A/N: Please be discretionary with your comfort level. This was a story I definitely wanted to explore and give appropriate, realistic justice to it, because mental health means a lot to me, but based on my experiences with personal interactions, I want people to take care of themselves if this is potentially an issue. It is not worth the views to sacrifice that. Now, I do want this to have a light at the end of the tunnel, because there should be a theme of redemption. This did however turn out to be a much more complex story than I could have imagined, so I want you to know from the outset how intense it could get. Thanks, and much love!

Pain. He registered nothing except maddening pain.

For a minute or so Bucky Barnes was so disoriented he couldn't piece together how he came to be here. Wherever 'here' was. Then fuzzy snippets trickled into his awareness. Beyond the pain, he was freezing cold, the kind that seeped down to his bones. How long had he been out like this? Voices floated somewhere above him—voices mostly speaking in a language he didn't understand. Captured! He couldn't seem to move at all, however.

Finally, his eyes dragged open. Men in thick military overcoats and guns stood over him, and behind them, soaring snowy peaks reached toward the grey twilight sky. That's when he remembered the train, the zip line, the firefight with guys in armored suits. A hole blown in the side of one of the cars. Steve reaching out, trying to pull him to safety.

Falling, an impossibly long fall.

The pain resurged as one of the men hefted Bucky by the shoulders, hauling him through the snow. A particular agony suddenly localized in his left arm, enough by itself to overtake his senses. Blearily he registered that the same arm ended far too soon, and in its wake a distinct red trail stained the pale surface over which he inched. Nooo… That plus heaven-only-knew what other injuries carried him back to oblivion.

Wherever he was next, it was both drafty and stagnant at the same time. He burned from the inside, while his immediate surroundings inspired chills, something he was not short of. And every tiny movement sent pain up and down his body. How did he even survive in the first place? The fall had to have been hundreds of feet to the bottom. Something must have snagged him enough to slow his descent. That would certainly explain the damage to his arm, though he doubted it would have been enough to save his life.

God, his arm…

Bucky forced his eyes to open once more. The room was plain, dim, but with off-white walls. Definitely medical, by the smell. His uniform had been replaced with a patient's gown. He felt the soft pressure of a bandage around his head, and a couple others in various places, most notably the hefty padding surrounding the stump of his arm. The fact that his hand was gone still hadn't clicked. The pain and fever didn't help.

The clack of a door latch made him jump, and the restraints became apparent. Straps immobilized all four limbs as well as pinned his chest. So he was a prisoner. What need, then, did they have for keeping him alive?

And then he walked through the door.

The little balding man in spectacles, Zola, led the way into the room with his sickly sweet smile. Other personnel both medical and scientific trooped in after him.

"You left us so unexpectedly, when we were just getting to know each other, Sergeant Barnes," he chided. "But fate has smiled on us, and I was able to find you again in time."

Fear and anger coursed through Bucky. He strained hard enough against the straps to rattle the bottle of fluid hanging above him, though it was a short-lived moment owing to how badly injured he was. "What did you…do to me?"

"Your friend, Captain Rodgers, was just the first in this evolution of warfare. Powerful, unstoppable super soldiers. We are still refining the process they used; however, what I have uncovered so far was enough to ensure your survival after the unfortunate mishap on the train. You will provide invaluable data for my research."

One of the doctors peeled away the bandaging on Bucky's arm as Zola talked. A foul smell arose, and in Bucky's overtaxed semi-consciousness he made out a horrible discoloration at the end.

"The gangrene is spreading too rapidly. We have to try to head it off before it becomes fatal," explained a second doctor. The other, more researcher-types poked, prodded and inspected other parts of Bucky, as if assessing how much damage he actually took. Someone drew samples of blood.

"Very well," conceded Zola. "Prep him as soon as you are ready."

Bucky didn't fully lose consciousness, or at least he didn't think he did, but the pain of being moved around left gaps in his memory. At some point he ended up in a bright, metal-filled room. A mask was pressed to his face, which he couldn't shake off. He actually saw the surgeon cutting into his arm, somewhere close to the elbow, except he couldn't move, and didn't feel quite as much pain as he should have. There was still pain, make no mistake. Pain was inescapable around Zola, apparently. If he could have worked his vocal cords, he would have screamed.

The next thing he knew, he was back in the first bed. No more restraints, but the door and single, high window were both thoroughly secured.

Steve found me once, he'll do it again.

Don't be an idiot. He saw you fall to your death. No way anyone should survive a fall like that, a nastier side of his mind argued.

But he would want a body to bury, some kind of closure. He would do anything to make that happen.

The Allies need Steve and the Commandos to drive the war effort. They couldn't spare him now even if they wanted. And the war's more important than any single man. You signed up for that.

He cried sometimes, late at night, whether out of pain or despair. The old experiments from before resumed, adding to the existing nightmares he often had when he did managed to fall asleep. Sometimes he thought he could still feel his missing hand, which was just bizarre. Bucky tried to keep his wits about him by reciting his name, rank, and service number, or focusing on memories of Steve. He had honestly never felt such relief and joy until that moment his best friend—all super-soldiered up into the dashing image of a national hero—showed up in the middle of the war front, solely determined to rescue Bucky and the rest of the captured Americans.

It slowly became harder and harder to keep his resolve.

Zola subjected him to a number of various injections, some with unpleasant effects. Once Bucky was sure he had stopped breathing, judging by the by the soreness in his chest when he came to. There were tests to push his tolerance of heat or cold, all manner of ways to inflict pain, and psychological rigors that sometimes interfered with his very sense of reality.

He lost track of how much time passed. The cycle of day and night were simply a repeating pattern with no rhyme or reason in this hell, thanks to stretches of deprivation or unconsciousness. On top of that, in spite of the doctors' efforts, a persistent ache had returned to the stump of his left arm that was unconnected to anything they were doing to him. Bucky didn't need to see under the bandages to understand that the gangrene was back. Fever and anemia joined the near-constant stream of hurts that made up what was left of his existence.

One night, a noise outside his prison door woke him from delirious half-sleep, the closest thing he got to rest anymore. Such disturbances were not unusual, as Zola was known to spring experiments at all hours. And something about this one felt different.

Several muted bangs, and a couple of stilted shouts followed, getting closer. Almost as if someone were…fighting their way along. Bucky backed his way into a sort of upright position against the head of his bedframe, using his better arm for support, staring nervously at the door.

It couldn't be. He didn't dare get his hopes up. Then suddenly the banging was right outside. On the third strike the door burst open, and a towering figure in a modified flight suit and helmet barged in with nothing but a shield.

"What…how…I gotta be…" croaked Bucky, shaking his head in disbelief.