There was a reason why he never wanted to be shipped overseas. He knew what horrors war could hold. Hell his dad had died in an incident on home soil. He knew what could happen, knew the risks. There was a reason he was drafted and hadn't signed his name up with a smile like Steve had continuously tried to do. Being strapped to that damn table was the reason.
God he'd known of the horrors that war could hold but this? No this was beyond that. The days had blended together. He was feverish but freezing, he knew his name but not who he was. The only thing he could fully register was that pain. The needles going into his skin, the scalpel dragging across. The shocks. God what did the shocks even do? He didn't know, he couldn't remember. He struggled to remember every time afterwards. What had been happening before? He didn't know.
All he knew was his identification.
Until Steve arrived. God that man was a knight on a white horse, riding in at the last minute to save his ass. He coulda kissed the man if he wasn't positive he was going to vomit. How in the hell did Steve get so big?
Things seemed to look up from there. He honestly thought that he'd had a chance of surviving this hell hole. Long as he was by Steve's side, he could make it anywhere. The little punk inspired him like nobody else ever could. He'd soldier through it all. He'd fight the churning of his stomach, the slight shakes in his hands and the nightmares that followed him thanks to Zola. He'd get through it all to be at Steve's side and make these bastards pay.
At least that's what he thought. Yet as he clung to that damn railing, wind whistling by his head, he knew it wasn't going to happen. His heart hammered in his chest, threatening to escape. His grip was strong but he could feel that damn shake in his muscles. A glance to Steve, to that damn worried face proved he was too far away. He couldn't reach. Yet the blonde was trying anyway. "Grab my hand!" The words are almost eaten by the wind and he just barely hears them. If he hadn't been looking he wouldn't have even noticed him speak. Swallowing thickly, he can hear the bar creaking under his grip. He reaches, extending his arm as far as possible but it won't reach. It's too late.
The bar snaps and for the briefest second it's as if he's floating.
The heartbreak on Steve's face etches its way into his memory as a scream tears out of his own throat, limbs flailing for anything to hold onto as he plummets. His world goes black the moment he hits the ground.
He's already accepted his death by then.
The next thing he knows he's being dragged through the snow. Everything hurts. A gurgling sound comes from his throat and he can vaguely register voices around him. They aren't speaking English. He's too out of it, brain too muddled down with pain to even attempt to place the dialect other than Eastern Europe. He tries to dig his fingers into the ground, stop them from moving because all its doing is sending hot white sparks of pain through him.
He feels broken.
His right hand stings from the cold and he's positive that the ice he can feel under his palms is cutting into his flesh. His left hand feels nothing. That metallic scent of blood hits him now. He's familiar with it, god so familiar with it. His stomach churns as he just tries to make his left arm respond, terror seizing through him and not letting him look down at it. His right arm is shaky as he lifts his hand, forcing it into view.
Why isn't his left joining it?
Eyes wide, his head slowly lolls to the side to look, to see the damage.
The sound that escapes him is that of a dying animal as it catches in his throat. The voices around him sound more rushed as his cries gurgle out. He just needs it to move. It's okay if he can't see it. It's still there. It's still there. Heavy footsteps behind him and a crack against the back of his skull as his world goes dark again.
The next time he regains consciousness he's on a table. His breathing is laboured, eyes flying wide open as a gargled cry of pain is torn from him. His arm. He head jerks to the side, breath hitching as he watches the saw working through flesh. The shock that's running through him is so strong that he doesn't even realize it's his own arm until it hits the bone. White hot pain flashes through him, his back arching and his feet scrambling against their restraints. He was positive the scream that ripped its way out tore up his throat. The saw stops and he drops back onto the table. He's trembling, breathing is laboured and he's not sure if he's even getting any air. The world is dancing between light and dark and he can hear shuffling. Hushed talking. And then something cool is pressing against his stomach. He can't find it in himself to look, there's no strength in his body left. He can feel it tighten around him and he opens his mouth, in hopes to say anything. Maybe to threaten them. Maybe to stoop below himself and beg for mercy.
The only sound that comes out is a high pitched cry of pain as that saw resumes its action. God he can feel the blood pumping out of the wound. His body struggles on the table but held down by the new restraint over his torso. The last thought he has before the world blacks out is that Steve is coming.
He's gotta be.
The next time he's waking up there's a terrible pressure on his left shoulder. There's a weight he hasn't felt before. Not an arm. It's…heavier. He can vaguely hear a doctor talking off to his side. Explaining to him.
Arm. Bionic arm.
Swallowing thickly, he slowly raises the hand up. Bringing it up next his right. It's shiny. It's metal. It's not him. His heart is hammering in his chest, eyes wide and wild and he doesn't even know what he's doing before he does it. He just cannot standthese men. He cannot handle what they've done to him.
His new arm moves at lightening speed, snapping his fingers around the doctors neck and squeezing. But he'd not a killer. He brings the arm close to himself and the flings the doctor far away. He hears him crash and he's flanked by guards as he forces his body into a sitting position.
"You're to be the new hand of HYDRA Mr. Barnes." The accented voice is so familiar as the world spins. His breath hitches in his throat, he can taste the bile that's rising. Zola. "Wipe him." The words are cold and deliberate. He's shoved back, head slamming against the table. There's a weight on his arm and the strain pulls at his shoulder. He's too new to it. He can't get it to respond now, not with this added weight. Strong hands work at his jaw, wrenching it open and a guard is inserted. His nostrils flare as he lets out a heavy breath, struggling in their grip.
Machinery clicks into place and the vision over his left eye is blocked. He can feel cuffs going into place around his wrists. He has no time to wonder what he meant by wipe him, what was about to happen. Light sparked before his left eye and white hot pain seared through him. His screamed through the bit in his mouth, body going rigid as the machine sent shocks through him and his world was erased.
Everything after that isn't important. He's put on ice until they want him out. They're waiting for something, for what the Soldier doesn't know. He's their weapon, that's all that he knows.