Russian Translations are found at the bottom. Reviews make my day. : )
Natasha could almost hear it. Could almost hear the mocking, sing-song quality of his voice as he drew ever closer.
Come out, come out, nemnogo pauk.
She'd lied to Rogers, when she spoke of the assassin known as the Winter Soldier. She'd known him long before Odessa –back when she'd still been Natalia Romanova, star pupil of the Red Room, and he'd been a trainer, on loan to the Red Room as part of the ongoing alliance between the KGB, and Hydra.
She'd been about thirteen the first time she'd seen him, the lower half of his face covered by what looked like a muzzle. As near as he knew, he was about nineteen, although he'd admitted time was difficult to tell, as he only ever spent a few months max out of cyrosleep. Typically, he'd told her, it was a week here, a week there…
Based off their initial meeting, there was no way that she could have known in the year she'd spend with him, the man who'd told her to call him 'James' would become her entire world.
And yet, there he was –again –trying to kill her –again. She shoved the hurt that particular thought brought into the little black box in the back of her mind, knowing she only had a few minutes to put her plan into action.
It was actually a little insulting, she thought with a small smile as she watched the Winter Soldier throw a grenade underneath the car, right towards where she'd left her phone with a little recording. To think that her one-time hero would fall for so obvious a ruse. She barely bit back her chuckle as she remembered Pchelintsov talking about the short comings of memory wipes, and how much more efficient Red Room's tactics were, as she jumped out behind him, and tried to wrap her legs around his neck.
The distraction was just that –a distraction. She knew there was only way to actually hurt the Winter Soldier.
Remember, pauk... if it ever comes to it... you have to short-circuit the arm. It won't stop me, but it will slow me down. Hopefully long enough.
She prayed he'd been right; prayed the technology of his arm hadn't been upgraded to avoid that exact short-coming as she threw the scrambler into the joint section of the metallic elbow.
She could actually hear the jolt of electricity, as the man twitched; that was all she had time to observe, before she hauled ass in the opposite direction, screaming for the civilians to clear out.
This is important, moya pauk. You can't stop me. If that moment comes... run. Run like your life depends on it. Because it will.
She thought as long as she'd gotten out of his line of sight, she'd be okay. After all, Rogers was clearly his primary target; as long as she –and the civilians –didn't get in his way, he'd follow SOP, and try and locate Rogers again.
But the bullet that tore through her shoulder quickly disabused her of that notion. Either Rogers wasn't the only target, or she'd managed to seriously piss him off; either one was probably a viable option.
For a split second, she entertained the notion of trying to hide. But that was before she heard the steady thump of boots coming around the car. Jumping on to the hood.
As the first man she'd ever loved aimed the gun at her head, all she could do was whisper.
"Pozhaluysta, ne, zevzda moya."
It's time, pauk. It has to be now -tonight. I know you're tired, but we have to go. This is our only chance. Our last chance to be free.
Instantly, she's awake and on her feet, pulling her clothes on silently as she glances around the room at the other bunks. In the dim lighting, she can just barely see the dark pool around the top of each bed -right where the other girls' throats would be.
She tries to make herself feel some pity for the thirteen girls she'd been trained with. Tries feeling anything for the girls she'd spent the past five years living with.
Tries... and fails.
She catches his eye, and gives him a nod of understanding, before reaching below her mattress, and grabbing the small kerambit she'd kept hidden there. The proud smile he gives her probably would warm her heart-if she had one.
I've taken care of the guards at the door. We'll have to go to the roof, and risk the jump to the river. Just remember, pauk: whatever happens, don't let go of my hand.
They move as silently and quickly as the wind. They manage to make it to the seventh floor before the alarms begin to blare, and she can't help but think it's most likely the sound of their death knell.
But he doesn't stop. Grasping her hand tightly, the metal biting into her skin, he practically drags her along the corridors, her short legs barely able to keep pace with his as they raced along.
We're close, pauk. Just a little farther.
Three more levels to go. Three more levels, and they'd be free. Thirty six more feet up, and they'd have the life they'd dreamed about.
He keeps dragging her along, never slowing. She couldn't help but admire the efficiency of his kills, even with one hand, as he dispatched all the guards, keeping the death grip on her right hand.
It's less than two minutes later when they finally make their way to the edge of the roof.
Remember: don't let go, pauk.
He gives her the devil-may-care-grin she so rarely sees as he pulls her tightly, his metal arm pinning her much smaller body to his chest. She turns her head, trying to look down, but only gets a fleeting glimpse of the long fall into the river below. For a moment, she can feel the blood rushing to her head at the distance -it must be at least a hundred and fifty foot drop into the fast, icy current below -but before she can truly register it, she feels his hand on the side of her head, pulling her view back to his face.
Don't look down, pauk. Just look at me.
She could hear the commands being shouted behind them. The guards must have breached the roof. She opened her mouth to yell out a warning...
And then there was no time to think as the air rushed up to steal her breath away.
Then a few seconds later, she watched as a small dart came piercing through the air, and landed in the shoulder of his metal arm.
Pauk!
She tries holding onto the spasming fingers as she begins to fall away from him. Grasped as tight as she could, but the cold digits refused to hold back. The water's rushing up closer now; she can barely hear his words, separated as they are by the distance now.
James!
There's damage to the circuitry. While he might not know exactly what 'circuitry' is, he knows it means that he'll need 'maintenance' again. He knows enough to know that the arm will continue to malfunction until he gets the 'maintenance'.
He's not sure what has his mind tumbling more: the man, or the girl. The man who thought he was something called a 'bucky', or the woman who called him her star. Both names brought up unpleasant feelings; made his head swim, as he tried to piece together things that weren't true, things that hadn't happened.
Things that couldn't happen.
My name is…
My name…
He's dimly aware that the technician working on his arm is sending low jolts of electricity shooting through the arm. But his mind is too busy scrambling to put pieces together.
I thought you were dead.
I thought you were taller.
Don't look down, pauk.
James.
James.
You're to be the new face… of Hydra
He's not aware that he's lashed out until his brain registers the guns aimed at him. He doesn't know how much time goes by –that's always the first thing he loses is time, a part of his brain explains –but he knows the guns are lowered as the man who is his current controller enters the room.
"Mission report."
Mission report? Mission report. Mission… not exactly failed. Mission… momentarily terminated.
Too many thoughts.
What happened to you?
I joined the army.
Whatever happens, don't let go of my hand.
"Mission report now."
Don't do anything stupid 'til I get back.
Nemnogo pauk.
The backhanded slap gets his attention, in a dim, fuzzy sort of way. A small part of his brain entertains the notion of 'slapping' the controller back –with the full weight of the metallic arm behind it, knocking the controller's head off his shoulders.
But it's a far away thought. Far too much of his brain power is trying to figure out who the two of them were.
"The man on the bridge. Who was he?"
He notices that there's something different about his voice; something off, and yet strangely familiar. After a moment, he realizes that he spoke perfect English, almost as a default, for the second time, instead of his native Russian.
Who the hell is 'Bucky'?
There's just one split second too long in the controller's hesitation before speaking, that lets him know that whatever the man says, it's a lie.
"You met him earlier this week. On another assignment."
He can't quite bring himself to shake his head, but he catches the controller's eyes, and says softly, "I knew him."
As soon as he says the words, he can feel a part of him relax. Like a piece of a puzzle has finally fit into place. He ignores what the controller says about his 'contributions', and 'duty', as a feeling of clarity begins to set in.
"But I knew him."
He knows the look the controller gives him. Knows what's coming.
"Prep him."
"He's been out of cyrosleep too long."
The freezing is bad enough; its cold, and he float along, half aware, half gone. But he knows they won't leave it there. They only put him into the deepfreeze without wiping when it's only been a few days.
"Then wipe him. Start over."
He doesn't resist; he knows better. After seventy years –seventy years? –he knows better than to resist.
He tries not to shake; tries to keep his fear and panic hidden as the machine descends onto his head, obscuring one of his eyes, and digging painfully into his skull.
He's pretty sure he only partially succeeds.
As the shocks start –hitting key parts of his brain –there's one split second of clarity.
My name is Bucky Barnes.
And then it all goes dark.
Russian Translations:
Nemnogo Pauk: Little Spider
Pauk: Spider
Moya Pauk: My Spider
Pozhaluysta, ne, zevzda moya: Please don't, my star (A common Russian term of endearment)