Frozen in Time

by: Shadow Chaser

Disclaimer:

All Marvel characters do not belong to me, they belong to Marvel Entertainment and Marvel Comics.

Story:

Chapter 26

His name...

His name was-

It clawed at him, threatening to drown him in the agony, the stabbing of knives deep into his mind screaming to kill the target because – three shots, there were three shots, he was pronounced dead – three shots. He had to kill Colonel Nicholas J. Fury. Level 8 priority. Level 8's were the highest priority of to-kill targets, he remembered that because they were usually the ones that were also the most dangerous. They were the ones he armed himself against any and all kinds of threats-

Captain Steven G. Rogers was Level 6...no-

Captain Steve G. Rogers, Level 8 priority-

Helicarrier-

"Your work has been a gift to mankind. You've helped shape a century, and I need you to do it again."

Level 8, the highest threat-

Because there was no others to take care of such threats-

"Your work has been a gift-"

Because he had the 'gift' to do such a thing-

"It has already begun...you will become HYDRA's greatest gift to the world. I think a name will do...the dawn of the winter of mankind...an everlasting winter..."

"Herr Doktor, how is my gift?"

Scientists in lab coats, poking, prodding him. They drilled it into him, bore it into him because it hurt the bone-numbing pain that he screamed, screamed so much against because they needed to see if he would cooperate- He had! He cooperated with them so could they stop the pain? He pleaded-

"Kill him. Your pain will end."

They had promised-

They broke their promises-

"We want to help you, if you'll let us."

"-cky, Bucky, Bucky, come on, please, please, you can fight it! Don't- Don't let them...d-do this to you! Don't-" there was a choking, gasping noise that for a second he thought was out of his own lips as his vision blurred. He tasted the saltiness of something wet dripping down his face, onto his lips and blinked - tears. The double images of sterile rooms, of his face staring down at him – Strucker- Zola- Strucker, no...Strucker, Zola and someone else...he was ancient, old. He knew-

"I'm not going to fight you..."

Impossibly, the red-white-blue shield dropped, falling into the river with the fiery debris and for a second his breath hitched – no! Don't drop that! You need it you idiot! Who the hell is going to protect you- Protect you- Protect you from me!

"You're my friend."

The gasping noise returned and he blinked.

"...p-please...don't-"

He had pleaded. He had begged.

They had not listened.

"It's...it's okay...Buck. If...just...c-come b-back-"

His name-

Ja-

James-

James Buchanan Barnes.

Bucky.

It was akin to having felt like being slammed into the concrete several times as James took a shuddering breath and blinked his eyes rapidly. He twitched and shuddered as if he had just awakened from a deep trance only to see the gleaming metal of his arm outstretched, an almost unresistant Steven G. Rogers at the end of it, weakly, more than likely reflexively grabbing where his thumb and wrist joints were to pry it off of his neck. His face was bright red, and his breath was wheezing-

James choked himself as he suddenly forced himself to open his hand and Rogers dropped to the ground in a crumpled heap, gasping and rubbing his neck as he wheezed out harsh breaths. Stevie? Should I get your mom? Wait, hold on, there's some ice here- He also realized that his other hand was holding an outstretched handgun, black, the grip fitted for hands smaller than his own... And saw that it was pointed straight at Natalia's head, right where Fury's chest was as she stood in front of him, her eyes blazing with cold determination, her glare of defiance to dare him to shoot through her- I shot through her once – shoot through her again to kill his target-

It was an effort for him to bury the agony that was pounding in between his eyes, searing through his mind to finish the job as he slowly lowered the gun he had acquired from Natalia. She was clutching her shoulder wound, blood gushing past her fingers and he realized that they had fought in the hazy fugue that he did not even remember fighting. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw broken pieces of furniture, bent pots and pans, weapons he had used to try to get to his level 8 target.

"I'll take this, Sergeant," James almost twitched at the suddenness of Phil Coulson's voice next to his ear before he felt gentle hands pry his flesh and blood one open and he let him take the gun from him as he blinked and took in the devastation that had been wrought.

"I-I'm okay...Thor," he saw Thor move from the corner of his eye as he knelt down and helped Rogers up, the tar- My former target! A part of him screamed. Rogers was still rubbing his neck, but sounded a little less hoarse. He could see the compassionate look on the caped-man's face, but also of wariness and realized that there was the faint smell of ozone in the air. The hammer that Thor carried with him hung by his side, but was crackling with barely contained thunder.

"Sir-"

"What level was he?" Natalia snapped in Russian, interrupting Coulson and James flinched a little at the harshness of her tone. She had never taken that tone with him- It was used for interrogations-

"Yasha! What level was he," she demanded again and he felt himself swallow reflexively. He could feel the need to defend himself, to attack such harshness, because she was a Level 6 so he had no reason to prioritize her death over- No...she... They had helped each other, they had tried to escape. She used it because she was surviving. He had told her to survive.

"...Eight," he replied, blinking once at her and saw the curl of a sardonic smile on her lips as she finally relaxed. However, she did not move from where she was standing in front of Fury.

"Well, sir," he saw Coulson clear his throat lightly before a rueful smile appeared on the mild-mannered agent's lips, "looks like you managed to piss of Pierce right off the bat instead of making your way through the levels."

"He sent flowers," Fury seemed nonplussed and James winced a little at the pulsating pain that still lingered. He wanted to rub his eyes, but knew that it was a useless gesture.

"What? I don't-" Rogers cleared his own throat, rubbing it absently and James bit the inside of his cheek, drawing some fresh pain to combat the feeling that his mind was going to explode from the double-waves of pain at seeing both Fury and Rogers still alive. It was hard, even stripped of the gun he had taken from Natalia as they gathered around the inside of the French flat that had been Fury's base of operations. When they had entered he did not remember, but he vaguely recalled going from outside straight in and he supposed that the damage around the spacious room was evident that he had attacked and they had defended.

"Red Room targets get eight assigned levels, similar to the system SHIELD uses for clearance," Coulson absently checked the gun before handing it back to Natalia who holstered it. "Level 8-"

"Means you are an assigned priority with maximum weaponry at your disposal. It's...also the ones that stay up here," Natalia finished for Coulson with a pointed look at James as she gestured to her head. "It's the ones that somehow don't get erased even if they keep wiping you over and over again," she finished quietly, "isn't it?"

Silence reigned in the apartment for a few seconds saved for the distant sounds of car horns and other city noises before Fury moved, stepping out from Natalia's protective shadow. "Well, glad to know that I've managed to piss off HYDRA twice to have two level 8s on my head." The man gave him a one-eyed stare that somehow managed to make a very small part of him feel incredibly guilty – as if he was a fresh-faced soldier who could not follow orders. "You going to kill me or can I at least get some of the intel you've all put together and re-prioritize your target?"

That very small part of him that felt guilty immediately disappeared into a haze of indignation and he returned the stare with one of his own. Fury flashed a quick sarcastically crooked smile as he moved past the broken furniture and into another room. Natalia only gave him an unreadable look before she shrugged and followed, Coulson glancing between the two of them and also turned and followed, reaching over to Natalia and gesturing to her former bandaged wound now open and weeping blood again. He heard the shift and clinking of armored plates and turned to see Thor make a gesture of concern as Rogers stood upright on his own, still occasionally rubbing his neck. The so-called Thunder God – something he did not quite believe even as he remembered the bolts of lightning that poured forth from his hammer, Mjolnir during that flight on the motorway – looked at him carefully. There was something different in his gaze that was not quite compassion, but of something else he could not read, before following Coulson and Natalia.

"...Bucky?" that left him and Rogers in the mostly-destroyed room as out of the corner of his eye, he saw him take a step towards him.

"Don't," he held up his metal hand in a warning even though it would be easy for him to shuffle a step forward and grab Rogers by the neck once more, choking the life out of him- "Don't..." he whispered again as squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, pushing back against the recent fresh pain. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, staring at no point in particular. He could feel Rogers standing just outside his arm's length, patient, seemingly just waiting. But he could also feel him on guard and a part of him was glad – the fact that he took it this seriously even though he was an idiot for jumping into the fray that he did not remember, having gone into a fugue state. He could have easily killed him then...

"But you didn't," James did not realize he had spoken those words out loud until Rogers replied in a simple tone. No pleading, no compassion, just...oddly, James though he heard understanding; a statement of facts.

And somehow, he knew that it should have made him feel guilty, but it did not. It made him feel... He mentally shrugged – he did not know. Guilt was- Guilt... Guilt was if he regretted things...and...he did not because he did not finish his mission – so there was no guilt. Nothing to feel guilty for...

"Level 8," he shot a quick look at Rogers and saw him give a small nod in return before the barest hint of a wry smile appeared on his lips, his blue eyes mirroring that small bit of humor.

"Nice to also know that I am still such a threat to HYDRA..."

"Captain America! I am a big fan of your films," Schimdt said as he gestured towards himself, stalking forward on the overhead catwalk.

He could not breathe as he gripped the railings tightly. Zola was across on the other side, that mousy smug bastard. He almost missed Steve's reply as he brushed past him until he suddenly saw him lash out with a punch, snapping Schmidt's neck to the side – and impossibly, the man lashed back.

The vibrating thonk of his fist on Steve's flimsy metal shield made the two of them stare at the imprint of a fist to the point where Steve stumbled back and fell to the ground.

"Steve!" the words were strangled from his throat as he saw Schmidt stalk forward-

Only to be kicked in the chest by Steve, falling to the ground before Zola grabbed a handle and the catwalk began to retract. He scrambled and reached over to grab Steve and to haul him back so that he wouldn't fall-

"You see," Schmidt's face was a little off and became even more as the two of them stared, wide-eyed, shocked, at the sight of him ripping his face off- Only to reveal a hideous red death-skull underneath- "I was Doktor Erskine's first and greatest creation!"

"You don't happen to have one of those, do you?" he swallowed nervously because this was just too bizarre, too crazy, he was dreaming-

"If you rip off your face I'm sure HYDRA will reverse your threat level," James said and saw the tiny wry smile on Steve's face grew a little larger. He felt the same bit of warmth, the same bit of pride he had felt twice before; once at JFK airport while watching Rogers talk down the Congressional field hearing panel from arresting Banner, the other time when he had almost fallen forty-one stories to the ground fighting the HYDRA capture team outside the courthouse.

And realized with a start that it had been easier.

It had been easier for him to push the pain away, to push the urge to eliminate his target, to eliminate Rogers, because... Because... It was easier because he had fought it. Rogers had pleaded with him, not for his life, because he knew that Steve Rogers put the lives of others ahead of his own – the idiot had no ounce of self-preservation until he had whacked him in the head several times because of it – but Rogers had pleaded with him to fight it. To actively fight because he had been willing to die if he could have a moment of peace-

And he had fought to stop that because Rogers, Steve, needed to understand that his own life was worth it, that to sacrifice himself for him because he had been so twisted. And so he had fought. And it was easier...it had been easier since he had walked into Avengers Tower.

"Help me..." he had pleaded and he remembered one word that had been spoken as blackness had taken him that first time he had seen Rogers in over a year; the first time he had seen...his friend...his best friend, since the memories started to return.

"Always."

Steve Rogers always had James "Bucky" Barnes' back. And now...James realized that he was slowly having Steve Rogers' back.

The plan was hasty, but simplistic in nature. There was no time for elaboration, not with the intelligence they had from Clint, the knowledge that three of Coulson's agents were now prisoners if they had not been shot, nor the confirmation from Clint that the Chitauri sceptre was housed where Sam Wilson and Tony Stark were. Steve had ensured that Fury or Coulson were not planning any side missions, especially since the intelligence Clint had meticulously gathered revealed that it was a base, if not the main base, for all of HYDRA's Red Room experiments. He knew that Natasha wanted to destroy the place, to burn all of the paperwork, but he had insisted and made it a point that this was a rescue op only. That once Sam, Tony, Agents May, Ward, and Triplett were out of harm's way then they could theoretically go back and systematically destroy the place.

But there was a main point of contention for the whole plan and it had to do with Strucker's, or at least whomever was posing as Strucker, warning – that HYDRA was desperate and willing to do anything to get their weapon back. To get Bucky back into their hands. As a military tactician, Steve would have liked to have utilized Bucky first as a scout-sniper, before having him join in the assault, but as his friend and very mindful of what had been said, the plan had to be modified a little bit to keep Bucky as far away from the front lines as possible. The best he could do was utilize Bucky's skill set as support.

There had been talk that maybe once inside, they would be able to hopefully utilize Tony to help them fight their way out, but Clint's notes had indicated that both he and Sam had been near the sceptre's mind-altering influence since they had been brought there days ago. None of them knew what it was like to not be completely dominated by the sceptre if someone wielded it, but all of them knew what it was like to be near the sceptre after at least half-an-hour or so. Plus there was the disturbing mention in Clint's intelligence that HYDRA had been trying to burn Tony out of his iron man armor and that Tony had somehow been successful in resisting, but did not know how long he could hold out.

When they reached the base, there was either the chance that Tony would be compromised by the sceptre or that his armor would be too damaged to be of use in a fight. Clint had mentioned that they had not touched Sam Wilson, which comforted Steve a little bit, but that he also had been hallucinating a lot about his former wingmate Reilly and was almost catatonic at times with medical supplies around him. Steve knew that the two were one of the mentally strongest men – both overcoming horrific pain, loss, and trauma to forge new paths of their own; so to read Clint's brief analysis of them since their capture was a little disconcerting to say the least. He wanted to deny the intelligence gathered, to say that even Clint himself was compromised by his proximity to the Chitauri sceptre, but also knew that Clint was one of the most methodical in intelligence gathering. In the few times he had worked with Hawkeye, it was Clint who had first seen what others could not see, from both afar and up close.

So that left Tony and Sam out of the equation of helping them out of the base. For the three others that had been captured, he could only hope that they had not been executed outright and that they were at least somewhat hale and healthy to help shoot their way out. Otherwise, he had a feeling that when they started their assault, Clint was going to have a tough time trying to free them without putting himself at great risk.

Steve had considered calling Bruce, sending a quinjet for him, but there was no time. They had to move now, before HYDRA had a chance to prepare. A Learjet from London to Zurich, the nearest major airport to where Bucky had fallen so many years ago, was about one hour and forty minutes of flight time. He estimated an hour or so extra of a drive deep into the mountains, which meant that were already four hours behind. It had taken them roughly five hours to get to Fury's place in Strasbourg, France and it would take them about three and half hours to get to where they needed to go in the Alps. By then, they would be seven, about eight hours behind. Plenty of time for HYDRA to prepare for their arrival unless they struck quickly.

Steve knew that Thor could be the advance vanguard, Mjolnir's flight speed having not been calculated, but speculated to be very fast. But he also knew that Thor could not handle that many HYDRA troops; especially if there was the chance of Extremis or Centipede soldiers there. No, they had to hit it all at once, as a group, as the Avengers.

"Simple rescue op," he leaned forward against the hardlight projection table Fury had in his hideout. He looked at everyone, meeting every single gaze including Fury's and Bucky's. "We get in, we get out. If there's a chance of destroying the base as a whole, we'll do it, but our main priority is Stark, Wilson, May, Triplett, and Ward, okay?"

Six pairs of eyes met his own as each acknowledged his orders in their own way. Steve took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "All right, let's do this."

The wail of klaxons and alarms was sudden, but Clint barely acknowledged it as he pressed his fingers into the corners of his eyes a little tighter. He managed to steady his breath, but released it with a shuddering hiccup as he curled further onto the cold concrete floor of the supply closet he was in. How could he have been so stupid? How could he have thought that he was working with free will when it was the fucking stupid Chitauri sceptre? How could he have been so complacent, so blinded to what it was and that his own arrogance clouding his judgment. This was the same sceptre that Loki had controlled him with; had twisted his thoughts inside and out, had stripped him of who he had been, had unmade him and remolded him. Had played with his brain and left him-

He cursed wordlessly as he opened his eyes and pounded a fist into the back of the cold wall, staring up with a whistling hiss of drawn breath. He had been played like a finely tuned instrument once again and it twisted the horror in him that Karpov had been right – so terribly right. He had been able to resist, but the subtleties of what the sceptre was capable of...he had not been able to resist or see that. Karpov did not twist his mind forcibly like Loki had, but he had been, was probably still, twisting it nonetheless. Karpov was definitely not human, maybe even immortal in some shape or form, but definitely a lot more experienced in this sort of mind-twisting sick game than Loki. It was as if Loki's attempt with the sceptre was akin to Thor smashing everything in his way with Mjolnir. Karpov had made Loki's attempts three years ago look like child's play.

And truth be told, it frightened him. It dredged up the deepest childhood fears he had, of the circus and his younger days living on the streets, scraping for food, fighting tooth and nail. There were other things he hoped would not have happened during his childhood, but he did not want to think about it. He pounded a fist into the wall again as he ground his teeth together. The alarms continued to blare and he glared up at the ceiling. How could he have been so stupid?! So complacent? So...idiotic because he thought he was the best for this assignment and instead had allowed himself to fall into the enemy's hands once again. Had led his friends into an ambush where they would surely be killed because it was his fault once more. All of his fault.

How many were going to die now because of him? How much blood was going to be on his ledger after this? How many-

"Don't," she warned him, a steely glint in her eyes, "don't do that to yourself Clint." He wanted to protest her warning, but quieted in light of her look. It was the look that said, 'I've been where you were' and one of the few things he had taught her, she had taught him – mutual sharing of knowledge was to move on. Regret was there, but there was nothing to do now than to live the lives of those they could not save. Those that had sacrificed themselves because of their mistakes, their successes.

He drew in another shuddering breath and let it out slowly, trying to compartmentalize the pain, the horror, everything he felt. It was true that Karpov might have manipulated everything at this point, but Clint slowly realized that even though he said he allowed it just for a chance to get the Winter Soldier back – he allowed it to happen. There was a certain type of arrogance, a familiar one that he recognized in Karpov; had even seen it before in one other person – Loki. He had no doubts that Karpov and Loki were not cut from the same cloth, but the fact that both wielded the Chitauri sceptre made him wonder if there was a certain manipulation of their own minds, to bring forth a supposed-omnipotence of arrogance that blinded them to certain aspects of their so-called 'grand' plans that they had. Though Karpov was far more subtler about it than Loki, there was still that similar feeling Clint had gotten from Loki during his time under his control.

And he realized, for all of Karpov's manipulations, he was best suited for this job, this assignment. Fury had been right; not because of his previous experience with the sceptre, but exactly because of how he had reacted after breaking free. The one thing that Loki had never expected was for Clint to use his knowledge gained while under Loki's mind control against him – and how he was able to shoot a supposedly regular broadhead at Loki's face during the middle of the Battle for New York, only to have it explode and send him flying, disoriented, into Stark's penthouse where the Hulk dealt with him. Loki had been expecting him to retaliate, and Clint had obliged, but he had used Loki's assumption against him by adding his own flare, something Loki should have realized, but had been too blind by his arrogance to see it.

Clint blinked as his realization settled into his bones, into his mind. Yes, he might have been badly manipulated again, but he also knew that he had been left to his own devices. Karpov probably knew that he was huddled somewhere in the corner, blaming himself, would probably come to his senses now that the alarms were blaring what was probably the Avengers attacking the base; but he also knew that Clint would eventually be doing something, because Karpov thought he had read Clint correctly. And he would have, Clint acknowledged as he slowly stood up, grabbing his bow and flicking through the arrowheads, selecting the ones he needed in the order that he needed them in.

Karpov probably would have foreseen Clint making his way out of whatever funk he had fallen in and go free his friends – which is probably one of the reasons why he had shot May and Triplett, to delay him – and it was something that he readied himself for. But if there was one thing Karpov would not have seen was the fact that Clint knew. And like the explosive arrow he had shot at Loki, an ordinary broadhead, it would explode in Karpov's face when he realized he had badly underestimated the anger and how far he would use that anger to get back at the old man. Because if there was one thing that neither Loki nor Karpov had ever learned was that Clint Barton was a survivor.

His name for the last one-hundred forty years or so was Vasily Karpov. Before that it was Aleksander Lukin one of the special advisers to the Czar; and before that, Benjamin Tallmadge, the leader of the Culper spy network in the American Revolution; and so many others, some historical figures, others, mere peasantry, nobility, and everything in between. He had been so many people for so long that one would have thought he had forgotten his true name. But he never forgot; not with so much on this realm to remind him of what could have been his, not with his meticulous care of historical events, a twist of fate this way, a twist of fate that way. Not with the planning he had cultivated, the ebb and flow of political gains, of warfare, of risen leaders and fallen ones. Sometimes things were out of his control, but sometimes, things were orchestrated by him.

And finally, after so long of a wait, so long of gathering his own remnant power, shared grudgingly with his loyal follower who wore the face of Baron von Strucker with the spoonful of power he had given him, his weapon was finally returning to him. It would be the first step of his war against the realms. A significant step, but one he would not have taken if he was not sure of what he had to do, what he needed to do. It was promised to him – eons ago. It was promised to him and he would take it – it was his right after all.

He was disappointed that his follower had not returned after his mission was completed, but he supposed that it was the first time in a very long time that he had allowed him off of his leash. He suppose he could tug the mental thread that linked them together, a shared bond that had been cultivated since their exile, a contract of sorts, to find out where that red-headed nuisance had went, but he let that thread be. Slepnir would return as any familiar was wont to do, aided by the contract he had made with him before their forcible exile. He supposed he could not blame him for the absolute giddy rush he must have felt unleashing the spoonful of power he had been given. And there was merit to it – it allowed him to be hidden from the all-seeing eyes in the stars above. That eye would track Slepnir instead of himself and he was content with it. He wondered if Slepnir was still wearing Baron von Strucker's face, but suppose he would have discarded it as soon as humanly possible.

He watched the screens with an absent gaze, at the sight of his gunners shooting at Thor who was not quite attacking just yet, but was causing a significant amount of distraction and damage to the surrounding woodland and mountainous area. "Have the guards been posted at the secondary and tertiary entrances?" he asked as he saw a couple of the guns stop shooting, taken out by sniper fire, most likely by the Winter Soldier hidden somewhere in the tree line.

"Yes sir," Rumlow answered, standing next to him with his arms crossed, "they've also been given the alternate dosage to prevent regulation."

"Good," he smiled inwardly at the sight of his weapon just outside the base. It would soon be his...

"Sir," Rumlow suddenly spoke up again, "I'm not too comfortable with the fact that some of them have been given dosages to prevent regulation-"

"Sacrifices are needed to ensure that the Avengers do not find it so easy to penetrate the bunker, would you not say?" he glanced over at the scarred man who wore a skull-like balaclava to hide his scars. Rumlow's mouth moved with an acknowledging grimace before out of the corner of his eye, he saw something that made him quirk up a corner of his lip in a smile. "Ah...our lost bird finally moves."

"Barton?" Rumlow asked and Karpov nodded.

"Yes," he gestured to one of the security cameras that showed Barton clearly stalking down the hallway, shooting the armed guards there dead with each arrow that he then pulled out of their bodies and stuck back into his pack for re-purposing. There was an angry set to his pace and it was all that Karpov could do to not relish seeing the misguided righteous anger in it. Barton was such a fool and he had enjoyed breaking him, showing him all of his foibles and follies. The fact that he had pulled himself together was all the more sweeter and it would be so easy to shatter such righteousness again. He tightened his grip on the handle of the Chitauri sceptre, feeling its power flowing like a soothing trickle into his mind, granting him knowledge and an assurance that this was the right course, that all of his years of planning would soon come to fruition.

"He's going to free the others-"

"Yes," Karpov interrupted before blinking once and looking at Rumlow, "if you would be so kind as to dispose of him."

"Kill him? Not keep him hostage-"

"He has served his purpose. I do not need a weakling like him under my control anymore," he shrugged before turning back to the monitors, the guns that had been taken out firing again as new gunners took the place of those who had been shot.

He heard the grunt of acknowledgment from Rumlow before he left, the door closing shut behind him. Karpov only sighed once before absently running his free hand over the silvery blade of the sceptre. It was nearly time.

Author's Notes:

Never piss off Clint Barton – he will shoot you full of arrows, pluck them out, and shoot you again just for good measure. Also, it's about time that Avengers went on the offensive, wouldn't you say?

In other notes, more mental casting for related characters in the Trickster Universe: Vasily Karpov – I imagine him looking a little like his comics incarnation from the Winter Soldier arc in the Captain America comics, and Jeremy Irons.