Chapter 21

His nerves fluttered, a moan peeled from his raw throat and he scrambled to regain awareness. The tendrils of pain drilled into his bare flesh, and he was pulled back into the red chasm, feeling the swishing tentacles of HYDRA writhe against his compromised body. His mind and soul was trapped in the merciless void, and there was no escape—no sense of release that overtook his thoughts. He was fighting against the terrors –the endless torment that kept his body feeling numb with every prick of a needle piercing in his veins.

"Get me out of here..." he seethed out, acid clogging his throat. His blue eyes glazed with fever as he searched for a resolve against the harsh light. A face emerged out of the blur of ice; the merciless eyes of Zola pinned him against a strong hold, forcing him to taste the sourness of blood escaping from his embroiled veins. He saw the sterile medical tools methodically aligned on the cart—the glass vials each labeled with an insignia of skull and squid tentacles. They represented his new home: Department X.

Everything became distorted as he entered another realm within his mind, pushing through the darkness before halting in front of a window pane. It lead into a dimly lit room where he watched a young scarlet haired ballerina twirling with grace and lethal precision on a wooden stage. Her poised limbs were covered with bruises and remnants of dried blood. Her ivory skin held the blanched tint of neglect, and the flares of defiance that welled her green eyes were dimmed from the mindless tortures of the extraction chamber.

His metal fingers traced over the edges of the glass, he intently stared into the visage of a young handsome man—a ghost of a good soldier and an earnest kid from Brooklyn: James Buchanan " Bucky" Barnes. He peered further into the mirror image; searching in the pale blue eyes and the bright, charming smile.

It wasn't his face anymore, just a shattered and twisted reflection of a condemned phantasm—a forgotten soldier who had never returned to his homeland. He had been reborn—remade—without the capacity for warmth, and emotional attachment towards humanity. The face in the cracked glass was a fractured memory of his true existence that hadn't been erased from his mechanistic dehumanization programming. He never smiled after that moment he had fallen off the speeding train—he had crashed and froze into the ice forever.

He was trapped in a world filled with the spectrum of a dimming lamp light. Everything seemed unnatural at first; faces of fellow soldiers were blurred and the tempo of music hastened into a steady beat of somberness. He couldn't move; his heart and soul merged into a weave of desperation. The choice was given to him to chase after his desires—to embrace the friendship that was almost stolen from him by HYDRA. Steve had rescued him from the hellish laboratory, pulled him away from the teetering edge where a mindless void of obedience awaited below.

Even though Bucky had felt his heart pounding for release, he was hesitant to recall the amount of courage he needed to face the nightmares once more. Friction surged in his veins and the utmost of desire redirected him closer to center of the polished dance floor, towards the wafting scent of whiskey lulling his senses. The lights from the wall mounted lamps guided his unsteady steps to the bar stool. He felt the sickness.

He felt the constant aftershocks of damage that lingered in the violent pulses of his subconscious, he felt absent to the world around; unfocused and unstable—less alive. Finally, after summoning up his reserves of internal strength, Bucky halted in his steps and waited for a torturous moment to feel the recurring ache of his throbbing heart. "Fight it, soldier," he spoke under his breath, flexing his slacken jaw as the bitter taste of metallic rose up his parched throat.

He remembered feeling the coldness sear deep into his fragile bones, his dilated blue eyes staring into an abyss of green haze; he became a captive of delusion–a new pet for the inhuman Doctor Zola to play with. That was until he found himself escaping the drifts of HYDRA and staring into the benevolent azure embers of Steven Rogers—except he wasn't the same skinny and sickly pale faced blond haired runt who had always been too dumb to not run away from a fight. Steve had been transformed into America's first super soldier—the sentinel of liberty. But no one would ever know the true Steven Grant Rogers, not like the way he did back in Brooklyn. They were brothers.

After gaining enough momentum in his stiffened legs, Bucky pulled out a bar stool and sat down clumsily, resting his elbows against the wooden surface of the bar.

He tempted to slouch just a little and looked feverishly at the pint of whiskey that had been prepared for him. Even though he was safe and among friends, the pain he had endured on the medical table had crippled his defiant spirit and he couldn't remove the violent images of young men being strapped down and infused with chemicals. He tried to resist the changes, after fully becoming injected with Zola's beta serum that made him a part of HYDRA; yanking and tugging through the leather restraints.

"Hey, Buck," Steve spoke in a deep, soothing murmur, standing behind the young sergeant. He was dressed in his bronze US military uniform; golden buttons and Medal of Valor reflected in the hazy light that caressed over his angelic and chiseled features. His neatly blonde hair was parted off to a side—he looked so natural, strong and filled with burdens that Bucky could faintly see beyond the firm stare of spiritedly azure.

It was undeniable to shove away the truth; everything had changed and Steve no longer needed to prove himself. He did the impossible and saved the bulk of a lot of brave men, liberating the captives from the HYDRA factory in the forest of Azzano because it was an admirable cause to finish, even without General Phillips consent. Steve had crossed enemy lines with his unfathomable determination and his large heart that had been measured and overlooked as small and insignificant on the written medical documents. Steve gave the soldiers of the 107th a chance to redeem themselves and to follow a new mission.

During the late hours of the afternoon, listening to the cheers echoing through the camp, Bucky had watched his best friend—the little guy who had been pushed into trash cans all his life—take a stand in front of the rescued POW's. Steve stood on top of a jeep's hood, leather jacket ripped, boyish face smudged with dirt and ash, but his massive body was unyielding, his strong jaw clenched with determination and his crystallize azure eyes held a flares of defiance. The sunlight had retracted into his audacious gaze as he lifted the triangular shield of stars and stripes high above his shoulder.

It was his moment of accepting the responsibility in bringing together a new force of heroes who didn't think of themselves as nobleman of liberty, but as a band of brothers. Steve witnessed their fighting spirits kick into overdrive, and he knew that they would be his special unit to end HYDRA's regime of terror. Without further thought, the kid of Brooklyn, the artist and friend of James Barnes, declared his mission to the world as Captain America.

...Follow me into the heart of victory. Don't give up the fight. For united as brothers, we can do the impossible...

"Is everything okay, pal?" he asked, with his eyebrows furrowed into a concerned expression. Bucky felt his emptied stomach roil with tense and fierce eruptions. His shoulder jutted and bunged closer to his jaw. There was a rupture in the recesses of his memory; he was resisting the assuring grip of his best friend—allowing his body to rebel against human touch. He fought against the impulses to smash the glass and stab the shard into Steve's throat. His pale blue eyes became livid with pulsating hate towards the American uniform—mostly towards the patriotic colors of red white and blue—all he saw was the haze of red.

Bucky tore his eyes away, tipping his head down, and took a sip of whisky blatantly, tasting the bitterness of yeast clog into his scratched throat. "Don't worry about me, punk," he dismissed with a hoarse chuckle, curving the full expanse of his lips into a tipsy smirk, patting the broadness of the captain's shoulder. "It takes more than a few HYDRA jerks to bring this Brooklyn kid down..." he drawled with his cocksure Brooklyn accent, masking his recurring pain.

Taking another gulp of whiskey, Bucky resisted the urge as his temples pounded against the vibrations intruding his mind. His blue eyes devoured the tarnished glow of ember that stuck against his face. Then, his distant gaze drifted back to Steve, to his best friend that risked everything to save him from Zola. His slacken brow furrowed. "What made you come and find me?" he asked, distantly with eagerness in his regard to Steve's crestfallen expression.

"You're my friend, Buck," Steve returned in a somber whisper, an honest gleam became caught in his crystalline azure eyes. With a graceful motion of his strong hand, his fingers clutched over Bucky's shoulder. A fleeting sense of hope increased as he stared down at Bucky's trembling hand, and his spirit wilted under the lingering shadow of HYDRA. He tried to ignore the runnels of despair in seeing his protective brother look so defeated and wounded. It was like he was staring into the eyes of a ghost. After a momentary battle of emotions, he found strength to voice the words that felt pinned against his heart, and steer Bucky out of the rages of the sickness. "You're all I got left of Brooklyn."

Bucky turned his head slightly, and looked at the war bond poster of Captain America. "Well, I've gotta admit...you gave them a hell of a run, punk," he appraised in a raspy voice. His pale lips upturned into a broadened smirk. Steve remained in silent dismay, observing his friend's struggle to diminish the agonizing succession of pain. He knew that the mental scars wouldn't so easily rid themselves from his friend's mind; Zola had done inhumane and twisted experiments–a consuming poison was running rancid in Bucky's veins. It was up to the young sergeant to detach himself from HYDRA's will. "I guess I can't call you the little guy from Brooklyn anymore..."

Steve's azure eyes locked onto him and he curved his lips into a sheepish grin, "Nah, it's still me, under all the muscles."

"I bet you're going to get all of dames," Bucky mirrored a small cheeky grin, with a mischievous glint in his eye."The ladies do love a man in a uniform...or in your case a monkey suit."

"The dames will have to wait," Steve sighed, looking dismally over his shoulder a few young ladies latching their arms over a lucky soldier who had a smug smile plastered on his face. Steve sighed in disgruntlement and set his eyes back at Bucky, and stared at the half-empty whiskey glass; his thoughts redirected; but still he fought to keep his emotions bottled in. His blue eyes lit with sincerity, in the moment he chanced to stare at Peggy Carter sitting with Howard Stark pass the division of cigar smoke and overly expensive perfume. He looked full of upmost uncertainty. He was distracted by regret, unsure and just plain hesitant to walk over there and ask the most beautiful and fiery woman he had ever met to dance. "Besides I am not a good dance partner, I always step on a lady's toes when I try to take the lead."

Bucky scoffed at the Captain's honest words. "You're unbelievable, Steve." he grunted, shaking his head in refusal. His pale blue eyes held an intense gleam as darkness swallowed the flecks light. His stare was torrid and filled raw vexation; almost like murderous glare of cunning wolf.

He was changing into something caliginous, unstable and lethal. His addled and scattered thoughts were reserved by a constant, droning whisper of Zola's noxious voice, ordering him absently to respond to his urges of slaying everyone in the tavern and creating a blood bath. Sensing his intolerable and fundamental alterations, Bucky clasped his trembling right hand over his bruised wrist, squeezing the iciness out of his veins. It felt like he was about to self-destruct into a relentless pile of rage, his skin broiled with revolting heat and his throat closed, breath seemed constricted.

"I need to get some air..." Bucky said in a heavy gulp, he instantly stood up, feeling the umbrage of pain compress into his chest, exhales came out ragged and erratic. Sweat dripped over his chiseled waxen features and glassy eyes filled with tears. He had to remove himself from Steve. "I've gotta to..." he stammered, his eyes flashed dangerously, and his ample jaw clenched. "...clear my head."

"Bucky," Steve gasped, his blue eyes flared with utmost concern; he tried to reach for his restless and tottering friend, but Bucky trudged away from the bar in fervent steps to the door; using his shoulder to ram into the thick and cold wood obstructing his unsteady path. "Buck.." Steve sighed out in disbelief lowering his head, and fighting against the array of tears prickling in his eyes. The tension in the air became cruel and unrelenting, he wasn't prepared for this strife and he didn't know how to fix that damage that had been done to Bucky. They had never been the same, so distant and unaware of their strengths and weaknesses. He refused to believe that his best friend was lost to him.

Summoning up his valid and stalwart determination, Steve trained his passive eyes unabashedly at Peggy sitting with her elegance and beauty in a booth; her chocolate ringlets pinned back with red lace and her stunning ethereal features holding so much power that he felt it burn into his heart. He couldn't reclaim his torrents of affectionate desires for the ravishing British SSR agent, not when Bucky was on the verge of falling under HYDRA's maniacal shadow again.

Steve wanted to march to the booth, with all reservations of courage and lead her onto the dance floor in front of everyone. But in that moment, Steve had to sacrifice that desire, and leave Peggy to dance with Howard, while he went out into the darkness to search for his friend.

Feeling the world falter beneath him, Steve opened the door and stood in the glow of the fading light, inhaling the crisp air as snow descended from the darkened sky. He remained silent and steadfast, holding an observant stare on the parked army vehicles and fuel barrels. He felt the eeriness of the dire situation, a palpable force of disdain slamming against his chest, and he couldn't waver past his choice. Bucky needed him to stand at his side, to guide him back home and to never betray their bond as brothers.

They were strong together—they were like stout, fearless and unshakable stallions who fought hard for their freedom and raced into blazes of the war, using their bodies as shields against the hailing storm of bullets and endless crimson rain.

"Bucky, where are you, pal," he called out with desperate utterance. The frigid wind ghosted over his lips; he trudged another step away from the tavern, barely getting distance as his boots crunched against the fresh blanket of snow. He searched tenaciously for a sign of Bucky. All he found were shadows of black pine, crates of medical and food supplies waiting to be stored into the back of GMC 352 army cargo truck—the canvas tarp was billowing against the wind.

Bowing his head in reverence, Steve felt his heart clench and his breath freeze before air escaped from his frowning taut lips. There was no turning back as he paced in clambering footfalls. He listened to gnawing cries of distress. Blood pumped faster in his veins, and his eyes watered against the condensation of the snowfall.

Steve mashed his teeth into his chilled lip, hard enough to taste the sourness of blood staining against his throat."Hang on, Buck," he charged, his massive body going into full throttle of ignition. His glistening azure eyes steadied through clusters of whiteness, and hell bent senses alert as he followed the discerning noise of his friend's voice. "I'm coming..."

In the ambiance of the lurking darkness behind warehouse, Bucky pressed his back against the wall, his bent and exhausted posture caved into the confines of his uniform. Coldness penetrated and seeped into his throbbing bones; he drew his knees close to his speedily rising and falling chest. His heart was pounding and skin glazed with feverish sweat.

He looked about the area in disarray; his impassive blue eyes scanning left and right. He allowed his blurry gaze to drift back to the caresses of warm light reflecting in the snow—the only illusion of hope that he desperately grasped onto when violent images reached succession in his mind.

...Nothing seemed familiar...

When he tried to turn his neck, it almost felt like shards of glass were puncturing into his slacken muscles. He blinked, the pain was overpowering his skull, and a numbness circulated in his veins. He was paralyzed without recognition of the voice echoing back from the muffled cries that ripped from the depths of his chest. Finally, he parted his lips and recalled a sum amount of strength to answer back, "Steve..."

The super soldier reacted swiftly to the voice; fear ratcheted in his chest as he pushed his muscular legs frantically through the snow banks with stern momentum without losing sight of his friend's shivering body. His thoughts ran livid, betraying his heart and devouring his hope with vague and intense images of Bucky's lifeless body mangled against the wall. Blood was leaking out of his mouth; he was dying...Fading into the ice and darkness.

In those consuming moments of dread, Steve's eyes adjusted quickly to the amber light casting over the wooden pile to decease the shadows. His breath ceased to flow in his lungs and his heart sunk into his churning gut as he stared, bewildered, at the visage of Bucky huddled against a wal; blood dripping from his pallid lips and his bright eyes redden with dejection.

Steve moved in slow, tentative strides, and held out his hand to the disheveled soldier before him, "Bucky," he sensed that his brother was trying to disconnect himself from his shadow. He persisted, never once thinking about giving up on the young man who had sacrificed so much to give him a chance to fight." C'mon Barnes, take my hand and I'll get you back on your feet again, pal."

"You can't help me, Steve," Bucky murmured with a hoarse tone, his lips curling into a grimace. His face contorted into an aggressive demeanor, and his straggled breath seethed from his clenched teeth. As he dismissed Steve's hand, Bucky rested his weary head on his knees. He couldn't pretend nor ignore the fact the he clearly wasn't fit enough to wear a uniform. That he was a part of divergent—a vanishing and demented soul who was condemned to rot into the nightmarish hell Zola had pulled him into when ice coated his bones. "I'm no good to you anymore."

"What are you talking about, Buck," Steve regarded him with a tender stare. He crouched down to Bucky's level and he knew something was utterly wrong. "You're the bravest man I know; you taught me how to stand up to bullies, and now you're letting doubt put you on the ropes." He firmly intoned. "You can spend all night out here, but I'm not leaving you." He shifted his gaze to the direction of the tavern and tried his best to forge a trusting smile on his chiseled face as he watched the battle raging in Bucky's eyes.

Bucky managed to nod, but tucked his arms tightly over his chest, feeling the impulsive desire to flee. When Steve tried to grasp his shoulder, he lurched back and dropped his head; obscurity ensnared his face and his blue eyes glowed with unbidden, baleful stubbornness. "You're needed back in there, Captain America," he spoke in intolerable volume of pain, forcing his gaze away from Steve's placating face. "I'll be fine, Steve." He took a deep breath. "It's just taking awhile to fight this..." He resolved his stare back onto the captain, his fogged blue eyes pleading."You've gotta leave me out here. I don't want to hurt you."

Discerning the vindictive edge resounding back into his ears, Steve creased his brow into hard perturb lines. He felt a little disturbed. His expression grew crestfallen and eyes retained sadness. "Hurt me," he mustered out a breath, looking directly into Bucky's deteriorating gaze. "You would never lay a hand on me. You took care of me like a big brother and you were always there when I couldn't pick myself up." Steve lifted his hand, and gently eased his palm over Bucky's shoulder. "I would've been lost without you, Buck."

"Now, I'm the one who's lost," Bucky managed to whisper faintly out in a nonchalant response, his lips stifled into a trace of a smirk. He looked up into Steve's brotherly gaze, and he found purpose again—a reason to put on the uniform and follow his new captain into the jaws of death, because without each other, they would have never discovered the strength in their bond that had always been alive before they were soldiers. He couldn't deny that he needed Steve to guide him through the storms, and with that, he made a promise to follow Captain America—his friend and sword against the darkness until the end of the line.

With that, Bucky straightened onto his boots and looked up at Steve with a glint of redemption in his eyes. "You're still a stupid and stubborn punk for giving two cents about jerk like me..."

"I know, Bucky," Steve clutched his shoulder, jerking the muscle a little bit; a genuine and relieved smile casting over his features."Let's have another drink. It's on me this time."

"What's the occasion?" Bucky asked gravelly, blinking the flakes of snow out of his eyes. He leaned against Steve's frame, feeling an arm support his sagging weight as they began to walk back into the trail of warmth.

Steve shrugged, holding a smile. "I dunno...Maybe finally having my friend back."

The Winter Soldier awoke to the softness of bristles stroking beneath his nose. A coating of shaving cream foamed over his feverish skin; every sense jolted like live wire as he breathed in the minty scent. Utterly dreading the encroaching and relentless ice, he screwed his eyelids shut; fighting against the coldness penetrating deep into his system.

Sometimes his body compromised the jabs of pain, sometimes he unleashed anguished filled cries—feeling his exposed humanity being stripped away—thread by thread.

During the early years of subjection and imprisonment in the Red Room, and after undergoing torturous operations and excessive brutal training, he had been forced to allow the hybrid serum of the malignant Armin Zola to ravage through his blood—devouring him until he felt nothing. There was no distant relief.

"I want you to relax, Sergeant Barnes. I need to extract information from your mind."

Regressing against the thralls of pain consuming his veins, Bucky was strapped mercilessly down on an operating table. Harsh light reflected over the slacken muscle of his pectorals as metal clamps fastened over his bruised torso. He couldn't move. He felt sick. Bile was rising up his throat as he tried to fight against the release of vomit. He wanted to fight. "I will never let you win, HYDRA pig," he snarled out a heaving breath of defiance. His blue eyes were livid and clouded with rage, his bristled jaw clenched and his hand tried to slip out of the leather restraints.

"Where the hell am I?!" he roared, his voice think with contempt as he stared into the dimness of the room. One breath was released, warm trickles of tears slathered down the slope of his jaw. He could barely grasp a hold of reality, it was like he had been ambushed by his nightmares—everything was transparent and coated with red. The braving moment of defiance sank into dread. Warmth became absent in his veins, needles pricked the raw skin of his muscles. He couldn't scream out for Steve—he was voiceless in those moments in becoming raveled into fear. His temperature was dropping into kelvin rate of coldness. When Zola's sterile hand clutched his wrist, it almost felt like his pulse was being drained. There was a distant roar of fire banking inside him until every fiber became numb and the lines of tears that splotched over his ashen skin froze.

"The pain you will receive will hurt at first, but you will get used to submission, Sergeant Barnes."

Responding to the vile monosyllabic German voice humming in his ears, Bucky frantically searched for his resolve in the slants of murky light. He asked in a hoarse and restrictive voice, "where's Steve?" He demanded, in a slight wheeze, only having a small measure of strength to spit out those discernible words as a slow trek of blood sloped down his parched throat. At first Bucky was unsure if his torture session was another replay of his collapsed memory; the dissolving shadows cloaked over the room made the world seem unfocused like an unhinged mirror.

Seizing the opportune moment to destroy the young sergeant's hope of freedom, Zola circled the table with meticulous steps, observing the defeated look that had threatened to gain succession over the chiseled lines of Bucky's paling face.

"Your friend is dead..." There was no trace of empathy in his taunting voice. "He remains are now lost in ice. The great Captain America failed his mission. HYDRA has begun a new world order...Starting with dissecting weakness out of the human element."

Aggrieved, blue eyes stared emptily at the doctor; realization struck him. "No," Bucky gasped, drawing up sharp seething breaths. He slammed his clenched fist against the edge of the table, denting the metal. Resurfacing anger roared in his veins; he felt the violent urge to rip out the doctor's vocal cords as tears stung in his eyes. His heart was breaking, tearing into shreds. His lips quivered into a babbling expression of utter anguish. He could barely contain his cries; streaks of water glazed his blemished skin and pain thickened his chest oppressively.

Bucky slammed his eyes shut, his chest rising and falling at an alarming rate. He unleashed estranged howls for his friend. "Steve..." he sobbed, looking up at Zola with urging eyes. "He can't be dead...Not my friend...Not my brother."

"Ah, but he is Sergeant Barnes," Zola diminished his hope, removing Captain America's helmet out of a crate labeled "classified". He held it up to the light with a twisted smirk of complacency. "This was found in the Atlantic waters surrounding Greenland. It's just relic—a memory of his greatest failure."

Enraged by the sick mockery of his friend's sacrifice, Bucky abruptly thrust his hand up to snag the helmet from Zola's grasp. "That doesn't belong to you, sick bastard..." he felt his breath clogging as a sharp point of needle punctured his skin. Blood was collecting in the IV tube and his skin was changing into a bluish tinge. He didn't possess the strength to fight, his body was shutting down, but he tasted the tears melting over the warmth of his lips. His eyes dimmed into blue crescents as he set his blurring vision on the helmet resolving into light. "Steve..." His voice faded into a wispy breath, and his heart rate lowered. His pulse stopped and eyes closed as his promise slipped from his dormant lips. "I'll bring you back home..."

Confusion invaded the corners of his awareness until the Winter Soldier felt the coldness searing into his bones, while hands weaved and meandering over the exposed muscle of his chest. He didn't twitch and squirm in reaction to the merciless touch as voices buzzed in the empty spaces of his mind. He wanted to be left alone. He wanted to escape from the harsh orders. He felt like a brick in the wall that they hammered with every ounce of pain until his body and will solidified into the cement, secured with the blood of his victims.

He was trapped in the space—a mindless haven of distortion and numbness. Inside, he was a hot mess of emotional outbursts, and his warring soul was sliding on the thin ice of a frozen wasteland—he would fall into the cracks and slip out of his depth and out of his mind as he would claw those shards of ice until blood poured out of his fingers. The wall emerged from the dark waters, barricading him from the warmth of sunlight. Relentless and biting coldness was all he felt every time he fell back into the ice.

It was the second phase of his desensitization session before he would become thrown into a stasis capsule. Time would become stolen from him once again.

His mission was complete. Avora belonged to HYDRA. He felt a sense of regret invade his heart; he gave his oath that he would protect her—save her from a cold future of being a weapon. He failed her. Deep in the recess of his addled mind, he wanted to free her from this cruel and inhumane life. Her soul had already been sold away when her grandmother signed a contract to ally with the Red Skull in her own blood. He couldn't prevent her from feeling the ongoing pain—tasting blood and feeling life fade into her little hands. No, he knew Avora was lost, broken and unmade. The revelations of her fate struck him hard like a killing stroke, digging into every fiber until his heart became leaden with a heavy guilt.

At first, it was a calming aroma that permeated the air. Everything was a vogue blur against the harsh white light reflecting over his bare chest. His metal hand reacted to the touch of latex tracing over the sharp clench of his broad jawline. He didn't like to have someone invade his space. A c*** impulse overtook him, however he remained stoic. His pale blue eyes became dilated and still—lifeless.

Stray tresses of sodden brown hair fell over his ashen features as he looked distantly at the steel grate in the wall. He was waiting for the smoke to emerge—an airborne sedative that left him feeling comfortably numb as he acutely listened to the random voices of his timid handlers. Tears cascaded down his gaunt cheeks; an emotional reaction to the dulling ache flooding through his body. Liquid fire. For a few seconds, he couldn't lift his eyelids.

He parted his lips just enough to release a deep and gravelly rumble out of his chest. "Where is Avora?" he demanded, monotonously, struggling not to snarl. The frothing cream dripped aimlessly over the curved edges of his mouth. The taste intermixed the permanent tang of cold rust that latched over his blue eyes dimmed into a livid color of tarnished steel. He leveled his glinting stare at the frail man in a white coat.

His chrome knuckles aligned into a tight fist. He listened to the amplified echoes of screams wavering through the dark corridors. His exposed, scarred pectorals constricted under the hefty leather straps pinning him down. His mouth creased open as the acid drip of vehemence rose up his parched throat. A fever was brimming in his veins. He was on the brink of tearing the restraints; every muscle of his body thrashed against the chair. He had to find her.

"Where is she?" he hissed through clenched teeth. "Tell me where they brought her..." His slacken jaw tightened enough for the wary eyes of the assistant to see the definition of bone. His metallic hand was edging to grab the razor. "Скажи мне сейчас (Tell me now)," he demanded, ravenously. There was an evident threat rupturing in his voice, and the man caught in his feral gaze knew that the Winter Soldier could jab the blade into his jugular within a few seconds.

"They've...They've...Took the girl into the ISO chamber. That's all I know...I swear it." The smaller man was trembling under the cold and severe glare of steel and ice. The Winter Soldier lashed violently, his muscles ripping the restraints off his bare form. The smaller man staggered backwards, his face dotted with sweat and his heart pacing with the same rhythm of the assassin's murderous stride of intimidation. There was no escape from the wrath of HYDRA's wraith. Falling into a muddled state of hysteria, he crashed into the cart as the metallic arm shadowed over his white sleeve. "Please..." He sucked back a heavy gulp of air. He couldn't look away from the icy relentless glower of death staring back at him. The unblinking eyes pierced into his skull. "I have a family...I'm only doing my job."

The Winter Soldier quickly swiped the razor, and latched his merciless stare on the man's throat. He lunged with direct assault like a strike of lightning, blue eyes flashed with ruthless power. His fingers dug into muscle as he pinned the man down, crushing his weight into the breakage of bone, his metal hand coiled around his neck and squeezed to clot the veins. The Winter Soldier's face was just a breadth away and his glacial eyes filled with cold absence. He clutched the razor in his hand, tresses of hair fell over his hollowed cheeks, and a growl of menace dripped from his scowling lips. Before he went in for the kill, he sliced out the cries of horror from his victim. "So I am..."