Hey, everyone! Sorry that this took so long! I got a paper assigned which is longer than the last one. But better late than never! Hope you enjoy!

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Chapter Twelve

Soldiers move on us and take me by the shoulders. Every part of me tenses, and I want to fight them, but instinct said that it was better not to. It only hurt when I fought.

The soldiers force me to my knees and take Steve by the wrists as Wilson comes into the circle held at gunpoint.

The man in the cat suit puts his hands up and retracts his claws before reaching up and removing his helmet. Without the helmet, the suit looked much less cat-like, and the man behind the mask looked average. He had dark skin and even darker hair. His face was kind but hardened with hate, and he regarded me with nothing but disgust.

"Your Highness," the metal man greets.

Your highness? He's royal?

The soldiers rip my backpack from my shoulders and push me onto my stomach. It took all I had not to fight them as they secured my wrists. Steve looks down at me and shakes his head, though I can barely see him at my angle.

The soldiers pull me up from the ground and force me to turn. They guide me through the destroyed cars to an armored van with deeply tinted windows. They shove me inside and throw the door closed. Two soldiers get into the driver and the front passenger seats, and another soldier sat beside me.

I can't leave any more. I can't run. Just like with HYDRA. No matter where I go, they're always going to be there. Whether they're in my mind or in reality, they're always there. And I can never fight.


After a long flight in chains to Berlin, they forced me into a an electrified, glass box with a hard metal chair. They strapped me in much like HYDRA did just before they used their machine on me. I tense as they secure my metal arm, but Steve watches me, shaking his head.

I let them secure me, then they sealed the box and walked away. They wheeled the box into the back of another windowless, armored van. Two soldiers climbed in after and took a seat on either side of the box. They closed up the van, and the vehicle rumbled as it started up.

If it wasn't for the light coming from the sides of the cage, it would be completely dark. It was almost as dark as the holes they kept me in when I was in Siberia. My breathing picked up, and my heart started to race, pounding against my ribs as image after image flashed through my mind.

I have nothing to keep me anchored to the present anymore. Before, I could pull out one of my journals and read something I wrote about the friends I remembered, but I don't have that anymore.

I shook my head and forced myself to think of more recent events. I could have killed a large number of people with that grenade. Why did I use that? I had promised myself that I wouldn't use it unless it was an emergency, and though this did qualify as an emergency, a lot of people could have died. I didn't want to kill anyone, but sometime during the chase, I had lost myself in the Winter Soldier again.

After maybe a few hours, the van stopped, and the doors were opened. The soldiers got out, and they pulled and pushed the cage I was in out after them, shoving it onto a platform connected to another vehicle that vaguely reminded me of a forklift. They moved me through what looked like a garage, and moved me around vehicles, following Steve and Wilson.

Steve glanced at me, but I looked away. He was only here because of me. I had gotten him arrested. "What's gonna happen to him?" I heard him ask.

"Same thing that ought to happen to you," another man answered, "psychological evaluation and extradition."

A psych eval? I can guarantee you that I'll fail that with flying colors. If I say anything, that is.

I glance over and find that Steve's back had finally turned to me. The man he was talking to was short and blond in a grey suit, and there was a taller woman next to him in long grey sleeves and a black vest who was also blonde.

"This is Everett Ross, Deputy Task Force Commander," the woman introduced.

The more I looked at her, the more she reminded me of Peggy. The hair was different, but they had the same features.

"What about a lawyer?" Steve demanded.

"Lawyer. That's funny," Ross laughed. He turned his head towards one of the soldiers behind him. "See that their weapons are placed in lock up."

A man crossed in front of the cage they were keeping me in, my backpack in his hands. That had my journals in there. My memories. I need those back. I don't want to forget again.

"We'll write you a receipt," Ross continued as the soldier taking my pack joined the one taking Steve's shield and Wilson's wings.

"I better not look outside and see anyone flyin' around in that," Wilson commented, almost getting me to smirk.

Despite Sandu's outward appearance, he actually cracked jokes while he cooked at the diner. They weren't very funny, but they made me smile at least. Sebastian laughed, but hardly anyone else did.

Steve is guided away, and the vehicle holding the cage I was in started to move backwards. Steve glanced back at me, and I hold his gaze for a moment before looking down again.

I had gotten him in trouble, and I can't apologize. They won't let me. They might hurt me if I spoke here, too. HYDRA did at first. They hurt me until I was silent then made me talk in the languages they wanted.

They moved me into a dark, grey, windowless room. They lowered the cage down on the floor and wheeled the vehicle out. Four soldiers stood guard. The cage darkened for a moment while they plugged something into the back, and then it lit back up at full power.

The cameras and the guards. This was too much like HYDRA to be comfortable.

There were no clocks, no sun. Nothing to keep the time. They took my watch. I don't know how long I sat there before the soldiers left, and a different man took their place. He had a brown jacket and a blue and white plaid shirt, and his hair was light brown and slicked back.

"Hello, Mister Barnes," he greeted in a heavy German accent. "I've been sent by the United Nations to evaluate you. Do you mind if I sit?"

I didn't say anything, so he took his seat at the one table in the room anyways and took out a tablet, propping it up in front of him. Silence will be better. It was always better.

"Your first name is James?" he wondered.

I stayed quiet, though I tensed at him calling me James.

"I'm not here to judge you," he assured. "I just want to ask you a few questions. Do you know where you are, James?" After a moment he continued. "I can't help you if you don't talk to me, James."

James was what my parents called me, and I'm definitely not someone they would approve of anymore, but Steve called me Bucky. It's what I told myself every morning. "My name is Bucky," I corrected.

I swallowed deeply, trying to convince myself that the man wouldn't hurt me. My name is Bucky, and he can't take that. Not again.

The man opened a portfolio and took notes down in it with a pen as he continued, "Tell me, Bucky. You've seen a great deal, haven't you?"

"I don't want to talk about it," I cut off.

It didn't seem like the man meant me harm-other than the cage I was in-but he still put me on edge. He seemed tense in an odd way. Like he was preparing for something.

"You fear that if you open your mouth, the horrors might never stop," he offered. He looked down at the screen of the tablet and tapped on it. "Don't worry." He looked back up at me. "We only have to talk about one."

I narrowed my eyes at him. What was he talking about?

The lights suddenly shut off, and they were replaced with a flashing red light. I didn't exactly mind darkness in of itself, but being in darkness tied up and defenseless, I minded.

"What the heck is this?" I demanded.

"Why don't we discuss your home?" the man asked. "Not Romania. Certainly not Brooklyn, no." This place is just like HYDRA. Ignoring my questions, darkness, being strapped to a chair. The man reached into his briefcase and pulled out a book. A red book with a black star. "I mean your real home."

I know that book. The memories were faint, but I know it.

I tense as my heart starts to race.

The man took his glasses off and clicked on a flashlight as he got up from his chair. He paced closer to me with the book open. "Strastnoye zhelaniye."

My vision blurred as the word echoes through me. "No," I whisper. Not again. No more.

I almost feel the claws of their machine wrap around my mind and pull my head back. My chest is tight, and my entire body shakes.

"Rzhavyy."

"Stop," I mutter. Please stop. Don't make me kill anyone.

"Semnadtsat'."

I can't give into this. Not again.

I fisted my left hand and strained against the mechanism keeping me in place. "Stop," I demanded, glaring at him as he came closer.

"Rassvet," he mercilessly continued.

I could already feel my mind succumbing to the words, but I can't let myself get taken by them. I scream to force the words away and pulled against the machine keeping me pinned. The metal gave way, and my left hand was freed. I rip at the metal keeping my right hand secured, and the straps around my chest release me, too.

"Pech'."

Instinct was trying to make me remain still and give into the words as the man moved to the side so it would hurt less, but I force myself up anyways, punching at the bulletproof glass. It had to let me go. He can't make me kill. I don't want to kill Steve, and that's probably who he's after.

"9."

I punch, and I punch, and I scream to try to drown out the words, but the glass never gives, and the words still echo in my mind. They're taking me over, but I can't let them.

"Dobrokachestvennyy."

I almost stop punching. I'm getting a little dizzy the more I fight them, but I keep going. I have to get out of here.

"Vozvrashcheniye domoy."

The glass finally cracks. Just a little more.

"Odin."

The cracks spread even further.

"Gruzovoy avtomobil'."

The door finally flies away from the cage as my vision briefly blackens. I manage to stumble out, but it's too late. That was the last word. I'm his now.

I numbly get to my feet as the man comes into view. "Soldat?"

I tense and try to keep myself from answering, but I can't fight anymore. My will is gone. "Gotov k vypolneniyu."

"Mission report. December sixteen, 1991."

I will say that the next chapter, I really enjoyed writing it, and I hope to get it to you a lot sooner than this one. Sorry again! Fingers crossed that I'll see you soon!