A/N: Again, huge apologies for the writing delays. I hope you find the wait worthwhile...
A giant black halo slowly lowered around his head. Every nerve in his body gave impulse to run, yet he stayed seated, unable to render any kind of motion into his own limbs. Harsh metal braces clamped around his face, each equipped with thousands of microscopic pins that anchored themselves into his skin. A sick, acidic panic started to work its way up his throat.
"Zhelaniye."
Fire exploded behind his eyes as his entire body shook in response to the electricity.
"Rzhavyy."
Another convulsion. The veins in his neck bulged with the effort of his scream. "Semnadtsat."
The connection in his shoulder where flesh kissed metal began to burn and hiss. Immobilized by the halo locks, he could see only agitated silhouettes scattering around him. He could feel warm blood begin to trickle down his left side.
Another shock. His body heaved violently and his paralyzed lungs spasmed as they tried to suck air in. His right hand twitched, once, twice, then finally released its fist. Blood began to drip steadily off the side of the chair onto the floor, like dark ruby seconds.
Ticking.
As the leather straps tightened, the cold, metal buckles threatened to pierce his skin. He could see only a dirty stone floor beneath him. Men were screaming. His men.
The needle, nearly as thick as a pen, pierced the back of his neck, sliding easily into the soft space between his vertebrae. The pain starved him of breath and his open mouth yielded no sound, only a strangled gurgling. Saliva dripped from his bottom lip. His head slumped forward as darkness spared him from the living world.
"Soldat."
He shook his head and his stomach threatened to empty itself in his throat. Blood and sweat burned trails down his face and pooled in salty, bitter cocktails in the corners of his mouth. Both arms were fastened to the wall behind him and his right eye was oozing a dark, clotted liquid.
"Soldat!"
He lurched against his restraints, head bowed, silently fighting against the blackness that was soaking through his mind like spilled ink.
"On ne otvechayet." He is not responding.
"Net. On prosto soprotivlyayetsya." No. He is just resisting.
The gun erupted once, twice, three times, each bullet shredding neatly through his hip. His wordless scream shattered against the inside of his skull and a hot liquid seeped onto his legs as his bladder emptied itself. Pink tears dripped from his nose. The restraints held him crucified to the wall as he began to bleed through his tactical pants.
Shuddering, he tried hard now to summon the cool peace of unconsciousness, to close his eyes and slip away into escape, but it lingered painfully beyond reach, unnaturally siphoned off by the serum flowing within his blood. In the recesses of his mind, the predatory shadow grew larger and stronger. Stronger than him.
Someone grabbed a fistful of his hair and pulled hard.
Strong enough to survive.
"Soldat?"
"Rassvet."
The word, a whisper compared to his screams, dissipated into the room like thin smoke and took the last of his erratic energy signals with it. The sudden stillness of the room made Charlotte's skin crawl. She slowly turned away from the corner she had banished herself to in an attempt to escape his tortured cries and spotted him on the opposite side of the room. He was facing away from her, unmoving. She extended her current towards him and frowned when she felt nothing. She took a step closer, ignoring the fluttering warnings in her chest and widened her electrical field again. It brushed against a weak, hollow pulse. She studied his motionless back. A few moments passed as she struggled with the strange sensation that she was alone in the room.
"Charlotte?" Shuri's voice filled her ear. "Is everything ok?"
Charlotte ignored the question. She slowly crossed the room, never taking her eyes off of Bucky's frame, until she was standing just beside him. He stared blankly ahead, oblivious to her presence. His nose was bleeding.
"Are you hurt?"
He didn't move. The stinging tears in her throat caught her off guard and she quickly swallowed them back. She had no way of knowing which words triggered what memories, but she knew from enduring his screams that there were few darker places on earth than in the mind of the Winter Soldier. She dropped her gaze and an overwhelming sense of guilt seized her insides.
"I'm so sorry, Bucky."
Still, he said nothing. She glanced up, unnerved by the bright blood that was now dripping down his lips and clinging to his chin.
"Here." She pulled her sleeve down over her hand, devising a makeshift napkin, and lifted it to his face just as another crackle came through her receiver.
"Charlotte—"
The instant her sleeve touched his skin, he lunged.
Shuri's arms were folded across her chest, which usually meant things were not going according to plan. She was so engrossed in the screens around her, she did not notice T'Challa approaching until he walked through the display field, causing the hexagonal pixels to shudder and flash.
"I hope this trial is proving to be more successful than the first," he said, standing beside her and surveying the wraparound screen that surrounded them. It showed two people, alone in an empty room, standing on opposite sides.
"You and me both," Shuri grumbled. "I am sorry, brother. This was not supposed to happen."
T'Challa gave his sister a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "It is harder to control people than it is technology." Displeased with the truth, Shuri spared him an unconvinced look, so he turned back to the digital monitors. "Where are they?"
"The observation chamber."
T'Challa frowned. "That is a long way from here should someone need to intervene."
"I agree, but Charlotte insisted that they should be isolated. An empty room with no one else. No distractions, no monitoring. Less potential damage to be done, she said."
T'Challa's gaze found a section of screen that showed a colorful readout of two sets of medical data. "No monitoring, ey?"
Shuri smirked. "Aside from basic surveillance footage, I persuaded them both to wear biometric sensors. For research purposes. And," she pointed up to her ear, "Charlotte and I have commlinks."
"It is better than nothing," T'Challa admitted. "Have they made progress?"
She nodded. "Although this session has been particularly difficult for Barnes."
"How so?"
"We knew that traumatic memories and events were the most likely source of control over his physical actions. Hydra manipulated these to break down who he was and create the assassin instead. Well, in my original plan, he was going to be kept unconscious so that he wouldn't have to actively relive any trauma."
"And prevent him from engaging the winter soldier psyche." T'Challa realized. "Tell me again why you thought locking her alone in a room with an erratic super assassin seemed like a good idea?"
"I never said it was a good idea," Shuri growled. "At the time, it was the only idea."
The two Wakandans watched the unmoving figures in silence as a few seconds passed. T'Challa focused on Bucky's rigid figure. His shoulders were held wide, his one hand clenched into a fist. T'Challa's thoughts fled to Bucharest, where he could still vividly remember a mindless pursuit in an ocean of pulsating red lights and the mechanized wheezing of a metal arm.
"Charlotte?" Shuri spoke into her transmitter. "Is everything ok?"
Silence answered them and they watched as Charlotte crossed over to Bucky with agonizingly slow strides until she was standing beside him.
Are you hurt?
T'Challa's enhanced hearing cleanly picked the words from Shuri's earpiece. Bucky remained unresponsive and T'Challa felt as though a spider were beginning to crawl up through his spine.
I'm so sorry, Bucky.
The man on the screen remained a statue. "Shuri," T'Challa warned, "tell her to leave. Now."
"What? Why?"
"Just do it!"
Here.
"Charlotte—"
Shuri watched the blow knock Charlotte's head back with a resonant snap before she skidded some distance on the floor. Stunned, she whipped around to face her brother, only to find him already gone.