A/N: This chapter marks 100,000 words! Thanks to everyone who has been along for the ride, commented, followed and favourited! I appreciate you all endlessly, keep the reviews coming :)

Just a warning, this chapter contains scenes of torture, brainwashing and violence.

25.

Azzano, Italy

June 12th, 1943

On the battlefields of Azzano, Bucky begins to think his time is up. Bullets fly through the air around him, the clunking of machine guns filling the air, and fire rages across the grass and fallen objects as he sprints across the field, rifle at the ready. He runs in a group, some of the remaining one-oh-seventh, Timothy Dugan at his right.

A landmine explodes just as he passes it, triggered by the man running on his other side, and he only narrowly misses the impact. The man who triggered it runs onward, only jolted by the blast, but it hits the fella running behind him and the man goes down in a heap, screaming aloud for a leg that was once there. Bucky doesn't stop to look.

He runs at full sprint, throwing himself into a small crater of foxholes dug out by the men who'd been trying to hold the line. He fixes his helmet, sitting with his back to the short wall and clutches his rifle. Dugan lands next to him, rather ungraciously, having thrown himself head first into the crater to avoid a slew of bullets.

"There's gotta be at least five more companies out there somewhere," Dugan tells him with a pained expression, slowly sitting up.

"We need B-company, tell 'em we need cover," Bucky yells back, mostly to Gabe Jones, who lands in the small trench with his leather bag, containing a radio.

"That might be tough," Jones answers, trying to pull the radio free whilst still aiming his rifle.

"Bucky! Behind you!" Dugan warns, throwing himself beside Bucky and shooting with his Thompson sub-machine gun at the advancing Germans. Bucky turns too, shooting his own, when an explosion rocks the trench, sending them all tumbling and Dugan's bowler hat from his head.

Bucky recovers first, his heart racing and his ears pounding in his head, and looks over just in time to see a fresh wave of the enemy advancing toward them down the hill. "Here they come!" He yells, setting himself up to face them, Dugan and Jones following. He squints through the eyepiece, barely able to make out the advancing bodies in the darkness. He lines it up anyway and shoots, not expecting a kill shot, quickly picking off a large chunk of the mass. Suddenly, the next person he'd locked onto is engulfed in a spark of blue light, disintegrating into thin air in front of his eyes. Bucky looks up from his rifle, staring in shock into the distance as more soldiers disappear in a flash. The lightning-like flashes come from odd-looking guns of a new player to the field, men dressed in all black with heavy metal helmets hiding their faces.

When all of the approaching men are dead, gone from the face of the earth, the one-oh-seventh lowers their guns, thinking backup has arrived sporting some fancy new weaponry. The field falls eerily silent, all sounds of explosions and machine guns petering out with the last body to disappear. The men of the one-oh-seventh start cheering, thinking they've won the battle, but Bucky is still suspicious, looking around the field carefully.

"What the hell was that?" Dugan asks as they carefully stand from the trench, climbing out of it onto the grass. The explosions continue on the horizon, this time in larger blasts of energy, coming over the hill toward them. Something makes the ground rumble beneath them, and Bucky looks up carefully, raising his rifle again. "That looks… new," Dugan mutters, watching as the biggest tank any of them have ever seen climbs over the crest of the hill, massive floodlights lighting up the dark terrain. They watch as it's gun aims toward the group, the tank rumbling as if summoning up the energy.

"Duck!" Bucky yells, diving back into the trench just as the bright blue blast flies over their heads, hitting the far edge of the trench, crumbling the dirt. The tank rolls closer to them, shooting at all sides of the trench rapidly to keep the soldier's trapped inside, but never actually hitting them.

The battle is hopeless. They're outgunned with no reinforcements on the way. Bucky sees Isabel in his mind, sees her mouth moving in the form of the six words, but he can't hear them. Six words. All he needs is six words. He'd repeated them back to Isabel that day, sounded out every syllable. And now he can't remember them.

They all huddle together in the middle, wide-eyed, trying to string together. The tank looms over them, a massive monster of metal, and the barrel of the gun points right at them, only meters from their faces. Bucky thinks and thinks and the words don't come to him. Prisoner of war, he thinks. Then another six words, but not the six words he needs. What are they gonna tell everyone?

Multiple men in their black uniforms climb from the massive construction, coming down into the trenches and wrestling the men from the ground, pointing guns at their heads. They're normal bullet guns, not whatever their other agents had used, and Bucky makes his move. When a soldier approaches him, he attacks, firing his own gun at all of the men, taking down three or four. The others of the one-oh-seventh do the same, fighting them off, but they're quickly taken down, pinned to the ground with guns pressed into their temples and under their chins. Bucky hesitates, and its long enough for another soldier behind him to shoot at him, the bullet embedding itself in the back of his knee. He feels the movement of his skin and muscles and ligaments and the blood bursting out before he feels the pain. It hits him like a tidal wave, making him scream and fall to the ground, clutching the joint with both shaking hands. He can't breathe, taking deep, gasping breath, the pain filling his mind so he can't think of anything else.

He vaguely feels someone grab his arm and drag him out of the trench. His mind fades, the pain taking over. He lets his eyes close, hoping unconsciousness will take him somewhere far away.

Still, he can't remember the words.

When Bucky opens his eyes, he immediately registers the immense pain in his left leg. It burns like it's on fire, as well as feeling like he's being stabbed repeatedly.

"Thank God," multiple men around Bucky say, a face appearing over him. A large hand falls on his shoulder.

"Where ar'we?" Bucky slurs, trying to sit up. The hand moves from his shoulder to his back, helping to push his weak body up. There's a bunch of faces around that slowly comes into focus, revealing themselves to be the one-oh-seventh.

"Captured," Dugan answers from next to him, still supporting Bucky's weight. "They wanted to take you away but we fought to keep you here. Wouldn't let go of you."

Bucky looks around. They're sitting in a round cell, another cell to each side of them, stretching up and down the hallway. Above them a platform where guards pace back and forth, monitoring the prisoners below. The ground is damp and mouldy, a strong smell of piss and sweat finding Bucky's nose, though it's no different than the smell of the trenches.

"What happened with my leg?" Bucky asks worriedly, sitting up to examine it. It doesn't look good, leaking blood and pus through the bandages, swollen up to double its usual size.

"They gave us a sickly medical kit and I tried to patch it up. Removing the bullet was the easy part. But the knee's beyond saving in this setting, you need immediate surgery," Morita says sympathetically. "Even if I was a surgeon, which I'm not, I couldn't do it with this." He holds up the medical kit, a small canvas pouch with some bandages, one scalpel and one alcoholic swab.

Bucky nods, sitting back with his head against the bars. "Thanks."

"Just wish I could do more, Serge."

"The boys from basic? Lore, Robinson, Crawley? What happened to 'em?"

They were the only three left from basic training that Bucky was friends with; the others had all lost their lives in the trenches within their first few weeks in the field. Bilge had earned a gunshot to the head when he wore his helmet a little too high, Fairview had gotten an infection from a shallow bullet wound, and Andrews had run himself into No-Man's Land, screaming that he needed to get out. They'd shot him to bits and he'd been left to rot amongst the barbed wire.

"They're gone, Serge. They came and took Robinson away last night, and Crawley and Lore got hit back at Azzano. I'm sorry, I know you were friends," Morita tells Bucky.

"Yeah, I guess we were," Bucky says quietly. He looks around, trying to distract him from the physical pain radiating up his leg and the pain in his heart at the death of his brothers in arms. It's not like it's new anyway, he's seen hundreds die around him so far. Difference is, normally he only knew their name, not anything else about them. They were a name and a serial number, not a person, not a friend. "What do they got us doing here? Just waiting around?" Bucky grits out, watching through the top as the silhouette of an armed guard walks over them.

"They got us building weapons and some sort of massive plane," Jones answers. "Called it the Valkyrie. They're sending the parts we build to another base."

"How do you know?" Bucky asks.

"We've been here three days already. They worked us from the first minute we were here," Jones replies.

"You've been out the whole time, Serge. Didn't think you were ever gonna wake up," Morita says.

"Three days?" Bucky breathes. "Has anyone tried to get out? Has anyone gone looking?"

"A few. It didn't take us long to get here, so assuming the line has stayed put, it can't be more than a couple days' march. All of 'em that left here, none of 'em ever came back," Dugan says solemnly, removing his bowler hat in respect. "They were damn stupid, but they were brave."

The next day, Bucky isn't dismissed from the labour work they're being forced to do. The Krauts drag him up from the floor of the cell and make him follow in line with the other men toward the factory floor. The one-oh-seventh gather around him, covering him on each side so that their captors can't reach him. Bucky limps along with them, his knee screaming at him, but he pushes through with gritted teeth, leaning rather heavily against Dugan when he nearly falls to the ground.

The other prisoners are all scared, but mostly they're offended. Offended by what they're being made to do. There are unspoken rules of how prisoners of war are to be treated, and they definitely don't include making them work labour in return for their evening meal.

For days, Bucky pushes through the pain, lifting parts and screwing things together, feeling himself weaken further and further. He never relaxes, can't breathe, knows he can't slip up. The goons bark German at them, revealing themselves to be part of some science division called Hydra, and Bucky finds himself surprised that they'd break away from their own side. When they bark German at them, the prisoners pretend not to catch their drift, but they learnt some German in the trenches and they're never going to forget it. When the guards come to snatch volunteers, the others fade Bucky into the crowd, hiding him from view.

Whatever weapons they have them building, they're scary as hell. The guns are big and clunky, and they have cartridges to be filled with the blue energy that disintegrated people. The canons are powerful, the tanks even more so, and when they put Bucky on duty of building the engine, Bucky can't even imagine the size of the plane that it would propel. Bucky works because he needs to eat, and he needs to eat to keep his strength up so his body can heal, but every day that passes, he thinks he's further from healing, not closer.

At night back in their cells, Bucky goes through the motions of thanking God that the Army never took Steve and never would. He doesn't sleep when everyone else does, the pain keeping him awake and his mind always actively listening for the approaching guards who take away a prisoner or two each night and never bring them back again.

After a few unbearable, eternal days, Bucky is carrying a small metal part across the factory floor. He feels his mind fog, clouding his thoughts and his vision. His leg screams at him, the pain unbearable, a sweat breaking out on his forehead. He sways and stumbles, falling forward when his legs finally give way beneath him. Dugan just manages to catch his head before it hits the concrete, and seconds later, guards come to take Bucky from the floor. Dugan and the others fight them, even managing to knock out a few, but ultimately, the guards draw a few guns and the one-oh-seventh have no choice but to let them take Bucky away, shedding a few silent tears at the thought of never seeing the kid again.

Bucky wakes up again, this time on a cold metal table. Above him is a large laser gun, pointed worryingly toward his head. He blinks slowly, the world spinning a little, his mouth gagged, his entire body feeling numb. He doesn't feel the pain in his leg anymore or the ache of overworked muscles. He feels nothing. Maybe he's dead. Maybe he died of sepsis, maybe he's just waiting to be let into Heaven or the World to Come or whatever. Would that be so bad, anyway? Would he really care if he was dead? Not if he was destined for a life in the wastelands of war.

A little man in a suit emerges from the glass-walled room to Bucky's right. Bucky gets a peek through the door, seeing lots of desks cluttered with papers and a map of Europe on the wall.

The man looks over Bucky, his eyes hidden behind small, round glasses perched on his snub nose. He's short, wearing a suit and lab coat.

"Am I dead?" Bucky asks, the only words he's decided to give them.

"No, Sergeant Barnes. Not yet," the man says in accented English. He grabs Bucky's jaw with small and clammy fingers, eyeing him carefully and examining his physique. Bucky squirms, tries to wrench away from the hand. "Hold still," Doctor Zola snaps. Bucky mumbles something against the gag, though no words come out, and he twists his wrists in their bonds, glaring at the scientist.

"This one will do," Zola eventually says to another man who emerges behind him, wearing the Hydra uniform without a helmet. He has a head of black hair and dark eyes that glare at Bucky with a sneer.

"I hope the serum is not ready yet," the man grumbles. "He needs to be taught a lesson for what he did when we first found them."

"Why? Because he was the first to fight against our soldiers once his unit was captured? Or because he has the strength to continue working even with a severely damaged knee? The ability to hide in a crowd? I think he is just what I am looking for. He could be anybody. He's special." Zola looks back to Bucky. "You like this, Sergeant Barnes? Hearing that you're special, that you've been chosen?"

Bucky doesn't answer, instead forcing himself to start breathing again. He's already given them the words he shouldn't have, asking if he was dead. He's already broken protocol, broken his training. Name, rank, serial number, he reminds himself. A chill lingers on his face when Zola lets go of his jaw.

"Start the infusion. I have the feeling our time will not be wasted on this one."

A needle is injected into Bucky's inner-elbow, connected to a bag of thick, grey fluid. The fluid swims its way lazily down the tube, toward Bucky's arm, and Bucky feels his breathing quicken. It enters the needle, and then Bucky's blood stream, bubbling into a lump at first before slowly spreading through his body. It's like fire in his veins, a burning in his muscles and bones, and he swears he's being melted down into a puddle. The pain isn't numbing or changing, it feels like poison, searing at his every cell. He prays to go to sleep, to be knocked out, even to die, the pain is so horrendous. It's bad enough that he can't even scream, only panting for breath against the gag while Zola takes notes.

He vaguely remembers being sat upright, sometime later. It could've been days later, could've been minutes. He doesn't think he lost consciousness, but time just seemed to muddle together. His leg doesn't hurt as he walks across the floor, doesn't even twinge, and he wonders whether it healed, or whether he lost it altogether.

They shove his head into a bucket of water, holding him down as he thrashes to see how long he can hold his breath for. He lasts longer than he thinks he probably should, taking minutes to wildly thrash. After an eternity under the clear water, the man legs go of his head, allowing him to break the surface of the water and cough and splutter, gasping for air. His teeth chatter violently in his mouth, and he thinks they may even crack from the pressure. Zola watches on, taking notes, waiting for Bucky's breathing to return to normal. "Again," he eventually mutters, and the guard forces Bucky's head down.

"No–" Bucky tries, but he's plunged into the freezing water again, the grip of the guard's gloved hand digging painfully into his scalp.

When he's not being drowned, he's back on the table, continually waiting. They never give him any food or water, seeing how long he can survive without it. They give in at the very last second, before he passes out from dehydration with chapped, crusty lips and skin that's dried out, his voice horse. They allow him one canteen worth of water, and the aid gives him the entire bottle like a helpless baby gets fed its morning milk, before he walks away with it, not bothering to refill it.

They don't give him any food though, and Bucky's stomach grumbles and churns painfully for what he guesses is a few days. He eventually passes the stages of hunger and instead feels empty, like a weight is missing from inside him.

Zola emerges one day with a small scalpel and a kidney tub with some swabs in it. He draws up the sleeve of Bucky's knitted jumper, revealing the patch of pale skin on Bucky's forearm. He says nothing as he slices from one end to the other, from the inside of his wrist to the crease of his elbow, a shallow cut that elicits a grunt of pain from Bucky. Zola watches with calculating eyes as blood drips down over Bucky's hand onto the floor below, a quiet dripping sound. Quickly the blood stops, congealing along the cut, and within minutes, a scab forms over it, peeling off within ten minutes to leave a faint red scar in its place. It increasingly pales as the minutes continue to pass until it's the faintest of white lines along Bucky's forearm.

Intrigued by Bucky's apparent healing ability, Zola tries again, making longer and deeper cuts all over Bucky's body and testing the healing time. Bucky screams and kicks and wriggles as Zola stabs him over and over, the knife cutting through his skin and muscle like he's nothing but a hunk of meat for Christmas dinner, leaving a zig zag mosaic of pale silver scars as a permanent reminder of the torture. All the while, Zola smiles.

They start getting him up again after a while, though not for long. The aid drags him up and pulls him to a chair in the corner, the metal gleaming in the dim light. Bucky runs out of energy to fight back. He visits the chair repeatedly, the metal cold against his roughened back and arms, and waits every time for the painful jolt, the volts of electricity that spread through his body and mind. Zola always asks him after when the pain is over and he's left with a throbbing headache, what his name is. He doesn't know why it matters, if maybe the chair isn't only supposed to electrocute him but do something else entirely, but he knows he doesn't want to visit it again. He still feels the pain in his temples just looking at it, and there's still faint purple bruises on each side of his face from the last time where it had burned him.

It's a routine he grows used to, but it doesn't get any easier. His heart races as they sit him down and strap his arms to the armrests tightly, almost cutting off the blood flow. When Zola leans down to strap his legs, he tries to kick out, but the weakness of his legs sees him miss his target, instead kicking at thin air.

"Don't fight it, Sergeant Barnes," Zola warns him, lowering the pads that sit on his temples. He holds a mouth guard up to Bucky's mouth, forcing it between Bucky's teeth when he makes no attempt to open his mouth and take it.

The chair makes a whirring sound, and within seconds, a painful bolt shoots through Bucky's temples and reverberates in the very bone of his skull, attacking at his brain and meddling his thoughts. He screams, his eyes widening, clutching the armrests in the palm of his hands hard enough to bend the metal. The pain is ruthless, inhumane, like nothing Bucky ever imagined.

And then it's over within seconds, the pads squeezing on his skull before releasing. Bucky gasps for breath, his head pounding and his heart beating rapidly in his chest, threatening to burst out of him and fall into his lap.

Zola kneels down in front of him, looking up at his project with a sick sort of pride. "What is your name, soldier?" Zola asks quietly, notepad in hand.

Bucky frowns when his brain doesn't seem to comply straight away. He only hesitates for a second, his name dangling on the edge of his tongue. He snatches the memory, figuratively, forcing himself not to let it go, not to forget it. "James Barnes, Sergeant, 32557038," Bucky grits out.

Zola still smiles, knowing his prototype machinery is finally showing results. Bucky won't give them anything other than his credentials, but after the American Sergeant's fifth time in the chair, he's starting to doubt his memory, simple information slipping from his mind. Zola nods and stands, scribbling in his notebook, letting his aid unclip Bucky from the chair and all but drag his limp body back to the table.

They leave Bucky in the room all night, alone in the dark, the only sound being the vicious thunder and lightning and rain battering the outside of the factory. Bucky lays still all night, unable to force himself to sleep. He closes his eyes and prays for sleep to take him. His mind whirrs, thoughts and images flooding his brain and projected on the backs of his eyelids like his own personal moving picture. He watches as his family floats around him, saying their hellos and goodbyes. Winifred pinches his cheek lightly, smiling at him with crinkled brown eyes. Then her face morphs into Isabel's, and she's saying something to him, her mouth is moving around six important words, but he can't hear her.

There were words that Isabel told Bucky he was supposed to say if the end came and he still had time. He still can't remember them. He can't remember them, so he can't say them. There's three things, though, that take precedence in his mind. He can't forget them, can't forget them, no matter what the doctor does to his mind.

Name, rank and serial number.

James Barnes, Sergeant, 32557038.

Name, rank and serial number.

Sergeant Barnes, James, 32557…

A hand on his shoulder. A face above his.

Name, rank and serial number.

His name.

Bucky.