There was blood in the snow, a vibrant smear of crimson that painted upon argent canvas as the precious drops of life exuded from the grotesquely sheared limb. He was so cold; his broken gasping a liquid shudder that wracked him painfully.
Footsteps sounded in the frozen air, and a high voice that twisted with a heavy accent. Somehow, he could not distinguish the words, the pain and the struggling breaths that were wrested from his lungs were harsh in his own ears.
His jacket was grabbed from behind, and hauled from the ground, he was dragged limply, staring upwards into the snow flecked sky, the feather soft flakes lightly dusting his blood splattered face. The train tracks far above him were still, and he blinked away tears as consciousness slipped from his grasp the faint wisp of life.
Steve was up there...
James Buchanan Barnes slouched in his creaking chair, the metal of his bionic hand clicking against the glass it held, the dark amber liquid sloshing against its smooth sides.
He stared moodily out the dirty window to the street below, clenching his remaining hand into a fist, a futile attempt to stop its trembling. The shrill keen of a siren startled him, and with a shatter, his glass hit the grimy floor, followed by his chair.
Cursing, he rubbed his eyes tiredly. Kiev was not, perhaps, the best locale in which to lay low for a while, but it was what he remembered, one of the only things he could remember. He would be lying if he said they were good memories, but it had been, at most, his home for the past 70 or so years: it was the first place he thought to flee after the events in Washington.
He paced around the tiny room, a muddle of disjointed memories swirling within his skull, and he sank to his knees, utterly overwhelmed with faces and situations that he didn't understand. And always, the chiseled face of the sandy haired Avenger was before him, both a whip thin, schoolboy, and the brawny hero he had fought, and he still could not remember why he was so important. And always, the clear, fresh memories of the agile snuffing of human life, the fresh blood soaking his hands and clothes, which he could never fully clean. Bucky could not be sure about anything these days.
Least of all himself.
He had been trapped within himself for almost 70 years, a broken man with the body of a weapon, controlled by pain and the lack of any substantial memories of anything before. After each mission, he would be so unpredictable that they would put him back on ice until the next job, the convenience of having him asleep, never seeing past the boundaries of each, sanguine mission, a privilege to those who harnessed the Winter Soldier.
As if to prove him right, diminutive Arnim Zola suddenly stood before him, unafraid, his voice drawling and bored.
"You think you can cut all ties?" he asked, as if amazed at the stupidity in front of him. "You are a soldier of fortune, a god among men. And yet you sit here, while Hydra cause remains unfulfilled? And you call yourself a man, a warrior. You are nothing but a useless traitor, devoid of courage."
Zola kicked him viciously, punctuating the abuse with German curses.
Bucky scrambled to a corner, and put his head in his hands, stabbing pain cracking through his skull like lightning. Rocking, he cried out, the act scraping across his throat like a scouring pad.
The blond haired man was suddenly at his side, his eyes black, his voice guttural and distorted. "...until the end of the line."
"Stop it!" Bucky screamed, his hands over his ears.
And there was silence. Bucky looked up at a Zola who was not there, had never been there, and stared at the empty room, the alcohol soaked glass shards sparkling in the gash of sunlight that slashed across the floor.
Hot tears slipped down his rough cheeks. "I don't understand," he whispered, his voice breaking.
Chapter 2
Steve Rogers glanced at the map again, and then at the road before them. Kiev was beginning to wear at him, and after so long looking for his best friend, he was losing hope.
"Don't you say it," Sam Wilson's voice piped from the driver's seat. "Don't you say we're lost."
Steve looked sheepishly at his companion. "I'm sorry. I'm not seeing anything matching this map." He received a highly exasperated glare from Sam, who pulled over to the side of the narrow, dirty street. Jumping out, he approached an old woman, her once dark hair wrapped in a moth-eaten shawl.
"Вибачте, не могли б ви направити мене в посольство?" he asked in Ukrainian, pulling a sweet smile. She grinned back, revealing chipped teeth, and she responded animatedly, her claw like hands gesturing erratically.
Sam kissed her hand, returning to the car with a superior air. "She says the Embassy is several streets down, in the opposite direction to the one you took us on."
'When did you learn to speak Ukrainian?" Steve demanded.
"Natasha taught me," he answered. "Well, she taught me enough to get around. Who are you looking for at the Embassy, anyway?"
"A friend. He gave me a tip months ago, and I just thought that a follow up would be a good idea. You know, since we haven't found any leads on Bucky for so long."
Sam glanced at him. "We will, Cap, don't worry."
Steve nodded, a lump growing in his throat. Bucky was probably holed up somewhere, not knowing what to do, or who he was. He had been spotted in the Captain America exhibit at the museum, and Steve was not sure how that would affect him. The realization of everything could be too much for him to handle.
"-do you think?" Sam was saying.
"What?" Steve snapped out of his reverie.
"I was asking if you think they used the same serum that made you Cap on Barnes?"
"Erskine's research was supposedly the height of secrecy, but It is highly probable they used it, or something like it. But they did not just experiment on him. They brainwashed him, with highly intensive torture."
"Damn," Sam whistled.
Steve didn't respond. His mind had transported him back, back to Washington, back to that causeway.
"Who the hell is Bucky?" came that ghostly voice of memory, the look of confusion in those green eyes. Steve felt that empty hole in his gut, as if he had been shot. When he found his friend, would he be Bucky anymore? Even deep down? Sam seemed to think there was nothing but an assassin under mask, but Steve had seen his tortured eyes, even been saved by this...monster. Could he save his best friend? Panic sunk down into his chest. Maybe he would fail. Would he have to-
No. He wouldn't kill Bucky. He was going to save him. He would give anything to hear that snarky voice teasing him, or even just his presence reassuring him that he wasn't alone, that someone always had his back. He glanced over to Sam Wilson, realizing, he did have a friend. A friend who hadn't let him down. And that was enough...at least until he found Bucky, his best friend: his blood brother.
As they walked into the Embassy, Steve snapped out of his reverie.
"I need to see Mr Brant Corvin, please. It is an urgent matter," he told the receptionist.
She glanced up at him, her expression disinterested. "What's the name?" she asked, bored.
"Steve Rogers."
She sat up quickly, perching her glasses on her nose. "Right away Captain Rogers."
They were quickly ushered into a back office, and told that Mr Corvin would see them shortly. Sam glanced round the ordinary looking office.
"I kinda assumed an embassy would look a bit more-"
"Spectacular?" asked a voice from the doorway. "I am afraid not," smiled the kindly old man standing within its aperture. "Brant Corvin," he introduced himself to the surprised Falcon. "Captain Rogers, it is a pleasure, as always," he said delightedly.
"Call me Steve, and I am honored, Ambassador," Steve answered, shaking his hand.
"What can I do for you, Steve?"
"I came to ask another favor. Regarding the Winter Soldier," Steve replied, his voice lowered.
"Dammit, Steve, you know I don't...er...know anything about that. That is what we agreed," he finished in a hissing whisper.
Steve matched his tone. "Please, Mr Corvin. I have to find him. And you are the only person who can apparently find him."
"I can't. Find him, I mean. It wasn't me," the ambassador replied. "It-it was someone else."
'Someone else? What the hell does that mean?" Sam cut in ruthlessly, confused.
"I mean, I had help. She-" Brant stopped short.
"She?" Pounced Steve.
Brant stared at them for a long moment. "Come with me. I need you to meet someone."
Chapter 3
The dream began as tradition had dictated. Falling...rushing wind in his ears, rocks hurtling past, unimaginable pain as his forearm was cruelly sheared from him. The snow, the blood, then darkness, confusion, voices telling him things, asking him things, terrible electricity shooting through him if the answer was incorrect.
He sat in the chair, the mouthpiece clenched tightly between his teeth. The lights overhead flickered at each flux of electricity, and his body thrashed at each new onslaught, his throat raw from screaming. The pain stopped as suddenly as it had begun, and with a jolt of shock wholly unlike the one he had just experienced, he saw a woman standing before him, untouched by the chaos around her, the sparks as light bulbs blew in their sockets, scientist rushing about. All was silent, as if they, the broken man and this woman alone were spectators. Gone were his shackles and mouth guard, and he sat up, momentarily free from the pain.
"Who are you?" he asked after an awkward pause, his voice rasping painfully in his throat.
"Call me," she hesitated. "Call me Anise."
"Anise," he repeated, then shook his head. "Who the hell are you?"
"Just someone who can help you." At his snort of disbelief, she glanced about the darkened room. "Bucky, this isn't real."
"Excuse me?" he whispered, dumbfounded at her seeming stupidity. Did she not see the torture? Could she not hear the grotesque creak of his metal appendage?
"This is a dream, a dream of something you experienced before. And Bucky, you must get past this, if you are going to fulfill Fate's design."
Rising from the chair, Bucky grasped her arms, pushing her all the way back to the wall, pinning her, her arms caught in a painful grip.
"What the hell are you saying to me," he snarled, shaking her. "Fate?! I can't even remember who I was before they started fucking with my brain, and your preaching to me about Fate?"
Wrenching away from her, he prowled around the room like a caged tiger, rage and panic rising in his throat like bile.
Life for the past 60 or so years had been nothing but mind games, death, and obedience. He had had dreams, in the coldest reaches of his mind when he was put into stasis: airy adventures with someone whose face he could never make out, dreams of a much simpler life, of a man he hardly recognized as himself. He longed to be the man in those dreams, but ever he woke to find more pain, more blood, and ever did he forget these dreams, until they were but a distant, childhood's game, devoid of substance.
Anise waited, watched his struggle, a well of pain behind her eyes. It was as if she was watching him drown, doomed only to watch.
"Bucky-" she began.
"Stop calling me that!" he snapped angrily.
"It is your name, and the sooner you remember that, the sooner you can be saved from this wretched hell, James Barnes," she retorted.
He blinked at her. "Well that was a bit melodramatic," he answered, more calmly. "So tell me, if this isn't real, where the hell are we?"
"We are inside your mind. This is a dream."
"A dream?" he asked, disbelief giving his voice an edge. "How the hell are you even here, then?"
Anise laughed. "I am astral projecting myself into your dreams."
Bucky stared at her, shaking his head. "Whatever that means. Why are you even here?"
"I have been having visions of you, both as you were, and as you are. And the visions helped me fix...a problem of my own. I owe you. And I am going to help you wake up."
"I'll wake up eventually if this is a damn dream," he snapped.
"I didn't mean from sleep," she answered, and faded away, darkened mist that caressed his face.
Bucky woke suddenly, trapped within his tangled blankets. What the fuck just happened, he thought to himself, unsure what to make of his nonsensical dream. If he was being honest with himself, he would have said it was a welcome relief to the constant replays of his life as the Winter Soldier.
But there was no time to ponder further the bizarreness of what he had experienced; there was a click at the window in the tiny commode room to his right. He was out of bed in two heartbeats, the knife that reposed under his pillow clenched in his scarred fist. Back to the wall, Bucky waited for the intruder to enter the room. The booted feet paused on the cold tile, as if listening, before stealthily stepping onto the carpeted floor.
Bucky kicked out mercilessly, and the crack of the intruder's knee breaking sideways was punctuated with a scream of pain and surprise. As the man went down, he grabbed him by the hair, jerking his neck back, and with the smoothest of fluid movements, he cut the man's throat, blood spurting over the floor wetly, the last drops of his life draining onto the now soggy carpet. The man fell bonelessly in a heap, leaving Bucky to stare at his corpse dispassionately as he wiped the soiled knife blade on a towel. Static sounded in his ears, as if the radio was on, and had lost its signal. He shook his head.
"Don't do anything stupid."
"How can I? You're taking all the stupid with you."
Bucky reeled as Steve Rogers' voice rang out, and he stumbled, falling to his knees. It was as if the dam broke; thousands of memories flooded into his brain, and hands over his ears, he rocked under the weight of it, caught in an endless maelstrom of pain.
He could see it all, the little scrawny blond kid he saved from bullies all those years ago who shook his hand solemnly, introducing himself as Steve Rogers from Brooklyn. Protecting him through school, trying to set him up with girls with no luck. Joking that his small friend could do better than those tramps, anyway.
And then suddenly the roles had reversed. Bucky, lying on an examination table had the vision of his friend, now handsome and strong, saving him. And their bond only strengthened, deepened. There was nothing Bucky Barnes would not do for him, including give his life.
But when he came to in that dank, dirty examination room, he realized he had not. He was wholly alone, hurt and confused. They came to him, then, the scientists, and Armin Zola, and there was nothing they neglected to do to him. Through the torture, the surgeries and additions to his amputeed limb, the intensive psychotherapy, all the while he was sure Steve would come for him. This belief prevailed through every thing they threw at him, and his captors spoke in whispers of admiration for his inner strength that just seemed to withstand. Until the day Zola came into his cell triumphantly, his squeaky voice jaunty and carefree for the first time in months.
"Ahah, my excellent Corporal Barnes, I have lovely news for you," he crowed, waving a paper in Bucky's pale, drawn face.
"What," Bucky managed shakily through a badly split lip. "Finally found those testicles of yours?"
"No, I just found your obituary," Zola whispered in his ear.
Six words and a piece of paper was all it took for him to break. Steve would not be coming for him. Steve Rogers, Captain America, his best friend, the only thing that kept him anchored, thought he was dead, and with a laugh, Bucky retreated into his own mind, hopelessness drowning him, filling his lungs, covering his skin like cancer.
But as Bucky cowered to the floor, a prisoner of his own thoughts, he shrank from the memory of his hand unwaveringly pulling his sidearm, taking aim, and putting three bullets into his best friend's back.
"I'm with you...to the end of the line."
