For I Have Seen Worse Sights Than These
"I'm not afraid, Steve. I'm fucking pissed!" Hydra may have taken his memories, time and time again, but they had never been able to take the one thing that was most important to him: his son.
August 2014
"You know me," Steve wheezed, breathing hard past the bullet wounds and the broken nose.
Bucky hesitated, just for a moment, but Steve saw it plain as day and grasped on to it desperately. "Bucky. You've known me your entire life. Your name is James Buchanan Barnes…," he said heavily, wrapping an arm around his middle as he tried to stand taller, to look Bucky right in the eyes.
"SHUT UP!" Bucky screamed, his confusion hiding behind his fear and anger. Steve was surprised at the nearly visceral rage radiating off of his friend as Bucky slammed a fist into Steve's pliant form, causing him to sprawl to the side. Steve was on his feet again in seconds, turning to stare Bucky down. They stood just a few feet apart, staring intently at each other, as they both huffed in quick breaths.
Without a word, Steve reached up and unhooked the helmet, letting it drop to the floor with his shield. He vaguely heard them clang against the glass before falling through a crack in the floor, but he couldn't care less. If he could get Bucky back he would get rid of all of his weapons, no questions asked.
"I'm not gonna fight you. You're my friend."
Bucky's lips thinned and because he apparently didn't understand, he rushed forward and tackled Steve to the ground, the blonde's head hanging over the edge of the broken walls. The Soldier's fist reared back and rammed forward multiple times, over and over, slamming into Steve's face while he screamed out his frustration.
"You're my mission. My mission!"
Steve was nearly choking on the blood flowing down his throat from the broken nose and could barely see through his swollen eyes, but he saw just enough to realize that Bucky was looking at him funny, like he wasn't quite sure what was in front of him. His metal arm was hanging behind his head, ready to slam forward again, but Bucky looked frozen in the moment.
Then suddenly, before Steve could even choke out a word, Bucky lurched to his feet, staggering around like he was drunk. He backed away from where Steve was dangling perilously close to the edge, the Soldier's eyes wide and frightened as he looked around the ship.
"Shit, shit, shit!" he muttered to himself, trying to crane his neck far enough to look up at the upper decks. "Zaichik! Where are you?" Steve felt himself frown in confusion. Who was Bucky talking to? Was that another language? Or a nickname?
"Buck," Steve coughed, trying to sit up enough to look at his friend with confusion. "We're the only ones on this helicarrier. Who are you trying to find?" Steve was slowly fading, and the metal and glass beneath him was starting to groan ominously, but Steve had always been too curious for his own good.
Bucky turned his wide, terror-blown eyes to Steve, and they only seemed to widen further. "Stevie? Oh, oh fuck." He rushed closer, his eyes clearer to Steve than they had been all week. Just as Bucky reached Steve's side, the whole construct twisted and groaned and Steve was free falling. Moments before he hit the water he saw Bucky still dangling from the helicarrier, staring after him with a hesitation that had never been there when they were younger.
As his back hit the water, he felt the water invade his lungs and all he could think about was the plane crash, the icy water filling the cabin, freezing until he couldn't feel anything and slowly falling asleep. He had thought it was death then, and he thought it was death now. Surely Bucky wouldn't come after him, not after all that he'd been through because of Steve.
Just as his vision grew hazy, he saw a hand reach out to him, and for a second, he could have sworn he saw the sun glinting off of metal.
Maybe Bucky had come after him, after all…
June 1975
Pain pulsed through the Asset's head along with the beat of his heart. He had been out of cryofreeze for too long, and he was starting to malfunction. His head was pounding, his eyes were strained, and his heart kept pounding for no discernable reason. Not to mention the quick, annoying flashes of little somethings in his mind, scenes playing out that he had no recollection nor need of. However, the more of them that became unearthed, the more he began to question his orders, and the more unruly he became.
Thus, the chair.
His mission was complete, though it had taken far longer than any of them had anticipated. It had been no fault on his part, however he didn't think for a moment that Control would see it that way.
Perhaps that was why he was being led to the chair.
Or, it might have been because he had bit right through one of his handler's fingers and broken another's leg when they had gotten too close to him on the way back to base.
They should have known better by now, the Soldier mused to himself as he was led deeper into the base. They had apparently been assigned to him before, though he didn't remember any of them. They should have known that this long out of cryo left him nearly feral and downright vicious. Oh, well. They had learned their lesson, now, he supposed.
Down, down, down he was led; to the vault that housed the hated contraption. He could never remember what it did to him, just that he had woken up in it and it always left his heart racing and his adrenaline pumping with a sick feeling in his stomach.
It evoked a visceral feeling that he couldn't hold back.
They rounded the corner and there it was, the monstrous heap of metal and wires. The IV stand was shoved off to one side, sitting, waiting to fill his veins. He couldn't remember what was in it, just that it made him sweaty and shaky and sick. The techs puttered around the vault, but they always kept one eye on his movements. The Soldier grunted to himself in a stilted form of amusement; at least the techs were smart enough to be skittish around him. Perhaps his handlers could take a page from their book and next time there would be no severed fingers or broken bones.
He was led over to the chair and the disgusting, frightened feeling overtook him for a moment as he stared down at it. The left arm of the chair, the one that his metal arm would rest on, was dented and warped. He ran a metal finger over it for just a second, the flashes of half-remembered fear and pain and helplessness jolting through his broken mind in jagged explosions. He grimaced down at the chair, but the techs and the handlers were there, trying to cajole him down in to it without touching him.
Like he said, smart.
With a bone-deep resignation, he settled himself down in the chair, staring off into the distance, focusing on a dirty smudge on the far wall, and everything went blank. He would be pliable and docile, as he had been trained to be while in the chair. They would do what they liked to him, now. He was in the chair, and there was nothing he could do.
Once he placed his metal arm on the warped arm of the chair, one of the techs swept down and started fussing with it. His flesh arm was manipulated up to the other arm of the chair and the IV drip was inserted. Things became very fuzzy, then. He felt his heart pounding in his chest, a remnant from his first glance at the chair. Now that he was being strapped down in to it, his pounding heart and his labored breathing picked up.
When the techs backed away from the Asset, the metal straps wrapped around his upper arms and held him tight against the chair. He was sure if he was really determined and didn't have the mystery cocktail running in his veins, he could break the flimsy metal restraints. However, he wasn't determined to break free, nor was he sober enough to even entertain the thought. This was his maintenance; why would a machine question its maintenance?
Just as he was being tipped back, someone new entered the room. The Asset didn't flick his eyes toward the door, though he really would have liked to. He had been trained well, though. Just from the sound of the shoes hitting the concrete, he knew it was Secretary Pierce, his direct Commanding Officer and Mission Control. The one that controlled everything was mere feet away.
His Master.
The Asset fought the urge to squirm; he wanted to look at Control. The man was hard to read most of the time, but the Asset wanted to know if he was being blamed for the mission not going to plan. If Control was angry with him, the coming process would be much more painful.
He wasn't sure how he knew this, he just did. It was a deep, gut feeling.
The Asset could almost see Control out of the corner of his eye. The man was tall, with sandy blond hair slowly graying. His eyes were flinty blue and hard, and his lined face rarely smiled. Whenever it did, the Asset took that as warning that something was wrong. His dark grey suit hid him well in the shadows near the control panel, and his arms were crossed over his chest. His posture screamed disappointment, and the Asset barely held back a full-body tremor, before he realized that that was not all that Control's body language was saying. He was disappointed, yes; but he was also radiating excitement and curiosity.
Why? What had happened?
"I need a moment with the soldier," Pierce ordered, and the techs all took big steps back, most leaving the room. Only the head technician stayed behind, fiddling with the calibrations on the machines.
The Asset was still tilted back, his eyes trained on the ceiling as Control wandered over. The Asset had to force himself to remain staring at the ceiling, instead of glancing at Control like he wanted to. What was going on?
Control stopped right next to the Asset's left arm, staring down at him in something close to awe. But that wasn't right; Control had seen the Asset many, many times, right? Why would he be looking at him like that now?
"Oh," he breathed, and the Asset felt his stomach squeeze uncomfortably at the sound of reverence and glee in that voice, "I have a feeling he's going to look just like you. Already got your stormy eyes. Wonder if he'll have the serum, too," his master mused.
The Asset fought the urge to bite his lip. Who was Control talking about? Were they trying to recreate his serum once again? Hadn't they learned from the last set of experiments? He may forget a lot of things, but the results of that little program had somehow eluded destruction. The Asset wanted so badly to meet Control's gaze, but he knew better than that. Control hated his eye contact, felt it dirty and wrong and punishable.
He was already about to go through terrible pain; no need to make it worse.
Perhaps…? The Asset risked glancing toward Control's chin, gaining a bit more information from his peripheral vision, before dragging his gaze right back to the ceiling. That quick glance had told him much; Control was waiting for his reaction. The Asset found that he really didn't have much of one, though. He wasn't even really sure what Control was talking about. Why would the Asset care if another subject was injected with a serum? He was still the best, the Fist of Hydra.
His confusion at the situation must have shown on his face somehow, even though the Asset always fought to control his reactions, because Control seemed to take great enjoyment from it for some reason. He let out a long, harsh laugh, echoing off the now-empty room, the lone tech having disappeared a few minutes earlier. The Asset bristled at this turn of events; he despised being laughed at, and Control knew this information. That was most likely why he did it.
A few more minutes of silent contemplation passed between them, before Control drew himself up and simply stared down at the prone asset. "Yes, our dear Winter Soldier has passed on his legacy. Isn't that grand? Aren't you proud?" He didn't wait for an answer, just took a large step back and waved the techs back in to the room. Even as he gave the order for the wipe, Control was watching the Asset's face, waiting, waiting, waiting…
The Asset jerked forward in his chair. It clicked. He knew what Control was talking about.
A child. His child. He had a child.
His legacy.
What were they planning to do to it? He had to get to it! It was tiny and didn't know the rules. It wouldn't survive a beating or having its brain scrambled. He had to find it, take care of it; make it understand what was going to happen to it. He wanted nothing more than to keep it safe.
Control seemed to think his struggle was entertaining. Beneath the humor, though, there was anger. Probably at the fact that the Asset had responded at all. No doubt the wild, uncontrollable fury evident on the Asset's face was not the response he had been anticipating.
"You don't touch it!" the Asset snarled, tugging against his restraints. Fuck not trying to aggravate Control; this was more important than punishment. The drugs pulsing through his veins made him weak and muddled, though. Under normal circumstances he would have been able to break the restraints, but now that he was desperate to, he couldn't do a thing against them. He was shaking enough as it was, the drugs having turned his muscles to rubber in prep for the cryofreeze.
This wasn't normal circumstances, though, and he fought with everything he had to break free. He snarled and cursed and spat every profanity he could remember hearing. This wasn't just about him anymore, this was about protecting what was his. His child.
"He's mine to touch," Control replied calmly, glaring down at the unruly asset like he was a smear of dirt. "I just wanted to see what you would do, if you would understand. It seems you have. Interesting." Then he turned to the techs. "Wipe him, then put him in to freeze."
The last thing the Asset remembered was seeing Control's toothy, smug grin. The terrible, overwhelming sense of foreboding snarled through his body and he convulsed beneath the sudden shock of electricity through his brain. He would hide this away. He would remember. He would remember. He would remember. He couldn't lose this. Not now.
Bits and pieces of the conversation between himself and Control melted away, but the Asset held tight to the feeling of fury and rage, of the knowledge that there was a child, someone important, waiting for him. Someone he needed to protect with everything he was.
When the electricity finally cut, the smell of burning flesh and hair permeated the room, and the Asset blinked gummy, watery eyes up at the ceiling. What had happened? There was something, something important niggling at the back of his mind. A child? Yes, a child. And fury. Anger. No, rage. The Asset hid this all beneath a placid look and his panting breath. He wasn't the greatest Asset Hydra had for nothing; he knew how to play people to get what he wanted.
If Hydra hadn't wanted him to use these skills against them, they shouldn't have taught him in the first place.
Idiots.
Control was standing in the doorway still, when the chair was tilted down so the Asset could sit up and the techs could begin his prep for cryofreeze. The Asset pointedly did not look towards Control, though the fire in his belly wanted nothing more than for him to jump from the seat and strangle the other man with his own intestines. But the Asset could be patient. The Asset was always patient.
Control smiled smugly, dusting his hands as if congratulating himself on a job well done, and turned on his heel to leave. Internally, the Asset was snarling and growling and howling like a rabid dog. On the outside, he simply followed the techs' procedure, doing as he was told.
The year is 1975. The soldier remembers nothing. Or so they think.