Chapter 19: The Photographs
"That man turned down the Nobel Peace Prize." Nick Fury leaned back in the chair near a workstation and shot a grim look at the Avengers in Stark's lab, then focused on Steve. "He said peace isn't a reward. It's a responsibility."
Steve felt the accusation in that glare and sank onto a stool near a computer panel. Nick was grieving his friend, and Steve hated the circumstances. The situation had gone from hopeful to a disaster so fast, he was still processing it all. They'd searched for Bucky until they ran out of daylight, but he was gone, and they had no clue where to even begin looking for him.
"How the hell did he even get a razor blade?" Fury huffed.
"It must have been in the bathroom, and the only place he could've hidden it was in his metal arm," Steve answered.
"And why the hell did he have access to it?" Fury peered at them with one angry eye.
Bruce cast a fleeting glance at Tony and said, "The room was put together pretty quickly for Barnes. Something got overlooked, obviously."
Fury leveled an incredulous stare at the doctor. "You don't say?"
Steve hated to speak ill of the dead, but this was too important to wait. "I'm sorry, Nick. I didn't know Alexander Pierce very well, but something wasn't right back there." He picked up the red book from the workbench and opened it, finding the page with the code words. "This details an activation sequence for the Winter Soldier. It's what Hydra uses to control Bucky." He glanced at Nat standing by a wall, flanked by Clint and Banner. "Romanoff helped translate."
She gave a curt bow of her head in acknowledgment.
"Pierce spoke the first three words in this sequence. It had a visible effect on Sergeant Barnes." Steve figured it best to remind Fury that Barnes was an American soldier, a POW, and this wasn't just about friendship. It was now something bigger. "How would the head of SHIELD know a Hydra activation string for the Winter Soldier?" He slipped the book into the back waistband of his pants once again, wishing he had wider pockets on his uniform.
He hadn't even had time to change since Siberia.
Fury's head snapped up. "What exactly are you implying Captain?"
"He's right," Tony muttered, tilted in his chair, feet up on a workstation, head back and staring at the ceiling.
That was the last thing Steve expected to hear from Tony. As he studied the man, he realized the air of self-righteousness and anger that had hovered over him like a cloud were gone. Stark was a ragdoll in the chair, his face pale and his eyes bloodshot.
"It's all recorded," Stark continued flatly. "Pierce was using a code. The words, translated in English, were 'longing, rusted, and daybreak.'" He lifted his head and eyed Fury. "Sure sounds like a code."
Steve caught Tony's eye for a second before the billionaire looked away, his gaze drifting to an accordion folder on another table.
"I want that footage," Fury growled.
Tony shrugged. "Maybe."
"No maybe about it." Fury was on his feet. "That man wasn't Hydra. He was a hero. A–"
"Nick," Natasha began gently, "we have to consider the possibility."
Steve had a horrible thought. "Where's the Scepter?"
"It's undergoing processing until a safe site is designated for its study," Fury said.
"But is it really?" Tony asked, looking pointedly at Fury.
Steve didn't like the bloodshot, wild-eyed look in Tony's eyes. Something was very, very wrong with the man. "Do you know something, Tony?"
"Oh, I know a whole lot more than I ever wanted to know." His gaze darted again to the folder before fixing on Fury. "Make a call, Fury. Find out if the Scepter is safe and sound."
Fury whipped out his phone and dialed. "Hey, I need a status report on the Scepter… Now…Yes. What do you mean? Well, find out?" He closed his eyes. "Yeah, I'll wait." He eyed them warily as he held the line, then after a few minutes, cocked his head and sighed. "I'll be in touch." He hung up, bowed his head, and sighed. "It's logged as turned over for processing by Rumlow in sector 2B, but…." his voice trailed off.
"But what?" Steve prodded, though he already knew. It wasn't there.
"It's not there," Fury confirmed, "and no one knows where it is or when it disappeared."
"It's not looking good, Nick," Natasha said.
"What's going to happen now, about Barnes?" Steve asked.
The police hadn't been called yet. Fury considered this a national security matter, but two men were dead, and two more were seriously injured. Rumlow got off the easiest, and they'd need to question him as soon as he regained consciousness.
If he found Bucky, would he be serving him up to a murder trial and possibly prison? He couldn't let that happen. After everything that had been done to Bucky, he deserved a chance to heal and have a life.
"I know you don't want to hear this, Steve," Natasha said, "but your friend is dangerous. That book details a protocol that's required to keep the Winter Soldier under control. Whenever they removed him from cryo, they put him in the chair we saw before he fully recovered. They began every mission with a fresh wipe of his memories and the activation sequence. The notes describe him as erratic and unstable unless they follow the protocol."
Protocol. Steve gritted his teeth against the euphemism that glossed over what it really meant—the ugly violation of a man who had done his duty and paid a price heftier than anyone could have imagined.
"I don't know what we're gonna do about Barnes," Fury added, "but I agree with Miss Romanoff that we have to find and secure him. If SHIELD is compromised, then we've got even bigger problems," Fury said. "Much bigger problems." He eyed Natasha. "Romanoff, you coordinate the cleanup crew with Hill."
"If Pierce is Hydra, then we have to assume there are others," Steve said. He wasn't ruling out Fury, either. In fact, the only person he could be sure wasn't Hydra was Thor.
While he believed the other Avengers were on the up and up, he'd only known them a short time. If the director of SHIELD was Hydra, then he had to assume almost anyone else could be, as well. He had to tread carefully.
"I'm going to see what I can find out about the Scepter." Fury headed to the door, paused, and said, "I'll be back soon."
"Fury," Tony tossed him a small metal button. "If you really want to know whether your buddy Pierce was clean, use that. Put it on a computer in his office, and I'll do the rest."
Fury looked down at the tiny device in his hand as if he were about to protest, then he took a deep breath. "Okay, we'll find out one way or another for sure."
Steve waited a few moments until he heard the elevator, then got to his feet and picked up the accordion folder on the other table.
"Don't." Tony swung his legs off the table and sat upright. "Believe me, Rogers. It's for your own good. You don't want to see what's in there."
Steve hesitated. Something in the tone of Stark's voice and the look in his eye gave weight to his warning, but the old, worn folder was obviously from the Siberian bunker, and that meant it likely had to do with the Winter Soldier program…and Bucky.
"How bad is it?"
Tony swallowed and got up from the chair, pacing to a coffee maker in the corner. He poured himself a cup and took a swig, then glanced at them and said, "If you look at what's inside, there's no going back."
Steve took a breath, bracing himself. He had to know. Maybe there was something in the folder that would give him a clue about what was going on in Bucky's head. He opened it and saw stacks of photos inside. He grabbed a pile. The first photo had him dropping the folder back to the table.
Oh, God.
It was Bucky strapped naked to a table in a medical room. His right side was bloody, and there was a partially-scabbed wound that went from his left nipple to his hip. A guard was holding a lit cigarette to the inside of Bucky's thigh. The expression on Bucky's face was what did him in—wide eyes, face a mask of desperation and pain, hopelessness.
How much of that did he endure before they put him into cryo-freeze?
He slipped the photo to the back of the pile to look at the next one and instantly looked away. He just needed a moment. The glimpse of a dark room and chains was almost too much. Taking a breath, he leaned against the table for support and looked back.
Bucky was on his knees in a dim room, an emaciated, filthy figure with a shackle around his neck that was tethered to the floor by several chains. Additional shackles bound his arm and legs. His head was forced back, a tube shoved down his throat. A force feeding.
This was all his fault. The mission. The train. The Russians. All of it. Bucky had gone through this hell alone, with no hope of rescue because everyone presumed him dead.
Even his best friend.
I'm so sorry, Buck. God…
He flipped through the photos quickly, glimpsing each just enough to catalog it in case there was something—anything—that might be useful. It was a horror show of degradation and torture—the slow, brutal destruction of a human soul.
The creation of the Winter Soldier.
There were photos of Bucky in the cryo chamber, of the operation to attach the arm, of damage to the arm, of Bucky strapped to a metal chair like the one in Siberia, his head surrounded by metal, his mouth open in a scream.
Faded, worn images from decades ago of brutality so unimaginable, he couldn't process the scope of it.
There was a weight on his shoulder. He sucked in a deep breath and realized he was on his knees, some of the photos had slipped from his fingers and were scattered on the floor like exhibits in a courtroom. The victim—James Barnes. The perpetrator, Hydra. And Steve Rogers, a kid from Brooklyn who had no fucking idea what he was doing, and yet people followed him, and the army let him lead a unit, and Bucky—oh, God, Bucky—followed him into battle and ended up in a place worse than Hell.
"That's enough," Clint said.
It was Clint's palm on his shoulder. Clint's other hand took the photos from Steve's fingers and picked up the ones on the floor, setting them out of sight.
"I couldn't imagine anyone being capable of that…" Bruce's soft voice intruded, "and I can imagine a lot."
It was too much. Too much. How could Bucky—anyone—come back from such abuse, from a brain that had been scarred beyond repair, from memories being stolen, from decades of abuse?
His chest…his chest was tight, a cold, tingly ache in the center, a fist around his heart, and he tried to suck in air, but he couldn't pull enough in. He felt the thing rising inside him, a shudder, a vibration, and it threatened to undue him.
It exploded out of him. He was on his feet, chair sailing across the room, before his conscious mind registered what he was doing. The chair crashed into a far wall and onto a workstation, scattering parts and tools everywhere.
"I'm sorry." He hurried to the door. He needed to get the hell out of the lab and do something useful before he did something else…something he'd regret. Like destroy the lab, or punch Tony.
"I didn't see these…before." Tony's voice stopped him. Stark continued, the words low, strained. "I saw the tape first. I…This one's on me, I know. Pierce. Barnes missing." His words picked up pace and intensity, becoming almost frenzied. "I'm processing a lot right now, okay. A fucking whole pile of steaming crap, and I'm not happy your best bud murdered my mom and bashed my dad's skull in, but okay, okay, okay, I know." He flung a hand at the folder. "They turned him into that. Maybe he'll never be safe again. Maybe he can be. But maybe he deserves the chance, okay? So I'm in. I'll help you find him and give him that chance."
Steve closed his eyes for a moment. The pain in Tony's voice was raw. God, there was so much pain all around in this room. He'd sworn once that he wouldn't stop until all of Hydra was dead or captured, and he was determined to make good on that oath.
"Thank you." He squared his shoulders and headed for the door.
"Where are you going?" Natasha asked.
"To find Bucky." He couldn't wait until morning. He wouldn't sleep, anyway.
He'd search all night, all day, and look in every abandoned building, every alley, every homeless shelter, and every seedy motel. Bucky was out there somewhere.
He just needed to make one stop first.
"I'll take care of Pierce and the cleanup crew," Natasha said.
"Where'd they take Rumlow?" Steve asked.
"I know," Clint said. "I'll take you there."
-0- -0- -0-
Dark and quiet and safe. He huddled in the corner of the abandoned tunnel beneath the city. Some part of his brain knew it was here, had been here for a long time, but it had been different when he knew it. Not abandoned. There had been noise and people with hair and clothes that were different. Black or brown shoes with laces. Hats on women. Dresses. Skirts. Long jackets. Buttoned shirts. Newspapers clutched under arms.
Now it was dark and empty. The skittering of tiny feet and the rumble of distant underground trains were the only sounds.
Trains. The train. Snow. Mountains. The Steve, dressed in blue, white, and red, clutching the side, reaching with his hand.
Falling. Terror. Pain. Cold. So cold. So very, very cold.
The photo from the communication device. A face that looked like his, only not. Different. Hair shorter, a parting of the mouth, a flash of teeth, a jostling of the body. It evoked something within him, a strange sensation in his chest, in his stomach, a tingling, almost like pain, but not quite. A hurt of a different nature.
The words. Hydra coming to reclaim him. He must return. Always return. Capture protocol. Escape and return. If escape impossible, terminate.
The protocol was clear. Inflexible. He had violated the protocol. He had made a decision.
A decision.
A reaction without conscious thought. A reflex from somewhere else. He killed the man with the face. The face he'd seen before. The man was Hydra. The man could give orders. The man knew the Asset, knew the words to control, knew the protocol.
Why had he run? Escape had been an instinct, a scream from the Deep. A malfunction.
Something was very, very wrong. The mutilated thing was closer to the surface, louder, so loud his skull hurt. Throbbed. He could not focus, could not ignore it.
It screamed colors and sounds. A laugh. A face. A woman with blue eyes. A Steve who was smaller. A combat platform edged with ropes, fighting with soft gloves. Not true combat. A test? Training?
A world that looked different, with cars that languished along streets with fewer lights and noise and people. Buildings with dirt streets and lines strung between them where clothes hung, swaying in the breeze.
Something was wrong. So very, very wrong. He needed it to stop, just stop. His head ached. Knives in his skull with each new flash of something he knew but didn't know. He held his head in his hands, squeezing, needing it all to stop.
The train again. The man with the round face and glasses. A dark room.
The sickly-sweet voice that made something in his gut twist. "Sergeant Barnes…."
Stop! He scratched at his skull as if he could dig out the images.
The man back in the room who said his name…. "Tony Stark here. Name ring a bell? Because my dad certainly recognized you before you bashed the front of his skull in."
Who was he? The name….
Stark… It meant something.
A woman's trembling voice. A dark road. A car. 'Howard….'
Stop! Stop! STOP!
-0- -0- -0-
"Where is he?" Clint stood in the hospital lobby next to Steve, facing Maria Hill and a couple of SHIELD guards.
The bad feeling in Clint's gut was getting bigger every hour. Bad things were afoot, so to speak, very bad things. Something was most definitely rotten in Denmark…or, rather, SHIELD, in this case.
"I don't know, Captain." She was all business, as usual. "Fury directed me to take Rumlow in for questioning. We arrived a few minutes ago and were told the same thing. Rumlow left with another man. We can't call him or even ping his phone. He's disappeared."
Clint exchanged glances with Cap, seeing his own thoughts reflected in the other man's expression.
"I'd call that odd, wouldn't you?" Steve asked Hill.
She nodded hesitantly. "It's certainly unusual. We've asked for the hospital's security footage to determine whether he left willingly." She studied the two men critically for a moment. "What's going on?"
"Need-to-know basis right now," Clint said.
She crossed her arms and tilted her head. "I see."
He saw it in the skeptical gaze leveled at him and suddenly couldn't breathe. She didn't trust him, and he couldn't blame her. The last time she trusted him, he was under Loki's control and almost killed her.
"If you find out anything," Steve interjected, "I'd appreciate your letting us know. It's important."
"I know. Scepter's MIA and Fury's being particularly clandestine, even for him." Hill gave them both another appraising look. "I'll let Fury know if I find out anything."
"Fair enough," Steve said.
Hill gave a curt nod, then left with the two agents.
"It's looking more and more like SHIELD has a problem," Steve said.
"Yeah, a big one."
Steve's big hand came down on Clint's shoulder, and he leveled that solid blue stare that had Clint fidgeting inwardly, though he didn't let it show.
"You okay?" Steve asked.
How'd the guy pick up on anything? Was his poker face slipping? He suddenly had the urge to check the color of his eyes in a mirror.
"Yeah." Clint shrugged. "We better work on finding Barnes ASAP."
Steve sighed heavily, and his chest deflated. "I know. I just wish I had an idea where to start looking."
-0- -0- -0-
The cement was cold on his bare feet and back. Opening the black duffel bag, he found his gear and quickly slipped on the things that conformed to his body like a second skin. The snugness of the vest and the familiarity of the boots settled the chaos of his mind and gave him sharper focus.
He needed resources—weapons, water, nutrition.
-0- -0- -0-
Stark's phone rang and the Jarvis-enhanced caller ID told him it was Fury. "What's up, man in black? Literally. You really need to broaden your wardrobe."
"I'll get right on that if you get started on that research project."
"Right." So, Fury managed to make a love connection with Pierce's computer. "Well, since I have spare time, sure." Barnes had been missing for a day, and the longer he was gone, the dimmer their chances of finding him. "Bye, bye." He hung up and rubbed at his neck. "Jarvis?"
"Continuing to run traffic camera scans, Sir. No results."
He swiveled on the stool in his lab and glanced at the clock on the wall. He'd better pick up flowers for Pepper. "Jarvis, start on our little library project, will ya?"
"On it, Sir."
"Great." He grabbed his jacket and decided to get some fresh air. Maybe the corner store would have something he could pick up for Pepper.
Outside, the air had a hint of chill, but it was pleasant otherwise. He made it across the street and into the store. "Hey, Malick," he waved at the owner at the cash register. "Anything spur of the moment for a certain someone?"
"Ah, no, Mr. Stark. We're all out of flowers." Tony sighed and strolled down the aisles. Candies, chips, chocolates, none of it spoke to him. Then, an Iron Man Pez dispenser caught his eye. He smiled and grabbed it, tossed a ten dollar bill on the counter on his way out as he held up the item, and headed outside.
He held the door for a brunette in a tight red dress, and she passed him with a nod and smile. "Thank you." Her hand brushed his and she winked.
He took a moment to watch her walk away, then smiled and shook his head. He made it two steps before the world tilted, hands grabbed him, yanked the wristlets off, stuffed him into a van, and put a hood over his head.
He had a brief, panicked flash of the cave in Afghanistan before he passed out.
-0- -0- -0-
Over 24 had gone by, and there was no sign of Bucky. Steve tried to put himself in Bucky's head to figure out where to start searching. If he were dealing with 1944 Bucky, he'd know exactly where to start looking, but he wasn't. Bucky's brain had been damaged and conditioned, and Steve had no idea where his old friend might have gone.
He and Clint had split up the East and South, Natasha and Bruce were scouring the North and West, but it really was an effort in futility. They'd checked every abandoned building, seedy hotel, and homeless shelter they could locate without success.
He saw Clint at the rendezvous intersection and hurried his pace.
"Sorry, Cap." Barton gave a sympathetic shrug. "How 'bout we catch a bite to eat and head back, get cleaned up, get some rest?"
"Oh my God!" Two women who looked barely old enough to drink ran up to them and hopped up and down excitedly. The brunette wore her hair in style very reminiscent of his time, with chin-length waves. Her brown eyes and red lipstick reminded him of Peggy, and he found himself staring, wondering if Peggy had ever had children, when the woman smiled at him and asked. "Can I get a photo of you? Actually, so sorry—I don't mean to be a bother–but can we both, please? With both of you? We're such big fans!"
Steve pulled himself out of the past and exchanged glances with Clint, who gave a shrug. With a sigh and a smile, he nodded. He didn't have time to waste, but PR had always been part of the deal as Captain America.
"We're in a bit of a hurry," he said, as politely as he could, but if you make it fast, if it's okay with Clint here, of course."
Clint looked put on the spot—brow creased, eyes wide—definitely not used to be recognized on the street, but the alien invasion had changed all of that. "Uh, sure, I guess, but yeah," he eyed the girls, "we do have somewhere we need to be."
"Oh, thank you! Thank you. I promise, super fast," she said. The two girls got between them, and the blonde held up her phone. "One, two, three."
The flash was bright enough to rob him of his sight for a second, and something sharp jabbed in the side of his neck. He reacted, elbow sailing backward, as the thud of a body next to him told him that Clint was down.
His arm hit solid flesh, and it gave way as the world spun. He heard yelling, the screech of tires, and had his shield in his hand when something like bright hot fire rammed into the base of his skull.
Thick metal wrapped around his waist, ankles, and wrists, and then he was shoved into a vehicle and a hood placed over his head. He clung to consciousness. His wrists were tethered to his waist, and he fought against the restraints, but they were solid. Definitely made for supersoldiers.
"Who the hell are you?" His words were slow, slurred. Hydra. It had to be Hydra. "Clint?" He didn't receive a reply. "Barton, are you okay?"
A supersoldier-sized jolt from the tip of what felt like a stun baton rammed into his gut and stole his breath.
"Hit him again," a voice said. "It works on the Winter Soldier, it should work on him."
Bucky? He tried to break free again, but it was no use. Did they get to Bucky?
A sharp pain jabbed into his bicep, and consciousness faded.