Chapter 8: Darkness Falls
He woke to the sound of a saw, bright lights in his face, and the sight of three masked figures dressed in blue medical gowns and black gloves.
Where…?
His brain short-circuited with the onslaught of agony as a circular saw carved through the flesh and bone of the stump that remained of his left arm. The buzz of the saw faded, but the searing pain remained. The men surrounded him. A needle appeared, and things got even fuzzier. Straps tightened on his chest with the frantic exchange of Russian words. Then, another needle prick in his right arm, and darkness.
When he came to next, it was the same room. Pain greeted his return to consciousness. His stump throbbed and his leg and ribs ached. Round lights overhead shone into his eyes. A long, thin face with glasses peered over him.
"Sergeant Barnes?" The voice rang like Zola's in his ears for a moment, but the man standing over him looked nothing like Zola. He was tall, young, and lanky, with a narrow face. He held a clipboard and scribbled on it, his gaze darting from the paper to Bucky.
Bucky lifted his head. It felt like a bag of bricks. Where was he? What were they doing to him? The little strength he'd mustered drained away, and his head dropped back to the table.
Another voice barked German at the man, who grimaced and looked back down. "Right. You don't have a name, anymore, soldier," the words were English, accented with Russian. "We've removed the dead tissue from your arm."
Bucky licked his lips. His mouth was dry. "Where am I?" His throat was like sandpaper, his words gravel.
"In the womb of your new mother. Russia. Welcome home."
Ice gripped his chest. Russia. If he was in Russia, he was screwed, out of reach of any rescue mission.
And what was with the Mother Russia comment?
He already had a mother. She was back in Brooklyn. He swallowed, but there was nothing in his mouth to go down. His tongue felt like wet dough, but he managed to get thick, muddy words out. "Tell your mother the Allies are going to fuck her in the ass when they find out she's flipped sides again."
The man raised his eyebrows. "I believe I understood the gist of that."
Bucky peered down at his arm. The stump was bandaged. Straps secured his chest and right arm to the table. A sheet covered his lower half, so he couldn't see his leg. He could see its outline and feel it throbbing, though, so at least he knew it was still there.
The men left. A guard entered and took position near the doorway, rifle hung on his shoulder.
What the fuck did they want with him? He was useless with one arm and a broken leg, and they still hadn't asked him any questions. What had Zola done to him, and why did it matter? He wasn't strong like Steve. He didn't have a red skull like Schmidt.
Zola's experiment failed. It must have. The things he'd noticed were nothing. So what if he could hold his liquor and his wounds seemed to heal a little faster? That hardly meant anything, and it sure as hell didn't mean Zola had changed him.
Why the hell were they keeping him alive?
Time passed in intervals of consciousness. He drifted into light dreams where he was sometimes back at the base, arguing with Dugan or planning a mission with Steve, and other times home, either with his folks and sisters or in the apartment he shared with Steve.
Sometimes, Zola appeared, looming over him, a smug smile on his face. "Sergeant Barnes…." The tone of his voice turned Bucky's spine cold.
Each time he woke, he was in the operating room, and there was always a guard at the door. An IV dripped something into a vein in his right arm. He never peed, so they probably had a tube in him. His stomach ached, angry and demanding. He had no idea how long it had been since anything filled it.
Finally, the door opened, and two men walked in. One wore a German uniform, the other Russian. They were both large men, pale-faced and stoic, almost a matching set of tall and grim, except that the Russian was on the young side for an officer.
The German approached and peered silently down at him with brown, cold eyes that studied him as if he were something under a microscope. Then the man's hand grabbed the sheet and yanked it off.
Bucky peered down to get a look at his leg. He was naked, and sure enough, there was a tube in his penis. The leg was immobilized in a cast.
The German moved to a table, put on a pair of black rubber gloves, grabbed a glass container and a device that looked like a microphone, and moved to the exam table, handing the container to the Russian. Bucky's heart picked up tempo in his chest as he watched the man prepare for whatever the hell he was about to do. The German grabbed Bucky's limp penis in one hand as if it were nothing more than a piece of equipment and nodded at the Russian, who sighed and held the container near the tip of Bucky's dick.
Bucky flinched, igniting fresh pain in every part of his body. "What the hell are you doing?"
"We've been instructed to collect specimens before continuing Zola's procedure," the German man commented as he positioned the device on top of Bucky's penis and held the organ firmly with his other hand. "Just relax and enjoy it."
Bucky's face flushed hot, and he squirmed under the restraints. They wanted to collect his sperm? And do what with it? "You sick fucks."
They were going to do it right there, with the tube in and the guard watching. His eyes darted around the room. Hell, there was even a boxy camera hanging in the corner, its lens pointed directly at him. Bucky tensed, his chest heaving, as the device in the German's hand powered up and vibrated against the head.
Shit! He groaned. The vibration sent slivers of pain through his leg. He felt it through the table, in the raw stump of his arm, in his ribs, and especially in his groin, where it flared into something halfway between pain and pleasure.
He felt his dick hardening. Gritting his teeth, he closed his eyes and tried to will himself not to respond, but it continued to happen. He bit his lower lip as he came erect. "Stop," he muttered, even as his hips lurched against the straps, his broken leg pressed into the table and erupted with agony, and he came into the collection jar.
"All done. That wasn't so bad, soldier, now was it?" the German asked as he fixed a lid on the jar and discarded his gloves. Then the two men left, leaving Bucky alone with the guard. The sheet was somewhere else, so all he could do was lay there naked beneath the guard's silent gaze. He felt the heat of tears and closed his eyes as they fell.
March 1, 1945, London
"He never even made it to thirty. I always thought I would die before he did." Steve sat at the table, staring into the empty glass.
Dugan and Farnsworth were at the bar, rifling debris to salvage whatever liquor they could. Dugan came up with a bottle of whiskey and set it on the bar. "He sure could hold his liquor."
"It was truly remarkable," Farnsworth commented, eyeing the label on the bottle as if, even in these circumstances, the quality of alcohol mattered.
"Ah, so this is what you Americans do with your free time," a Russian voice said. "It seems we have that in common."
Steve looked up to see Colonel Alexi Karpov. He straightened, a sliver of hope stealing his breath at the unexpectedness of seeing the man here, in London. Had the Russians found Bucky's body? Karpov must've read Steve's expression, because he shook his head as he navigated over the debris to make his way into the bar.
"I heard you were here. I'm in town for an unpleasant political meeting. I'm sorry, Captain. No news on the body of your friend, but of course my men on the front are keeping an eye out on their regular patrols." He leaned against the bar and glanced at the bottle in Farnsworth's hands. "To what are we drinking?"
"To Barnes!" Farnsworth opened the bottle as Dugan placed glasses on the bar. "A fine lad."
"My deepest condolences. How old is…I'm sorry…was he?"
"He'd be 28 in a couple of months," Steve said.
"He was a brave man," the Colonel said. "A spring baby?"
"Almost. March tenth."
"I am sure that he would appreciate your memorial celebration in his honor," the Colonel offered. "My mother would make me the most wonderful Napolean cake for my birthday, but of course this war has made such indulgences impossible. What did you or your friend enjoy for your birthdays?"
Steve smiled. "Bucky's mom was the baker. Chocolate cake was his favorite, when they could afford it, before the Depression."
"Well, I don't think you would be likely to find chocolate cake in London at the moment." Karpov's dark eyes surveyed the destroyed bar.
"Baked custard for me," Farnsworth said. "Heavy cream."
"Give me a good carrot cake," Dugan said. "Hefty on the icing with a gob of brandy."
"Well, I will leave you to your celebration." The Colonel pushed away from the bar. "I hope you find your friend's body and are able to send him home for a proper burial."
Steve nodded. "Thank you."
When Karpov was gone, Farnsworth carried the bottle and a glass to the table and dropped in the seat across from Steve. "To Sarge." He filled the glasses. They clinked them together, and Farnsworth downed his quickly.
Steve followed suit. The whiskey went down easily, and he re-poured, downing two more glasses, but the alcohol did nothing for him. Erskine had mentioned this could be a side effect of the serum's regenerative and protective qualities. Lucky him.
Dugan slid a chair up to the table and filled his glass. "To Jimmy!" He downed the shot and looked upward. "If you got anything to say about me calling you Jimmy, speak now or forever hold your peace, Sarge!"
The bar remained quiet. Steve tried to muster a smile, but it sat heavy on his lips. He thought of Bucky's folks and sisters. They had to be devastated, and he wished he could be there for them, but part of him was happy he didn't see their faces when they got the news. That was selfish of him, but what would he say to them?
I'm sorry I wasn't faster, stronger. I'm sorry I didn't get to him. I let him die. I was so close, and I failed. With all this serum does for me, I couldn't save him. A couple of feet made all the difference. Just a couple of feet, and Bucky would still be here.
"He'd be happy to know we succeeded," Farnsworth said.
"Yes, he would." Steve downed another glass.
Zola hadn't used his cyanide capsule, making him the first Hydra member they'd taken alive. He was in protective custody, which was more than he deserved after what he'd done to Bucky.
Bucky….
A world without Bucky Barnes was incomprehensible. Steve could barely remember his life before Bucky. Bucky had been with him longer than anyone. Hell, Steve had spent more years with Bucky than he had his own mother. Maybe they were together now, looking down at him now.
He thought back to that day at the hospital when Bucky had stopped him from marching into the Tuberculosis ward. Bucky had always looked out for him, even when Steve didn't make it easy. Hell, without Bucky, Steve probably wouldn't have survived long enough to become Captain America. His entire life would've gone a different path if James Buchanan Barnes had never strutted into it.
I let you down, Buddy. I'm sorry.
His eyes grew hot, and he wiped quickly at them. Farnsworth and Dugan were uncharacteristically silent, and he glanced up at them. They were both staring at their glasses, avoiding his gaze. He wasn't good company right now.
He cleared his throat. "Thanks for coming to check on me, guys. If you don't mind, I'd like to be alone for a bit."
Farnsworth nodded and stood. "Of course, Captain."
Dugan pushed to his feet and downed his glass, then slapped Steve on the shoulder. "Don't pass out here, Cap, but just in case, I'll check on you in a bit, carry you out of here if need be."
At that, Steve managed a weak smile. "I won't pass out." No chance of that, apparently.
March 10, 1945, Russia
Bucky had been staring at the same four, gray, windowless walls for two months. The room was barely large enough to contain the mattress on the floor and the toilet on the wall, with a bit of floor space to allow his captors entrance. They let him out when they wanted to draw blood or push him through tasks, where doctors wrote on clipboards or one of the ranking officers—the German or the Russian—barked orders at him.
They fed him one meal a day. Water was sporadic. He existed in a perpetual state of hunger and agonizing thirst. His hair was shaggy and the short beard itched. He longed for a hot bath. His leg had healed faster than it should have, but the doctors seemed unhappy with his recovery time, as if the fact that his bone couldn't knit itself together in a few days was his fault.
Sometimes, he could still feel his left arm. He'd wake from sleep because it hurt, go to rub it, and realize it wasn't there.
Yesterday, they had him moving a cup back and forth between two tables. He got a baton to the ribs or the back of the knees if he didn't move fast enough. Escape seemed impossible, and he didn't try to resist.
He remembered the protocols. Play along. Conserve energy. Lull them with compliance when it didn't matter.
So he lulled them with compliance, hoping that, eventually, someone would lower their guard enough to give him an opening. He was such a good boy that the Russian Colonel had given him a nickname.
The door opened, and Bucky sat up on the mattress, his back to the wall. Colonel Karpov and two guards walked in. The dark-haired one on the left was Aliev, a real bastard. The other one was Pavel, a younger guy on the short side with sandy brown hair and boyish features that gave the impression he was in the wrong line of work. He lacked the inherent lust for cruelty that permeated everyone else in this hell hole.
Karpov carried a metal plate in one hand and a glass of milk in the other. Bucky's eyes immediately went to the glistening chocolate cake on the plate.
"Hello, my little lamb." Karpov closed the door behind them. "Today is your birthday, is it not?"
It was March tenth? Bucky forced his gaze away from the plate and focused on the far wall. Jesus, he'd already been there two months?
"Not in the mood to talk?" Karpov walked up to him and set the plate and milk on the floor in front of the mattress. "You have been an obedient little lamb, and for that, you've earned a reward. Chocolate cake. It wasn't easy to get, so I hope you enjoy it."
The smell told Bucky the cake was warm. His stomach grumbled.
"You don't like chocolate cake?"
Karpov knelt in front of Bucky, dug his fingers into the slice of cake and tore a piece off, then popped it into his mouth. He followed it with a sip of the milk. "It's not drugged. It's your birthday. We're not barbarians, you know."
Saliva built in Bucky's mouth, and he swallowed. The glass of milk looked almost better than the cake. He was so thirsty. So hungry. He missed his mother's cooking. She always tried to get him the good stuff for his birthday. During the depression, she'd had to compromise, but she still managed to make him something special. Chocolate cake was definitely on his list of favorites.
Not that he'd let the Colonel know that. The man delighted in torment, loved to play mind games. Bucky did his best to play the part of the meek prisoner. All he needed was an opening. Humans were fallible, and sooner or later, one of the men guarding him would make a mistake.
Karpov stood and crossed his arms. "It's rude of you to reject a gift, little lamb. The milk will be good for your bones, and as you know, they need all the help they can get to stay strong. Eat. Drink."
Bucky took a breath, preparing himself for whatever was to come. Resistance would only give him away, and if it was drugged, it didn't matter. They could just as easily inject him if they wanted to.
He scooched forward to the edge of the mattress and took a sip of the milk. It was cold, refreshing, and the most delicious thing he'd tasted in a long time. He drained half the glass before remembering to save some to wash down the cake.
Karpov hadn't given him a fork—of course he wouldn't, too stabby—so he tore off a piece of cake and stuffed it into his mouth.
Oh, God. It was moist, sweet, rich, and amazing. His stomach roared with demand, and he picked up the entire, messy slice, and—
Karpov's boot shot out and kicked the cake out of his hand, then toppled the glass of milk. Bucky jerked backward, back pressing against the wall, and stared at the floor.
Mind game trap sprung. At least now he didn't have to wonder. The anticipation was often just as bad as the cruel tricks Colonel Karpov inflicted.
"That's enough," Karpov announced flatly. "Wouldn't want you to rot your teeth. On your feet, soldier."
Bucky stood and stared at the wall, giving the man no inclination that, behind the mask of defeat he did his best to project, he imagined ways he would kill Karpov.
A slip of a knife from a guard's side, a quick slice through the air, hitting the jugular. A palm to the man's nose, hoping for just the right angle. A fist to the man's trachea.
"Clean up the mess, soldier." Karpov walked to the crumpled remains of the chocolate cake, lifted his boot, and stomped on the confection, smearing it into the floor.
"You got a rag, or you want me to lick it up?" Bucky asked.
Okay, that was a bit more sass than he should've indulged in, but it was his birthday, after all.
Karpov's hand whipped out and slapped him. It stung, but he'd had far worse over the past couple of years of war.
"Lick it up," Karpov ordered.
The guard with the mean streak chuckled.
Bucky sucked in a breath. Humiliation was on the menu today. Fortunately, he'd developed a callousness to it, and the more he let them humiliate him, the sooner they'd start taking his compliance for granted.
So, as he dropped to his knees and licked the chocolate from the floor, he told himself the humiliation didn't matter. Pragmatism over pride, his father used to say. Don't be stupid boys! If you're captured, save your energy for when you really need it, his boot camp sergeant once preached.
Hell, the cake still tasted divine.
Aliev laughed. Karpov gloated silently, observing, as if Bucky were a lab rat and Karpov was taking it all in to write in some journal later about how the subject performed. The short kid was silent, gripping his weapon with white knuckles. Yeah, definitely not cut out for being a power-hungry asshole.
Bucky ignored Aliev's laughter. Laughing meant he wasn't watching closely. All Bucky had to do was wait for the right moment, and keep himself mobile enough to be able to seize the opportunity. That meant avoiding the baton and, if he needed to, burying his pride and letting them humiliate him.
March 12, 1945, Russia
It was dark when he heard the clang of footsteps, but other than that, he had no concept of time. There wasn't a clock in the room. The door opened, and Bucky pushed to his feet as a Russian guard entered, a newspaper in his hand. He tossed it on the floor. The light from the hallway spilled in, highlighting the headline.
Captain America is dead!
Plane crashes off the coast of Greenland.
Bucky stared at the headline. Was it true, or was this another one of their mind games? Please, God, I asked you for one thing.
"No one will ever come for you," the guard said.
"I already knew that." Steve had seen him fall to what should have been certain death.
"Your friend is dead. What do you say to that?"
Bucky bent over and picked up the newspaper, scanning the story. His vision clouded as he read the words, printed in cold black and white text. His best friend was gone. Neither of them would make it home.
'Rogers' sacrifice saved the United States from a massive German attack,' the story read. He took in the details. Of course, Steve would go out saving lives. It's who he was.
His tears dropped, but he didn't care that the guard saw. Steve deserved to be mourned, and he'd be damned if he let the Russians take that away from either of them. "It says here he took out a bunch of Nazi's and saved a lot of lives, so, all I have to say is, 'Way to go, Steve.'"
The guard's gun whipped out, connecting with the side of his face and sending him into darkness.
May 8, 1945, Russia
Twenty-one. Twenty-two. Twenty-three…. Bucky counted as he did one-armed push-ups in the dark room. He'd been without any light for longer than he knew. Weeks, it seemed like. He kept his sanity by mentally re-imagining the stories he'd read. The Hobbit. The Shape of Things to Come. Swastika Night.
They controlled the lighting from outside—another tool for their mind games.
Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine. Thirty….
He had to keep his strength up. They were feeding him barely enough to keep him alive, and he'd already lost too much weight. If he became too weak, he'd never be able to seize the right moment.
Thirty-two. Thirty-three. Thirty-four….
Of course, he was burning fuel working out, but physical activity was the only way to keep himself in any condition to put up a fight if an opportunity presented itself.
Thirty-five. Thirty-six. Thirty-seven….
The darkness was impermeable without windows in the room. Sometimes, the metal walls creaked, and sometimes his mind played tricks on him, making him see a shadow in the corner, or hear breathing behind him.
Forty. Forty-one. Forty-two.
His arm gave out when he got to fifty. That was pretty damn impressive. He'd never been able to do more than fifty with both arms.
Shifting to his feet, he worked on jumping jacks for a bit, then squats, and finished with a few boxing jabs. His thirst kicked up a notch, but he had no idea when a meal was coming. It had to be soon. It felt like he hadn't had anything in at least a day, but without a clock or the sun, his sense of time was distorted.
For the hundredth time, he thought of drinking from the toilet, but he wasn't yet that desperate. Also, no one ever cleaned it, so it might kill him, but death might be the only way out of this hell hole if he couldn't manage an escape.
Death wouldn't be so bad. He'd see Steve and Sarah, and that was sure as hell better than rotting in a Russian facility made of metal and cement.
He plopped down on the mattress, leaned against the wall, and tilted his head up. "Hey, Steve, how is it up there?" He kept his voice a whisper, but hearing his own hushed voice was better than the oppressive silence. "Bet your mom is happy to see you, probably read you the riot act about volunteering to be the guinea pig of some German scientist. I don't know if you have any pull with the big guy, but I'd appreciate it if you could put in a good word for me." He closed his eyes and took a breath. "I hope my folks are doing okay, and my sisters. I wonder if I'm an uncle yet. Really glad I never got married, even though I know it bothered Ma. That would've been just one more person to leave behind."
He laid on his back and put his arm behind his head. "I read about what you did, you crazy punk. Crashing a plane to save millions of people. I hope it was fast, that it didn't hurt. Sorry I wasn't there with you. I really meant it when I said I'd be with you 'til the end of the line, but things didn't work out that way. I'm here, and you're there."
Shifting onto his side, he faced the wall. He couldn't see it, but he moved a little closer and reached out until he could feel the cool surface with his fingers. He drew little patterns on the wall. A dog. A flower. A knife.
"I'm not sure how long I can do this, Steve." His voice cracked, and he swallowed hard. "It's not like I have a choice, I know. I've thought about ways I could end it all. Drinking from the toilet is one, but with my luck, it'd just make me sick as a dog but not kill me. There's no way I can hang myself, and they never give me anything sharp. I've thought of bashing my head against the wall, but I'd probably just knock myself out or they'd come in and stop me. If I ran and hit the wall the right way, I might be able to break my neck. I don't know. If I make them mad enough, maybe they'll kill me, but I doubt it. They seem to really want me alive. Zola's involved, but I don't know how he's managing this. Did you guys get him? I hope so. I hope all this wasn't for nothing."
He chuckled at the irony of it all. "Funny, ain't it? In war, staying alive is hard. Here, it's dying that's hard. The fall should have killed me, but it didn't. I should have bled out, but I didn't. I should've gotten an infection that killed me, but I didn't. If God wants me alive for some reason, I wish he'd let me know what it is. I'm fucking tired of this." He curled against the wall, pressing his forehead to the metal. "I just want it to end. I promised my folks I'd fight my hardest to come back to them, and I keep thinking maybe once the war is over, there'll be a prisoner exchange, or a rescue or these assholes will get tired of feeding me and realize I'm not worth anything. I just don't know how long I can hold out. Please, Stev-"
The lights came on, burning his eyes, and he slammed his eyelids closed. Footsteps clanged on the floor outside, and Bucky lurched to his feet, wiping his face as the door opened.
He blinked against the light, squinting, raising his hand to shield his tender eyes from the harsh overhead lights. Blurry figures moved into the room.
"Turn around." Karpov's voice, harsh, commanding.
Bucky's stomach dropped. His isolation was over. Time for the next stage of whatever hell they had planned. He turned around and faced the wall.
A sharp pain in the side of his neck told him they'd injected him with something, and a moment later, he swayed, his stomach churned, and a hand gripped his arm. A hood came over his head, cinched at the neck, stifling his breath, and then he was yanked around. He stumbled. Whatever they gave him wasn't strong enough to knock him out, but it sure as hell made him loopy.
He could barely keep his feet under him as he was forced forward. Suddenly, he was sweating, hot. His stomach threatened to revolt, but he had nothing to throw up.
What had they given him?
His tongue felt big and tasted funny, like metal and electricity. Despite the heat, chills ran through him. The clanging of the guard's footsteps tasted like vinegar. Ribbons of red, white, and blue swirled around him.
"Hey, Bucky, there's a movie playing tonight."
Steve?
"Wanna catch it? It's nickel night."
"Yeah." If I ever get out of here. Wanna help me with that, Buddy?
"Sergeant Barnes." Zola
Bucky's insides went cold.
He hated that voice.
Hands shoved him into a hard chair. Straps secured his legs and his wrist. The hood came off, and he blinked against the light as the world tilted and colors swarmed around like an angry kaleidoscope.
Karpov's face hovered in front of him. "How do you feel, Sergeant? Your resistance to drugs has proven a problem, so we made a special concoction. Is it working?"
"Fuck you." Oops. He was supposed to be the little lamb. Karpov's little lamb lulling them into a false sense of security.
He laughed. Not so false a sense, if he was being honest. It was just something he told himself to hang on to hope. Stupid lamb.
"Ah, I see it is working." Karpov grinned, toothy and feral, like the Chesire cat. "You'll be delighted to know the war is over, Sergeant."
Bucky's heart skipped as he stared at the blurry, shifting face in front of him and blinked in a futile attempt to clear his vision. Was this just another lie?
Karpov's grin seemed to stretch beyond the edges of his face. "Hydra won."
No. Not possible. Steve stopped Hydra, crashed its bombs into the arctic.
A man in a blue lab coat came forward and taped Bucky's eyelids open, then strapped his head to the back of the chair so he had no choice but to look straight ahead. He followed the colors swirling around. They each had a taste. Red was blood. White was snow. Blue was home.
Home was hot cocoa and banana walnut bread. Fresh baked cookies. Chicken casserole. Coney Island with Steve, eating too many hot dogs.
The doctor hovered to the right. Bucky saw an IV needle for a moment, then he felt a sharp stab in the back of his hand.
"So, this is happening." Steve's face came into view, serious and sad. "Safe to say it's not going to be a good thing."
No shit, Sherlock.
He pulled against the straps, but they held firm. Steve could break them, but he wasn't Steve. The Russians thought he was something special, but they were wrong. He was a little stronger than he used to be, sure. He healed faster. He was a better shot with the rifle. None of that made him special. Whatever Zola had done to him hadn't worked.
Had Steve noticed any of that? If he had, he never said anything.
If he were like Steve, he'd be able to bulldoze his way past them all, kill every single one on his way out. He wasn't, though, so he had no choice about whatever was going to happen next.
The room plunged into darkness, and images were projected against the white wall. Tanks. Guns. A butterfly. An octopus.
Weird.
Then a voice, deep and rich. It echoed around him from all directions. It was the color red and felt like winter.
His body felt light. He was floating. The voice filled his head.
"The world is in chaos. Hydra is its salvation. Hydra is strong. Heil Hydra…."
The wall turned to an ocean, then an eagle soaring.
"Heil Hydra!" the voice repeated. "Heil Hydra!" Over and over again, while images of war and peace, seashells and flowers, and birds and blue skies played on the wall until time lost all meaning.
May 9 1945, Russia
He was dropped back into darkness with the clang of a metal door. The colors stopped having taste, and the kaleidoscope swirling around him had faded some time ago. Whatever they'd given him had worn off, yet his muscles felt like rubberbands, his mouth was cotton, and his head throbbed.
It was so dark, he couldn't see his hand in front of his face. He had no idea which direction he was facing. He crawled around until he touched the edge of the mattress, then felt the long side. The toilet was to his right. Crawling, he found it when his head bumped the metal. He'd been out of the cell long enough that he could also smell it now. He pulled himself up, swaying on his feet, and emptied his bladder, then staggered back in the direction of the mattress.
A crackle in the darkness sent his heart to his throat, and then a voice permeated the air.
"Heil Hydra!" it said, so loud, it hurt his ears. Over and over again.
He crawled back to the mattress, covered one ear, and pressed his other into the bed, hoping to stifle the sounds, but it was futile. He could still hear it, droning on and on. It stopped, finally, for a moment, punctuated by a loud squeal that sent brutal shards into his skull before the chant repeated.
Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you! He screamed in his head, or maybe with his voice. He wasn't sure.
It blasted him for what seemed like hours. Maybe days, depriving him of sleep. His thirst and hunger grew, until they were as much torture as the unrelenting voice. Whenever he felt himself drifting off, the bone-rattling squeal would jerk him back to full consciousness with a spike of adrenaline.
"Shut up!" he screamed at the top of his lungs, so loud it hurt his throat, had him coughing.
Still, the chant droned on, filling every cavity of his being. The voice was unrelenting, except when punctuated by the jarring squeal, and it consumed him, depriving him of everything. Sleep. Prayer. Peace.
He started to hallucinate again, at some point. He knew it was a hallucination, because there was Steve, in the corner, the only thing he could see in the blackness, looking just like he had before the War. Small with narrow shoulders and sad eyes too big for his face.
Then it was his mother standing there smiling down at him. She began to sing.
When blue skies are gray,
And nothing's okay.
close your eyes a while.
Make believe and—
The squeal jolted him, and he slammed backward into the wall, bringing his hand once again to his right ear.
"Fuck you!" His scorched, dry throat choked on the words.
God, water. He wanted water. Needed water.
He crawled over to the toilet and flushed it. The bowl was filthy, but at least the water was now fresh. Maybe it wouldn't kill him, and if it did, then at least his captivity would be over. He reached his hand in and cupped the cold liquid, bringing it quickly to his mouth, devouring as much water as he could. The taste was metal and dirt. The smell rotten. If they wanted him alive, they were sure doing a crap job of it. How long could he survive without anything to eat or drink?
He was on his fifth mouthful when it all came back up and into the toilet.
Fuck.
He curled into his stomach on the floor and wept. He had nothing left. He was so goddamned tired. His stomach was fire and brimstone, his mouth as dry as the Sahara.
The voice continued its maddening chant.
He'd had enough of their goddamned games. He just needed it to stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop.
"Heil Hydra!" the baritone voice continued. "Heil Hydra! Heil Hydra! Heil Hydra!"
The scream tore through him, propelling him to his feet. He bent forward and ran with everything he had until the top of his head slammed into the metal wall and plunged him into blessed silence.