So this started out as just a little foray into Bucky's time as a soldier, before the formation of the Commandos-and as referenced by the title, why he might have had the character/determination/luck to tolerate the imperfect serum, not unlike Steve. Mostly consistent with MCU canon, though I also took significant influence from Captain America: First Vengeance (not exactly, but along the lines of how the Commandos met and survived as prisoners). There will be some heavy-handed descriptions in later chapters. I tend to eschew the term 'torture porn' because I usually have specific purposes for putting characters through difficult situations, and realistically, places such as POW camps were horrific. Hence the rating. Anyway, hopefully it's still an overall good read :)
It doesn't take long for your fingers to go numb when you're forced to march for hours, in late autumn, with your hands at the back of your head. That was Bucky Barnes' prevailing thought in the monotony, anyway.
"You'd think they'd put us on the same train as they would supplies, instead of making us pile out with miles to go," the nearest soldier groused under his breath. Cole Hollins, a private in Bucky's unit. The kid seemed unhurt aside from a shrapnel graze across one side of his face.
"Unless they don't need supplies where they're taking us. Now stow it, before they hear you," Bucky rebuffed.
He wasn't even sure when exactly he had lost his helmet. Once those forces with the strange electric weapons had joined in, the whole situation had gone pear-shaped pretty quickly. He remembered trying to help injured men in the battalion, but artillery fire collapsed the building they were using for cover. Those of them who made it clear enough of the debris were met with close-range gun muzzles, rounded up, and trooped out of Azzano to a train that brought them…wherever they were now. Bucky had no idea. Behind enemy lines, certainly, and further north. The ride alone went for the better part of a day.
Despite what he said, the whispers of prison camps seemed a more logical conclusion. Bucky pondered what that might entail, not just in odds of survival, but the chance of escape. Any sort of facility was likely to have a forced labor component, which meant some degree of free movement.
Glimpses of an imposing concrete structure began to peek through the forest as they kept moving. Eventually the road curved toward huge gates set into solid walls. The columns of prisoners were herded through this entrance. Inside, rows of vehicles and equipment filled one side of the yard. Closer to the buildings, groups of haggard men trailed back and forth in various grueling tasks. Everywhere, those strange, ominous soldiers patrolled with their glowing guns.
"What d'we do now, Sarge?" whispered Hollins.
"For now, survive. Don't try to make trouble."
"We just do nothin'?"
Bucky glared him into silence as a guard passed by, waiting for the man to leave earshot. "I didn't say that, but we need to get our bearings, form a plan. And it has to happen without drawing attention."
"Fortunate guests!" boomed a heavily accented voice. It came from a network of bullhorns on poles and corners of buildings; the speaker himself was not in the vicinity as far as the prisoners could tell. The enemy soldiers, however, all stiffened their postures. Whether out of respect or fear, Bucky wasn't sure. The voice continued. "You are among the lucky few about to take part in the next great turning point in history. This privilege does not come without its price.
"If you work hard, you will live. If you obey all orders given to you, you will live. But if my guards notice anything they do not like, make no mistake, you will pay for it. The only value you have is what you prove to them, and to me."
The voice crackled into silence. Base soldiers began funneling the new arrivals toward the nearest couple structures. Bucky realized it was already starting to get dark.
Rows of circular holding cells waited for them, topped by catwalks for guards on watch. The whole space was drafty, but at least out of direct wind. Prisoners were divided into groups among the cages, and locked in.
"Could be worse," mused one soldier tiredly. "Room to stretch out, even a couple pallets to sleep on. Takes your mind off of what's probably all over the floor."
"They haven't brought in the current residents yet," Bucky pointed out, before a boot heel stomping on the catwalk above halted all conversation. He used the moment of relative quiet to take stock of his own condition. His extremities hurt like hell from the journey, though he didn't see signs of frostbite. Stinging pain had taken over most of his shoulder since their capture, he just hadn't gotten the chance to investigate it until now. A jagged hole had been torn in his outer jacket and the shirt sleeve underneath, right where the pain was centered. Blood had dried the fabric to his skin, which came forcefully unstuck as soon as he had put his arms down. Something must have hit him during the battle. At least whatever it was luckily dealt a passing blow, nothing more.
Before too long, guards returned with a thinner, more exhausted batch of captives. Most wore American uniforms. They were shuttled into their respective cages, followed by a tray for each cell, carrying meat trimmings and pale lumps that could be bread. The distinctly non-American officer next to Bucky promptly took one of these, split it open, and sandwiched a piece of fat in between.
"Halfway palatable this way," he told Bucky in a crisp British accent, upon noticing he was being watched.
"That's supper, I take it?" asked Bucky by way of introducing himself. "James Barnes, Sergeant, US 107th."
"James Montgomery Falsworth, Major, most recently assigned to the joint forces of your Second Corps," replied the officer. He handed Bucky a share of the rations while the rest of their cellmates dug in hungrily. "You must have just come in. At least in the mornings the rot gut they pass off as porridge is hot."
"I think some of our battalion managed to retreat, but yeah, the goons with those—what kind of guns were those, the blue bolt things?—they mowed through our ranks at Azzano, and shipped what was left of us up here, wherever 'here' is. Never seen destruction like that…how they even came up with the idea, let alone made it work, is beyond me."
"Tell me about it. We've been trying to nail down what all this Johann Schmidt chap and his Research Division have been working on. It's like nothing we could have anticipated in our wildest nightmares."
"Hey Falsworth, much as we'd love to solve the world's great mysteries, that's not going to help us sleep any better in here, so give it a rest tonight, okay?" grumbled one of the bigger men, an almost circus-like character with an impressive mustache.
"Stow it, Dum Dum," a black American soldier retorted. "Nothin' short of bustin' out of here is going to crack that pie in the sky. Why don't you shut yourself up before you go drawing unwanted attention?"
Falsworth rolled his eyes. "Timothy, or 'Dum Dum' Dugan, and Gabriel Jones, respectively."
"For the last time, the only one who calls me 'Gabriel' and gets away with it is my mother. I go by Gabe, or you get a fist in your uptight face."
The others threw him various expressions and gestures of unconcern.
Bucky nodded, then took another look at their surroundings. Security lights from outside were just enough to define the high, long banks of windows. Those combined with periodic bare lightbulbs marking the catwalk routes projected a web of shadows throughout the skeletal structure of the room. "So, what kind of work do they put you to?"
"Mostly the typical stuff, digging, hauling dirt or rocks or whatever. There's been a lot of construction above and underground lately," said Gabe, resting his back against the bars. "If you have narrower hands or any sort of mechanical experience, they're more likely to put you in the factories. That's where the real engine of the camp runs. Whatever Schmidt's band of scientists and flunkies are developing, they're putting it into production."
"They did pull certain skilled prisoners to the front when we got off the train. But how is it so secret if they have prisoners doing the work?"
"They keep it compartmentalized so no one sees the whole picture—you'll notice none of those guys they grabbed are anywhere in here. That's so we can't all talk. It's big, though, and dangerous."
"Look, you'll see for yourself soon enough. All you're gonna get right now is a bunch of gossip, lost sleep, and unwanted interest from the guards, which'll be bad for all of us," Dum Dum cut back in.
Falsworth gave Bucky an apologetic shrug. The others began settling in for the night. Bucky tried to do the same, with his best effort not to disturb his shoulder wound. He could feel a new patch of dampness where the gash had reopened from earlier movement. Not much he could do about it currently. Despite his exhaustion, however, his mind wouldn't let go of the questions and speculations of the coming days. It was clear from the conditions of those who had been here longer that chances of survival were not favorable. The term prisoner of war finally hit home.
One especially thin man in the next cell rolled over, struggling to get comfortable. The sight reminded Bucky of Steve. His heart clenched. The last time he had seen his best friend, they had argued about Steve's determination to join the front lines of the war effort.
You don't ever want to be here, punk, Bucky rued silently. I hope you stay far away from all of this.
