A/N: The first one is a deleted scene on the First Avenger, fyi. The rest is (more or less) mine.

12. There's nowhere left to hide 'Cause God is on our side

There was chaos everywhere. Men ran and shot and screamed. Mortars flew past, the ground exploding. He was running, his squad following him. He leaped into a newly formed crater, several feet deep, and pressed himself against the dirt for cover. Adjusting his helmet, he took stock of the situation.

"There's got to be at least five more companies out there!" Dugan shouted over the noise.

"Radio B Company; tell 'em we need cover," he ordered Jones.

"That might be tough," Jones called back, turning the radio so he could see the damage done to it. He swore. "Bucky, behind you!"

He turned around and shot at the approaching infantrymen. The men did the same. Dugan's hat was knocked off, but he did not fall; he wasn't injured. His targets destroyed, he turned to see where they had come from. "Here they come!" he said as he ran to position himself closer to the onslaught.

"I hate these guys," Dugan growled as he joined him. The others joined as well and they shot into the darkness. While taking aim, he saw some kind of lightning come down and destroy his target. He paused, looking up from his scope open-mouthed to stare as more lightning, clearly not coming from the sky, came and struck more men. They disappeared as neatly as if they had never existed.

"What the hell was that?" He got to his feet, climbing out of cover to get a better look. Dugan and Jones stood beside him. They watched as three more blasts of light came from nearby, destroying the men on the hill opposite them.

"That looks… new," Dugan said. Following his gaze, he saw some kind of tank rolling up over the hill. Its lights were very bright, making it difficult to make out. It was clearly many times larger than any tank he had ever seen before. It took aim – at them.

"Duck!" he yelled, running for cover as it fired.

He was walking. Though his squad was around him, they were not marching. Their weapons had been taken, the enemy surrounding them as they moved. He didn't remember surrendering. None of them spoke. Those too injured to walk had been left behind, some left where they'd fallen. Others… others were not so lucky. He didn't want to think about it. He focused on putting one foot in front of the other.

They were marched into a factory of some kind. He was clenching his teeth, trying to ignore his screaming muscles and aching thirst. It had been a very long walk, ten miles or more. They had not been allowed to stop. Men in black suits and masks yelled at them in German. They were lined up in neat rows and waited. Without the momentum of walking, he was struggling to stay on his feet. A little bespectacled man came up. He was the only one not wearing a mask, and was wearing a lab coat. He walked down their lines, inspecting them.

He waited, uninterested, wondering idly if they should have just let themselves be destroyed by the strange tank's weapon instead of allowing themselves to be taken prisoner. Factory work was familiar to him; if they had been taken here to work, that wouldn't be too unpleasant. Knowing he was aiding the enemy's war effort instead of his own would be demoralizing, sure, but it was probably better than being dead. Probably. He knew Steve didn't think that way. He was glad his friend was safe at home and wondered if he'd ever see him again.

The small man stopped in front of him, saying something in German. He decided to ignore the inspection. It wasn't as though he hadn't been inspected before being deployed. The man asked him, in English, to lift his arms, to turn around. He did so, delaying just long enough to make the man's face begin to turn red, but not long enough for him to repeat the order angrily. When he finished, the man smiled. He pointed to him and spoke to the men standing guard around them. When their superior had left, the men marched everyone down to the basement, into metal cages apparently made for the purpose. He couldn't think why else they would be there.

Sometime later, it may have been a few hours or a few days, they came for him. He had worked assembling some things for more than one period of time, but he couldn't be sure how many. There was no reason to focus on it. They came while he was in the cage at the end of the day. He assumed it was at the end; he hadn't seen daylight since marching here. Two big men grabbed him suddenly by the arms. Surprised out of his apathy, he fought, managing to bring one down. The other took the opportunity provided by his distraction to hit him in the face with the butt of his rifle.

He came to on a cot of some sort. He was lying down, anyway. There were straps crossing his body, holding him in, every few feet. He couldn't move. His coat was gone, and his sleeves were rolled up, uncomfortably restricting circulation. He shifted, but it had little effect. Deciding to savor his strength, he stopped moving and looked around the room as much as he was able. He was not alone. There were at least two other cots containing men, presumably prisoners of war like himself. A great deal of scientific equipment stood around the room. He didn't want to look at it. He closed his eyes.

Voices brought him back to the present. The little man was there, giving orders to two henchmen. They wheeled one of the other cots underneath a huge machine. He looked away as the man screamed, sounding as though his cries were dragged from him by a hook. He hoped they weren't. He didn't realize the sounds had stopped until he felt his own cot being yanked roughly over to the same location. Steel pads full of tiny needles were pressed onto his naked arms. He clenched his teeth. Something metal was fitted around his skull. The machine whirred to life and pain exploded everywhere.

The visions stop at last. He awakes, throat raw from screaming, still on that unfamiliar couch in a strangely familiar room. His breath is coming short and fast and he must work to calm himself. His muscles are tense, ready to attack, to strike, to break. He aches to attack. Who or what doesn't seem to matter. The room is empty still, unfortunately. When his heartbeat has slowed and his breathing no longer labored, he gets to his feet. Why did he come here? How could he think that these remembrances were what he wanted? He hates himself, and the world, more with each passing one.

He viciously lifts the coffee table and flings it against the wall. Its contents shatter, it splinters, and he feels a little bit better. The couch follows it, punching a hole in the wall. A scream emanates from the neighboring apartment and he sobers quickly. He runs out the door and into the night. But he can't run as fast as he needs to.

The sirens of the police vehicles fade away. He crouches in the relative safety of the fire escape down the street. He can see the building, but they cannot see him. They will not look for him here. He waits. Finally, he decides he is safe and climbs down. He is angry, but does not want to attract attention. Rage fills him more at the thought. He unsheathes his knife and walks down the street, waiting for someone to try something.