"Vosem"

Eight

A/N- I definitely don't own any part of the Marvel Universe, but that doesn't mean I can't love Bucky Barnes. This is a plot that has been bugging me for a while, so I decided to write it down. If it seems like something interesting, let me know and I'll work on continuing the story! EIGHTis my creation - hopefully she ends up being pretty cool!

Chapter 1: The Fall of Hydra

The streets of Washington, D.C. were quiet this morning, the spring dew still clinging tight to the cars and grass patches. In this run down neighborhood, in a poorer part of the city, only two things could be heard at this hour just as the sun was rising up in the sky. One noise was that of the overworked and underpaid trash collectors working their way through the bins a few blocks down. The other sound was the shuffling and stumbling of a combat boot along the cracked sidewalk. The figure wearing the boot was clad in black workout leggings and a matching black short sleeved top. They were working their way down the block in their one shoe, their white socked foot slapping against the concrete as they went. Every so often, they crashed into a trashcan or bumped against a stoop, tripping over the cracks between raised sections of the walkway.

If another person saw them stumbling down the block, they would have looked like a drunk making their way home after a night out. But this person was so very much more than that. As they clumsily made their way down the block, the figure took stock of what they knew, which unfortunately wasn't much at this point. This was their first problem. The list of what they could remember was short...too short for any normal adult. As they walked, they kept going over what they knew in their mind:

They were a woman with fair skin and light brown hair from what they could see.

She went by "Vosem" or "Eight". The first language was Russian she thought, not that she knew why she understood Russian. She was in the United States from what she saw on the signs and buildings.

Every person she encountered in the last 6 hours since she woke up has attempted to kill her, except the drunk guy she tripped over a few alleyways back.

She was dangerously close to passing out on this street.

2365 Capehart Circle, Washington, D.C.

After going over those things over and over to make sure she didn't suddenly forget them, the girl realized again how close to passing out she was. Looking up at the street sign she now leaned against, her tired blue eyes finally read "Capehart Circle." A smile ghosted across her tired split lips as she continued down that street. Eight attempted to focus on the worn building numbers as she went, still running into stoops and bins when she wasn't paying attention.

2357...2359...2361...2363...2367…

She paused her stride, her thin fingers wrapping around a flickering street light post outside of 2367. She missed it - what exactly she had missed, she wasn't sure, but she knew that she needed 2365 and she had walked past it. It took more strength that was normally necessary for Eight to turn back around, her eyes searching the broken and condemned structures along the sidewalk. With a wheezing breath, she counted the nearby visible numbers quietly to herself, "2361, 2363, 2367…"

There it was... an unmarked building between 2363 and 2367. The stairs out front were crumbling and most of the windows were broken and boarded up from the inside. After taking a moment to lean against the streetlight, she gathered the strength she needed to haul her broken body back toward the building. Vosem left behind a drip of deep red down the metal post, the syrupy blood in finger smudge shapes. As she reached the top of the steps, she was painfully gasping for breath, leaning her forehead against the cracked paint on the door. She tried the handle, which looked as old and as broken as the building itself and it felt locked. She tipped her up, looking at the building before her, feeling that she needed to get inside. Eight huffed painfully, her left hand pressing against her left thigh.

"What are you doing… you need to get inside…." she whispered to herself, feeling a tear slip down her cheek and hearing it splat against the concrete below. It landed right next to a few darker drips of blood running down her body. With a burst of energy she didn't think she still had, Eight reared back slightly and slammed her right shoulder into the door. It gave way quite easily under her strength and her body went crashing down to the floor of the entryway.

"Ow…." she whimpered against the floor, "Didn't actually think that would work…." As quickly as she could manage, Eight kicked at the open exterior door with her booted right foot and closed it up again. She was worried that some squatters nearby could have heard the commotion of her breaking into the house. At this stage, she wouldn't be able to protect herself from anyone with wandering eyes. With the door closed off from the light of the rising run, she was plunged into darkness with her cheek pressed painfully against the old hardwood.

She let herself lay there for a moment, the cool feeling of the wood felt wonderful against her clammy skin. Fever...chills... She thought as a shiver racked it's way through her body. Eight rolled over onto her side carefully as she looked up at the next door. Her mind acknowledged that she seemed to be able to see well despite the lack of light, but filed that fact in the back of her mind for later. This next door was much newer and looked to be more intimidating. It was a strong looking metal door, complete with a combination locking handle. What is a fancy door like that doing in a shithole like this? she thought to herself as she reached for that handle to haul her body upright. She tried to ignore the pain that shot through her body as she adjusted to be standing again, he left leg and head both pulsing with a deep ache. Eight also made a mental note to not look down at the floor, avoiding the dark puddle and smudges she knew were left on the wood from her blood.

Instead, she focused on the combination lock which looked to have a 4-digit code associated with it. This posed yet another problem, going back to the fact that Eight was only able to remember 5 major facts about anything at the moment. Her blue eyes closed tightly as she felt another tear slip down her cheek, cringing at her weakness.

"только идиот бы получать к адрес и не знать код." (Only an idiot would get to the address and not know the code) she said to herself in Russian, hating how helpless she felt. "Just perfect…"

Thinking through everything she knows, Eight types 2365 into the combination lock and it didn't work. She wasn't exactly surprised by that, but it didn't stop her from feeling frustrated. She attempted a few more easy combinations on a 4-digit lock - 0000, 1234, 0001 - but, the more she stood against the metal door, the more worn out she got. As she was about to slump down onto the floor again and give up, a familiar number popped into the front of her mind. EIGHT...her name. Out of the small number of things she knew, the number "eight" was the only other number that meant anything to her. She had already tried 0008 a minute ago, so she moved the dials to read 8888 -

The clicking open of the lock reverberated in the small entryway like the blast of an explosion. Eight's bloody, but nimble fingers wrapped quickly around the handle and turned. She let out an exasperated whine as it opened, shuffling her body through the door and closing it behind her. With sound of the door mechanically locking once more, she leaned back and took as deep of a breath as she could.

Safe...You are Safe...

Eight felt safe for the first time since she woke up hours ago and it was a strange feeling for her. She wanted to dwell on why she had never felt safe before that, but she knew that she didn't have time to dawdle as another bout of dizziness threatened to knock her over.

She moved deeper into the building with well practiced precision, trying to make as little noise as possible just in case someone else was there. The building looked like a modern apartment on the inside, well maintained and furnished. This is a Safe House, she thought as she worked her way past a kitchen and into a bigger open living room area. Her left hand still gripped her thigh as she limped along, taking in the dusty couch and other furnishings in the room. Eight didn't realize she was leaving more bloody handprints and smudges in her wake as she made it through the apartment, brushing against the light colored walls. Before she realizes it, her body is moving toward the bedroom - she knows where she's going. This house was familiar to her, as if she'd been there before in another lifetime. Unfortunately, the comforting feeling of familiarity was short lived as she missed a small step up into the bedroom.

Her booted foot caught on the lip of the step and her exhausted body went crashing down to the floor yet again with a thud. She was grateful that this floor was carpeted, but it wasn't cushioned enough to prevent the cracks she felt in her chest when she landed. Eight stayed still, waiting for the pain to stop radiating through her body. To distract herself from each excruciating breath, she looked around the dark bedroom.

Bed…

Desk…

Dresser…

Bookshelf...

A few notebooks on a shelf.

The gray striped comforter on the bed seemed familiar as well, a tugging feeling forming in the back of her mind. It felt like a memory begging to to make it to the surface. The more Eight tried to focus on it, the more the black dots that had been threatening her vision started to close in around her. That "familiar" feeling was fading quickly and it was replaced by a feeling of drowsiness. With one final and painful sigh, Eight let herself sink into the warm darkness. Her deep blue eyes closed as she finally gave into the painless abyss of unconsciousness.

Across the city, the area around downtown D.C. and the monuments was still partially locked down. The day before, three airborne ships had risen up out of the Potomac near the S.H.I.E.L.D. Headquarters before crashing back down to earth in a fiery blaze. Everyone learned that the former Nazi organization Hydra had not actually died off in World War II, courtesy of Captain America and his Howling Commandos. Since the end of the war, Hydra had been growing inside Shield and the international governments like a virus, corrupting all that was meant to be good and protecting the world.

Natasha Romanof, the Avenger known as The Black Widow, had poured all of SHIELD's files onto the internet and, in turn, exposed Hydra as well. The Nazi organization was trying to launch the carriers in order to assassinate millions of people who were viewed as a "threat" to the Hydra agenda. The news footage of Captain America fighting on the carriers made for great news reels about the incident and had also introduced the world to his new sidekick, Sam Wilson. He had been dubbed "The Falcon" by the media, referencing the mechanical wings he wore to fly and fight.

Due to the incident, the public was also exposed to The Winter Soldier - an impressive Hydra/KGB Assassin who was credited with over 2 dozen kills over a span of 50+ years. Until the data dump and crash, The Winter Soldier was just a ghost story. Unfortunately for Captain America, who ended up hospitalized with multiple gunshot wounds and facial lacerations, The Winter Soldier was very much real. The entire planet was left in chaos after the incident, trying to work out how to weed out the remaining Hydra agents embedded in various governments and how to pick up the pieces left in the wake. The Winter Soldier was still on the run.

He was confused and hiding in an abandoned warehouse, cradling his right arm close to his body. The Captain had dislocated his shoulder during their skirmish, but had somehow avoided doing much other damage to the assassin, which left him even more confused. The man with the red, white & blue shield felt familiar to the soldier - "Soldat" as he recalled. It was Russian for 'soldier.' The people he worked for frequently referred to him as "Soldat" or "The Asset." He racked his brain, trying to figure out why Captain America felt familiar or why the man kept saying Soldat knew him. A noise outside of the warehouse startled him and he realized he had stayed in one place too long.

He tugged his right shoulder back into its socket with well-practiced precision and moved out of his hiding spot. He made sure to avoid civilians as he made his way to a clothing donation store. He broke in quite easily and changed out of his black uniform. Soldat took special care to make sure that his left arm was completely covered by layers and a glove on his hand, knowing that the glinting metal of his prosthetic would give away his identity. He tucked his leather uniform into a tattered backpack and tugged a plain navy hat onto his head. He slipped back oout of the store just as easily as he slipped in and made his way toward the mall of museums.

He tucked the backpack behind a dumpster near the Smithsonian and climbed to the roof of the building. He had seen posters and billboards for an exhibit highlighting the life and history of "Captain America" and he needed to go there. The Captain knew him...knew The Soldat and he needed to know how or why. He didn't even really know who he was, at least not further than knowing his life as "The Asset", as the weapon for Hydra. He felt confused and lost on his own and deep down he hoped that he'd find answers inside the museum.

Using his assassin skills, Soldat snuck into the exhibit shortly after it had opened for the day. Filled with the general public, he knew that he'd be less likely to be spotted or trip any security measures than if he had broken in after hours. He pulled the ratty hat more securely onto his head and made his way into the main part of the exhibit. As he walked through, the deep voice of the narrator echoed over the hushed chatter of the visitors. It was detailing the life of Steve Rogers, who would come to be known as Captain America.

When the Soldier saw a photo of a small man, only standing about 5'4" and weighing less than 100lbs, he felt a pang of familiarity. The man in the photo was so frail looking…. "Steve Rogers before the administration of the super serum" he read quietly to himself. He received the serum during World War II and would grow to become the second photo. The next photo was familiar because it was the 6'2", 240lb hero he had fought the day before on the helicarrier. With the two images side by side, Soldat was able to see the similarities between the two and found himself able to reconcile that he must have known the smaller version before he grew bigger.

A deep pain was building in his head as he looked between the two pictures. This ache was also familiar to him, knowing that when he was out of cryo for too long or had a long mission, his headache would worsen. He always took comfort in knowing when it got bad that he'd be put back to sleep soon, but now he didn't see that light at the end of this dark tunnel.

He was compromised.

Hydra was compromised.

Everything was compromised.

He walked away from the painful pictures and moved deeper into the exhibit, adeptly avoiding the small children and their parents milling about. He took in more of the memorabilia, a motorcycle, a few uniforms. Behind the dummies wearing World War II era uniforms, the Soldat saw a familiar face looming over the room. There was a man, standing on Captain America's left side...he had familiar blue eyes and a hard set jaw. The Soldat turned away quickly, as though he had been burned but the image, only to be met by the same familiar face on another wall across the way. He walked carefully closer to the glass, a small child cutting in front of him to push the narrator button. The narrator's voice filled the Soldier's ears once more,

"Best friends since childhood, Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers were inseparable on both the school yard and the battlefield. Barnes is the only Howling Commando to give his life in service of his country…."

The voice continued to detail the events leading up to Barnes' death in 1945, but the Soldier stopped listening. He was fixated on the fact that his face was staring back at him from the exhibit wall. Bucky Barnes...that was the name the Captain had called him during their fight. "Barnes…" he breathed quietly, the only names he could remember being called were Soldat, The Asset or The Winter Soldier.

Who was Bucky?

Was he Bucky?

Did that mean that all the things The Captain said were true….?

That would make him born in 1917….?

The pain in his head sharpened abruptly as his mind filled with questions. This time, the pain was enough for him to visibly wince and enough to force him to move toward the nearest exit. He left the museum quickly, moving without a sound back to his bag and then away from the museum. The Soldier didn't know how long he'd been walking for when he finally stopped and sat down behind a dumpster and out of sight. His mind was still racing painfully, trying to piece together what he'd seen and heard along with what had just happened over the past few days.

Your work has been a gift to mankind… he heard a voice in his head say. But that man in the museum was him...looked like him. He was supposed to have died in 1945….He knew Captain America...he knew Steve…

The Soldier's hands gripped his head painfully as he was huddled against the wall. There were only a few things that he knew, facts that her so deep inside of his bones. One glaring fact that he couldn't seem to shake was an address in D.C. - 2365 Capehart Circle. It was a safe house from what he could recall.

"Go there in case of an emergency, Soldat. I set it up, but Hydra doesn't know about it. If we ever remember again or if we get away….go there!" he can vividly remember a feminine voice telling him. He couldn't remember who she was, or why she had set up a safe house for them, all The Soldier knew what that he needed to get to that address.

Eight's eyes opened slowly, focusing under the edge of the bed and into a dark corner of the bedroom she passed out in. She was still on the floor, in the safe house, with her hands now pressing down into the carpet firmly to ground herself. She was trying to stabilize herself as she tried to heave her body upright, only to have her head swim painfully again when she tried to move. It was impossible to tell how long she'd been unconscious, but it was long enough for her blood to soak into the carpet beneath her. She managed to roll onto her right side to face away from the bed, feeling her skin and shirt peel off of the carpet in a sticky mess. She could see the bathroom a few feet from her and 'knew' that there'd be a medical kit beneath the sink. She needed to make it to that bathroom.

She arduously army crawled into the small bathroom, the fibers of the carpet stuck to her wounds and pulled painfully as she dragged herself over through the doorway. When she was finally inside, she managed to pull herself upright with the help of the countertop and flicked on the lights. The brightness stung her eyes, but as they adjusted to the light, Eight was finally able to take stock of her injuries and take in her body. She went into triage mode and knew she needed to fight through her pain to figure out which part of her to treat first.

The first thing she noticed was the color of her face, or the lack of color. In the harsh light of the bathroom, she seemed almost gray and lacked any healthy color. She had blood on her face from a few cuts and some bruising along her cheeks, but since her face wasn't actively bleeding she decided to move down her body. Her bloody fingers palpitated her chest, feeling down her ribs on each side. She definitely had broken a few on either side, but from what Eight could feel, none of them were out of place or in any danger of puncturing a lung. She tried to take a deep breath to test herself, but ended up almost crumbling back down to the floor.

She leaned down slightly, her hands gripping the sink as she tried to manage the pain and take even breaths again. "Note to self...don't try deep breaths until you wrap your ribs...идио́т" she whined, calling herself an idiot in Russian again, under her breath. She stood up again when she felt up to it and worked on continuing checking her wounds. Moving down her chest to her abdomen, Eight found one 6 inch cut on her left side and a shallow puncture wound on her right flank. She was able to painfully lift up the tight top to get a better look at the two wounds.

The gash would need stitches eventually to ensure it didn't open again, but in that moment it wasn't bleeding. That's at least good… she thought, before moving over to the puncture. The 2 inch hole was still seeping, letting red blood run down her side and soaking into the top of her pants. Eight quickly grabbed a wad of tissues from counter top and pressed them into the hole. She whimpered as she pushed on it, blood splattering from her split lip down into the white sink.

"Shit...shit…." she repeated, still holding the tissues to the wound. When she was done riding those waves of pain, Eight made sure the tissues were still in place before tugging the top back down over the makeshift bandage. She continued to check over herself, looking down at her right leg. Everything looked to be okay on that side, she maybe had a sprained ankle - but that would heal soon enough on it's own. Her left leg, that was another story entirely. As she finally looked down at it and saw where she'd been pressing her hand, she groaned audibly. A new wave of pain washed over her as she took in the gaping hole in her thigh.

Her pant leg was dark below her thigh and the fabric was shiny with a sheen of blood. Her fingers reached down and tugged the hole in her leggings, ripping it open so she could see more of the bullet wound. Blood was visibly pouring from the hole, forcing Eight to quickly try to stem the flow with her hands. The pain caused her to slip on her wet sock and she fell down onto the tile floor.

"Ohhh shit….Oh God…." she cried, unable to stop the tears from slipping down her face. She was now wedged across the small floor, her feet pressed up against the cabinet and her back was flush with the tub. She reached forward with her right hand and opened the cabinet. Frantically, she moved some of the cleaning supplies out of the way and was able to find a medical kit behind the pipes. She didn't know how, but she knew that the bag would be there. She knew.

Her breathing was more labored now as she dug through the bag, searching for anything to stop the bleeding. She ripped open a few gauze packs and pressed them into her blood soaked thigh, crying out in the small bathroom as another spray of blood left her lips. Next, she found a packet of clotting powder, typically used in combat situations. She ripped off a corner with her teeth. As she held the packet in her hand, she searched the small bathroom for something to keep in her mouth. Eight grabbed a nearby towel from the cabinet and she shoved the corner of it into her mouth.

She bit down hard on the towel as she poured the powder into her bullet wound. She screamed into the towel, her eyes screwed shut so tightly that Eight swore she could see colors. This clotting powder was going to save her life, but it didn't save her from the searing pain it caused. She wanted desperately to give into the warmth of unconsciousness again, but she fought hard against it. Still biting down on the towel to muffle her screams, she packed her thigh with more gauze before opening a tourniquet from the bag. She gently lifted her leg off of the floor to slip the rope around it, cringing as she felt the legging fabric stick to the floor.

Eight tightened the straps with what little strength she had left, her body shaking with exertion. She could feel herself swaying against the tub, quickly grabbing more gauze to replace the tissues on her side. As she pressed it into her stab wound, she felt her body slumping sideways. She sunk down to the floor, her body curled up between the tub, toilet, and sink. Her chest was wheezing as she tipped over, black taking over her vision once more as she drifted into unconsciousness for the second time that day.

The Soldier made it to Capehart Circle in record time, his body seeming to remember the way on its own. He noticed a few smudges of blood on a nearby street sign, his body sensing immediately. He searched nearby for any signs of a struggle or any threats, but he didn't find any suspicious vehicles or snipers on the rooftops. The sun was high in the sky now, illuminating the deserted block. He knew for sure that he hadn't been followed, he was much to good of an assassin for that. He started to work his way down the block, finding a few drops of blood on the sidewalk or a smudge along a railing or step. Whoever he was following now was bleeding profusely and they weren't being careful about leaving a trail.

He looked to his right as he approached the number he was looking for, staring at the only door on the block lacking one. It was wedged between the odd number before and after; if he wasn't certain based on that fact, the blood littering the stoop and door gave it away. The Soldat looked around to make sure the coast was clear before he opened the door with a gentle nudge. It opened easily, showing evidence of being broken in, but that didn't worry him too much. What did worry him was the amount of blood on the floor in the entryway.

With everything that he learned over the past few days, he knew that he should be suspicious, but for some reason in that moment he felt concern instead of apprehension. It was the same feeling he had as he watched Captain America's vulnerable body falling from the burning helicarrier. When he landed in the water below, The Soldier felt compelled to jump in after him. He didn't know why, but he knew in his bones that he needed to help The Captain. Maybe I am the Bucky Barnes from the museum… he thought to himself briefly, or maybe he wasn't. But standing in the dark mudroom of this safe house, filled with the scent of blood, The Soldier knew he needed to get to the person inside. He bent down, letting his flesh fingers dip into one of the blood stains. Luckily, it was still damp - so there was hope that he wasn't too late.

His currently problem was that the interior door was locked with a sophisticated combination lock. He pushed against it with his body and it didn't budge. He even resorted to punching it with his metal arm, expecting it to cave in under the force, but the door stayed shut tightly. His arm didn't even make a dent. The Soldier needed the code, but he had no idea what it could be.

"Think….think….you have to remember something…." he chanted to himself quietly, his forehead resting against the cool metal of the door. His gray blue eyes stared down at the combination intently, trying to will it to open itself. He started to hit his head gently against the door in cadence, over and over, trying to knock the combination into his head. As he was about to resort to hitting it harder, The Soldier stood up straight as a rod with his eyes wide.

"Vosem'...Vosem'..." he whispered to himself in Russian, "What the hell is it about 8?" He moved the combination to read 0008 and it didn't unlock. His shoulders sagged in defeat briefly before he tried 8888 and it clicked open. As he pushed the door open, his mind was assaulted by another memory flash. This time, he saw a young woman with light brown hair. She was sitting on the edge of a Washington, D.C. rooftop, the monuments lit up in the background and she was smiling at him.

The memory faded as quickly as it popped into his mind, but The Soldat was moving through the house with more urgency now. He abandoned his bag by the closed door and was immediately alarmed by the amount of blood as he moved deeper into the house. He followed the trail quickly into the back room and found a dark stain in the carpet, with drag marks going into the attached bathroom. He paused mid-stride, the door was ajar and the light was on inside the bathroom. He could see two feet propped against the cabinet. The socked foot near the door was stained a deep red and the other foot had on a military style combat boot. Both were unmoving and, after seeing the horrific levels of blood throughout the safehouse, it unnerved him.

He tried to push the door open, but found that it was blocked by something, most likely the person the feet belonged to. He leaned his head through the opening and his blue eyes widened at the sight of the young woman before him on the floor. It was the girl from his memory, but her smiling face was gone and she was in a crumpled, bloody mess and she wasn't moving.

"Vosem'..." he breathed out, maneuvering his body through the gap in the door without jostling her too much. He threw his hat onto the counter before he crouched down next to her, wedging in the minimal space left in the small bathroom. He gently moved her away from the door and his flesh hand felt her neck for a pulse. The Soldier let out a relieved sigh when he felt a faint thump against his fingers, he would have smiled if he didn't think that she was still too pale. He tapped her cheek gently, trying to get her to wake up.

When she still didn't stir he took in the rest of her body and quickly counted her wounds. She'd done a good job of fixing herself up as well as she could, but he could tell that he'd need to fix her a bit more. Most of all, she needed to wake up so he could make sure she wasn't concussed.

"вставай. пожалуйста, восемь ... давай, проснись ..." (Wake up...please, Eight...come on, wake up…) he begged her in Russian, pulling her up into his arms as gently as he could. He didn't stop to wonder why he spoke in Russian, but it felt so natural to speak to her that way. He lifted her up, cradling her small body against his own as he carried her over to the bed. He rushed back and grabbed the medical kit and paused to look at the small woman lying on the bed.

He knew her.

He didn't know if he was the Bucky Barnes from the museum, or just The Winter Soldier.

He knew Eight and he was going to save her.