he heard people laugh and discuss the horrid wiping process.
He can't forget who he is. He won't. He's James Buchanan Barnes of Brooklyn. He's a Howling Commando, the best friend and right hand man of Captain America, Steve Rogers, the little guy from Brooklyn who didn't know when to say no.
He didn't notice that he was crying until the man released in his mouth and forced him to swallow. The man turned him around, forced him onto his knees and tore down his pants. He screamed at the intrusion. It's worse than his mouth. He reached behind him to try and push the man off, but he can't. He screamed and screamed.
"You are not James Buchanan Barnes," the man pumping in and out of his growls. "You are a soldier. You are HYDRA's. You are a soldier. You obey orders." He released, yanked out, and leered over him. He collapsed, curling his knees to his chest.
"What are you?" the man demanded. He doesn't answer. He doesn't want to answer. The man kicked him. He whimpered.
"Let's try wiping him now," the man said to his fellow comrades.
He doesn't fight as he's unshackled from the wall. Pain made him cry in pain as he is yanked to his feet. He feels blood and cum roll down his leg. There are tears rolling down his face. He's strapped down, a rubber mouth guard is shoved into his mouth, making him choke and gag. He feels the cold metal plates press against his head.
He remembered now. There had been several mind wipes before he was frozen. Mind wipes until he stopped fighting. Then wipes after each mission. That he knew.
Steve Rogers. That's who the man on the bridge was. Captain America. His target, his mission. His best friend.
What did that mean? Friend?
Someone slapped him. His head snapped to the side, his hair fell over his face. They were afraid. They were angry. Similar emotions appeared inside him, and he somehow knew that he wasn't supposed to be feeling emotions. He was a soldier, he had no need for emotions. Emotions got in the way of the mission. He was only allowed to feel what HYDRA allowed him to feel, and that was pain from the memory wipes and nothing more.
Only they couldn't memory wipe him now, it'd jeopardize the mission. This was a factor they hadn't seen. He hadn't seen. It'd been so long since he'd felt anything, and fear appeared. He didn't like it. He feared forgetting.
"Hey, Bucky!"
Bucky. That's what the man on the bridge had called him. Bucky. Bucky Barnes. Steve Rogers. Best Friends. A laughing face, blue eyes and golden hair shot across his mind as he felt another slap come across his face. Protectiveness on his part for the golden haired man. He had to protect him. Why?
He couldn't remember.
But he had to protect Steve Rogers. He was so sick.
The man on the bridge hadn't looked sick.
He grunted as he was slammed onto his hands and knees. His metal arm was attacked to the leg of the electro-chair. He growled, yanked at the shackle, but it was made specifically to withstand his arm's strength. He felt his pants get pulled down.
"Steve, is that you?"
"Bucky, I thought you were dead!"
"I thought you were smaller."
Everything was a blur. There were missing pieces, floating just out of reach. He grunted as someone entered him, tearing him open. His fingers curled into fists.
"Hail HYDRA," the man above him snapped. "HYDRA's way is the only way. You are a soldier of HYDRA. HYDRA will bring freedom and protection to all."
"Hail HYDRA," he dutifully answered.
I knew him, he thought. This Steve Rogers, this man on the bridge, this Captain America. Somehow, he knew him. Somehow, he was friends with him. Friend? What was friend? HYDRA wasn't friend. How did he know that? So many thoughts.
"Kill Captain America," the man above him said. "That is your mission."
Nothing was as important as the mission. Nothing had been in the past. He couldn't remember his other missions, but he knew there had been. That's what he was. An assassin. A soldier. Soldiers killed people. A soldier protected HYDRA.
Protected Steve Rogers. Why? Who was Bucky Barnes? Why did Bucky want to protect Steve Rogers?
"Hail HYDRA," he said again.
He'd ask Captain America when he saw him again. Until then,
"Hail HYDRA."
U U U U
The suit was familiar. Another memory flashed through his head. Of him reaching for the same man in the same suit, a screech of metal, and then he was falling, screaming. Someone screamed for him.
"Bucky!"
"Steve!"
"Bucky." Captain America said.
"I'm not Bucky," he answered, because whoever Bucky is, it certainly can't be him. Bucky seems alive, he is dead inside. He belongs to HYDRA. The four men who took him from behind in front of Secretary Pierce made that quite clear.
"You are James Buchanan Barnes," Captain America said. "You are my friend. Don't make me do this."
"Don't make me do this, Buck."
"It'll be fun, Steve! And what's Coney Island without going on a ride?"
"Whoever he was, I'm not him."
Captain America came closer. He tensed; his instincts told him to fight, to go on the offensive.
"I'm a soldier. Hail HYDRA!"
"Bucky."
He drew his knife, ready to attack. Captain America paused in his approach. He raised the arm not holding his shield.
"Bucky," he said again, his voice soft. "It's me, Steve. I'm your friend. Remember?"
Remember? That's what he'd be doing all day. But remembering and being one with the memories was something he couldn't be. Not now. Not at this moment. That didn't mean he didn't want answers, and that didn't mean that his training, his . . . conditioning . . . weren't screaming at him to attack Captain America, his target. His mission.
"You're my mission," he said.
"Then stab me, Bucky. 'Cause I'm with you 'til the end of the line."
End of the line. Funeral. Mother. Steve's mother. A key under the brick. Worry. He needed to protect his friend. Steve Rogers was always trying to do things too big for him, and always got the short end of the stick. If he didn't protect him, who would?
Captain America was now in front of him. He reached up and pulled off his mask.
He stared into the blue eyes.
"I thought you were smaller," he said. Why did he say that? Because there were memories flashing across his mind, unbidden, of a scrawny kid from Brooklyn that he needed to protect.
Steve laughed.
"I was. I thought you were dead."
A disjointed memory of a battle, of capture, of an office with a metal slab that he was attached to went through his head. He felt his legs give out at the sheer weight these memories brought to his mental state. He stumbled to the side, grabbing hold of the railing. Steve, Captain America, whoever he was, stepped forward, punched a code into the keypad and a series of microchips came down.
He glanced at the man who he was ordered to kill. He had to obey. He was a soldier. HYDRA's soldier. HYDRA ordered him to kill this man. HYDRA wanted him dead.
HYDRA wiped his memories. HYDRA had men rape him.
HYDRA had wiped his memories.
HYDRA had raped him in more ways than one.
Steve replaced a chip with one of his own. The helicarrier shuttered and the man in red, white and blue turned back to him. He clutched the railing tighter.
"I don't . . . know who I am," he said.
"You're Bucky Barnes," Steve answered. "You're my best friend. And it's my turn to take care of you."