Chapter 9: The Cage

May 14, 1945, Russia

He came to in the exam room, strapped to a table, head throbbing. A bright light hung overhead, scorching eyes that had been in the dark for too long. He squinted against them. Two blue-clad men stood above him, masks on their faces. A blush of embarrassment filled him when he realized he was once again naked. Catching a look at ribs that protruded like jagged rocks from his torso was a shock.

Someone was speaking German. Bucky lifted his head to see the German commander looking angry. Though he couldn't understand the German words, the man's tone was obvious–he was pissed.

The sight of them actually, for the briefest moment, filled him with warm relief. They were real human beings, not hallucinations, he hoped. And the light, even though it hurt, brought color and shapes to his world again. Pale blue medical jackets. A ceiling. A cabinet. Masked faces. Lights.

And the voice chanting 'Heil Hydra' was finally quiet.

For a moment, he enjoyed it. Then hot shame filled him, and he sucked in a deep breath. Was this the beginning of the end for him—when he actually found himself craving the company of his tormentors?

An IV bag hung near him, and he followed the line to his right hand. So, the fuckers still wanted him alive.

One of the masked men grabbed something from the countertop and walked to the exam table. Bucky's gaze went immediately to the shiny, silver blade in the man's gloved hand, and his heart beat like a wild animal caged in his chest.

The doctor tilted his head, waved to another man, and lifted the blade. "Shave."

What?

Another man approached, a tube of shaving cream in his hand, which he squeezed into his glove and rubbed on Bucky's beard.

Thank God.

Bucky closed his eyes, relief turning his insides shaky. He felt the blade against his skin and gave no resistance as the men manipulated his head to gain the proper angles. The throbbing of his head was beginning to dull, and he wondered what was in the IV.

A few minutes later, he was clean-shaven. The caress of air against the skin that had itched almost nonstop for a month was like a kiss from heaven.

"I don't suppose I could get a bath?" he asked, now that they seemed amenable to some basic hygiene maintenance.

"You haven't earned a bath," the German commander barked, "but you do stink. We'll remedy that shortly."

Bucky didn't like the sound of that, but he didn't have to wonder long what it meant. Twenty minutes later, he was released from the table, under guard, and his arm was cuffed to a leather belt strapped around his waist.

As soon as he was upright, the room spun, and his headache kicked into high gear. He wasn't sure if the effects were from the head injury or whatever was in the IV. He was vaguely aware of someone removing the needle from his vein, then a hand grabbed his bound arm and shoved him through the door.

He couldn't even cover himself as they forced him down the hallway, passed various guards and other personnel. Some were obviously scientists. Others looked like support staff. When he passed a young woman seated behind the desk, his face flushed hot and he avoided her gaze.

The guard shoved him into a bare room with a drain in the center and a large hose next to thick pipes on the wall. He twisted on his side as he slammed into the hard floor, his hand uselessly attached to his waist. His stump hit first, and the intense pain from the impact caused a yelp to escape briefly before he clamped down on it. No use giving them satisfaction.

"Clean him up," the German barked, waving at someone behind him.

Two hulking men entered. They were both unarmed, dressed in plain beige jackets without identifying insignia. One unreeled a hose from the wall hung next to pipes and a red wheel. Both took up positions near the hose.

Bucky had just enough time to shift on the floor so his back was to the hose before the icy water pelted him, so hard it sent him sliding across the room, into the far wall. He managed to get his legs in front of him in time to keep from slamming face-first into the surface, but it took effort to fight the spray on the slippery metal.

Finally, the assault ended. Before he could get his bearings, a hand grabbed the wet strands of his hair and yanked him to his feet. It was the German commander, face impassive, eyes stern as he placed a palm on Bucky's chest and shoved him back against the wall.

"Stay. We do the front now."

As the commander moved away, Bucky steeled himself as the water returned, pelting his chest and stomach as it shoved him hard into the wall. Then it focused on his genitals and shit! that hurt! He doubled over and got a stinging face full of water that flooded his nasal passages and had him coughing at first, then falling over, unable to breathe, panicking as his body fought against the sensation of drowning.

When it was over, he was shivering, curled on his knees, forehead pressed into the floor. The water he'd swallowed came back up, and a deep, chest-rattling coughing fit forced out more.

The German's boots squished against the hard wet floor. They filled Bucky's vision, and he fell over onto his right side and looked up at the man.

"Your body belongs to Hydra. You have no right to damage it." He leaned forward. "Only we do. The next time you try to harm yourself, the punishment will be more severe." The commander straightened and moved back toward the guard. "Now, on your feet."

Bucky couldn't quite stifle the groan as he rolled to his knees, bent one leg in front, and pushed himself to his feet. He was freezing, his body shivering in a futile attempt to generate warmth. A reflection in the water on the floor caught his attention–a skeletal figure, with shaggy hair and sunken cheeks.

Realization sent his mind blank for a brief moment, before the horror set in. Jesus Christ, Oh God…That's what he looked like now. His own mother wouldn't recognize him if she saw him on the street.

"Move," the commander ordered.

Bucky eyed the man as he passed, earning a fist to his ribs in retaliation. He grunted against the pain as the guard shoved him forward. The frigid water dripped from his bare skin, and his hair was like ice against the sides of his face. It didn't quite reach his jawline, but cold droplets snaked down the back of his neck.

They led him down the hallway where he once again endured long glances from strangers that sometimes lingered on parts of his body no decent man would put on public display. A guard stationed up ahead opened a large metal door, and the commander shoved Bucky through it into a long, dim room. Floor-to-ceiling bars spanned from one wall to the other at the far end, creating a 10x8 prison cell with three solid sides. The floor was a metal grate. There was a bucket in one corner and a mat against the long wall.

"Your new home, where guards will keep an eye on you."

The armed guard opened the cell, and Bucky was shoved into it as the door slammed shut behind him.

"Come here," The commander stood on the other side of the bars, a key in his hand. "Try anything when I unlock you, and Mikheil here will shoot one of your kneecaps."

Bucky walked up to the bars. The commander unlocked the belt restraint and pulled it through the bars.

"The bucket is your toilet. If you behave yourself, you'll get dinner." The man eyed him up and down.

The grate was hell on his feet, so Bucky sat on the mat. It did little to cushion the unforgiving surface beneath. His headache remained a dull throbbing behind his eyes, but it was manageable. Two guards remained stationed inside, one at a computer console, the other seated in a chair near the door. Bucky recognized the one at the console as the young kid, Pavel.

There was no blanket, no clothing, and the icy water still clung to him. He curled up, shivering, trying to use his own body for warmth.

Some time later– time had become a blur of monotony interspersed with pain, thirst, and hunger–the door opened. A woman with blond hair pulled back in a bun carried a tray inside and handed it to one of the guards. Her eyes flicked to Bucky, and he shifted, hiding his genitals, until she turned and left.

The guard eyed the tray. The smell hit Bucky hard, but he didn't dare move, didn't dare show interest, even as his stomach grumbled so loudly he was sure it reached their ears. One of the guards stuck his finger in a pile of beige slop and popped a finger-full into his mouth. He shrugged and walked to the bars, unlatched a hatch at the bottom, and slid the tray inside, then took a few steps back and stood at attention.

Bucky couldn't help himself any longer. He rushed to the tray, ignoring the pain of the grate as it dug into his knees and hands. There was the beige mountain of slop next to a pale green mystery pile of similar consistency. A metal cup of water was next to the plate.

There were no utensils, and Bucky was way past worrying about his dignity. He picked the dish up and dived in, eating it straight from the dish with his mouth…like a dog, slightly more dignified than he had been when he'd licked up the chocolate cake.

He didn't care. His hunger revved into high gear now that food was a reality, and he cleaned the plate in seconds, then downed the water.

"Vernut'sya k kovriku," the guard said.

Bucky blinked up at the man. "I don't speak Russian because, you know, I'm an American." Damn, too much sass. He was supposed to be the meek lamb, after all, although he was beginning to think his hope of escape was just that–something to keep him hoping that there was a way out of this alive. Because without hope, he'd crumble into madness. "A POW. You want me to do something, you're gonna have to–"

A baton whipped out and slapped the bars in front of Bucky. He barely managed to avoid flinching.

"He said back to the mat," Pavel said, in a heavy accent. Unlike everyone else in the hellhole, the man's tone was almost kind. "He wants to take your tray."

The other guard barked something at Pavel that sounded berating. With a sigh, Bucky walked over the grate and plopped back to the mat. The guard opened the hatch and withdrew the tray.

July 4, 1945, Russia

Ever since the breakdown when he rammed his skull into the wall, things had noticeably shifted. They still hardly let him sleep, but at least they fed him. The portions had gotten progressively larger even if the food was mysterious globs of various colors. He assumed the piles were mashed or blended stuff meant to nourish rather than delight, but he wasn't in a position to complain.

He was perpetually tired. Sometimes, so tired, he'd black out being marched down a hallway and wake up in the chair where they strapped him down and made him watch their Hydra propaganda films. Sometimes he'd black out while watching them, even with his eyelids taped open and drugs being pumped into his system.

The propaganda sessions lasted so long that his bladder gave up and he pissed on the floor while still strapped to the chair.

"Heil Hydra!" over and over again, as if by repeating it, they'd get him to believe it.

It wasn't until he found himself dreaming the words, even terrifying himself a few times when he woke up with them on his lips, that he started to wonder if, maybe, their sessions were working. How long would it take before his brain cracked?

They started him on a workout regiment, testing his speed, strength, and hand-eye coordination while a guy in a white lab coat wrote on a clipboard. Bucky welcomed those sessions. They kept him strong. His thighs and arm were getting bigger, and when he caught glimpses of himself, he no longer saw a walking skeleton. He couldn't help the feeling that they were "fattening" him up for a purpose.

He was stronger. Back in the army, he could deadlift 220 pounds. Now, he was up to three hundred, with one arm. He thought that was pretty damn good, but Karpov and the German commander whose name he still didn't know seemed disappointed, angry even. He'd like to see either of them do any better. In fact, he was pretty sure he was strong enough to overpower any single person in the facility, if he ever got the chance.

Unfortunately, as his strength increased, so did their security measures. They moved him with his wrist shackled to a waist belt and at least two armed guards as escorts.

His hair was always in his face now. It got into his eyes, his mouth, and even his food. Once a week they hosed him down–though not as violently as they had the first time–and shaved him, but they had yet to cut his hair for some reason.

He never wore shoes or socks, so the bottoms of his feet had hard, cracked calluses that were both a blessing and a curse. The callus on his right heel hurt, but the thick, deadened skin also protected him from the harshness of the grate floor.

The door opened and two guards walked in, replacing the two day-shift guards, Pavel and Dimitri. Dimitri was mean and didn't speak English. Pavel spoke passable English and was so obviously in the wrong line of work, Bucky wondered who he pissed off to get stationed in this shit hole.

The night shift guards were Sergei and Orlov. In fact, the only way he knew day turned to night was by the changing of the guards, and he only knew which two were which because of meal times. He had no idea if those were first or last names, but it's what they called one another. None of them wore names on their uniforms.

As Sergei and Orlov took up their stations, the other two left. Bucky sat on the mat, knees up, the grate poking into his butt cheeks through the thin bedding. It was hell to sleep on, but he supposed that was intentional.

He stared at them through strands of hair. Being naked no longer bothered him. Everybody in the facility had seen all parts of him. No one paid him a second look anymore as he was paraded down hallways.

"It's the anniversary of your country's declaration of independence," Sergei said. He was a big guy with black hair, black eyes and as much of a bully as Johnny Marone. The gray at his temples betrayed his age.

Bucky's sleep-deprived brain took a moment to process the words. Independence Day? July 4th.

Steve's birthday.

His vision blurred suddenly, and he was thankful for once that his hair was in his face. He glanced up. The smile that touched his lips was sad, but he hoped Steve heard him. Happy birthday, buddy.

"Too bad your country doesn't exist anymore," Sergei added.

Bucky sucked in a breath and told himself the words were lies. Steve had died saving the United States. Germany couldn't have won the war. His folks and sisters were still alive and okay back home.

He curled on his right side, his face to the wall and drew figures on it to calm his mind. A flower. A tree. A star surrounded by concentric circles. He never knew how long they'd let him sleep, but they always woke him up well before breakfast. Sometimes he thought he managed a couple of hours. Other times, it seemed as soon as he dozed off, they woke him up. He knew what they were doing–using sleep deprivation to wear him down.

They wanted to turn him into a Hydra convert, but they were wasting their time. He'd go to his grave true to the red, white, and blue, whether it existed anymore or not.

He realized he'd fallen asleep when the clang of a baton against the bars jolted him awake. He also realized he'd been dreaming of a floating Octopus that flailed its tentacles while declaring "Heil Hydra." It gave him a chill.

"Wake up, stand in the center of the cell."

Bucky rolled over and looked at Sergei. The guard's eyes challenged him to resist. Bucky stifled a yawn, got to his feet, and stood in the center of the cell. He was the model prisoner, after all. That was all part of his mind games with himself. Hang on to hope that someone would slip up, and he'd grab a gun and mow all the fuckers down.

At the moment, however, they were playing a familiar game. Sometimes they made him stand for a few minutes, sometimes a few hours, until his feet were numb from the edges of the grate.

Apparently satisfied, Sergei went back to his seat. The other guard remained at the console and looked bored. He couldn't blame the guy. Watching someone stand in the middle of a cell or sleep wasn't exactly top entertainment.

He stood there until his feet ached and his legs and back burned. When the door opened and the day shift came in, he hoped that meant he'd be able to sit and shovel down breakfast. Pavel scowled as he looked at him, barely glancing at night shift guards as they left. Dimitri snickered and dropped into his seat.

"You can go to your mat now, if you like," Pavel barked at him. His words were a kindness, and Bucky realized long ago that Pavel's tone was meant for Dimitri's ears since the man didn't speak a word of English.

Bucky lurched to the mat gratefully, instantly curling on his side and hoping to catch a bit more sleep. Dimitri yelled something at Pavel, and their arguing followed Bucky into slumber. He wasn't out long when Dimitri's baton rattled on the bars, and Bucky jerked awake.

"Zavtrak," Dimitri barked.

Breakfast.

Bucky had picked up enough Russian to know the names of mealtimes and a few basic commands like sit, stand, shut up, and turnaround. He'd also learned a few Russian curse words–Gavno, which seemed to mean something like damn or shit, and Loshad mochi, an insult most often leveled at him by Dimitri, though Bucky didn't know what it meant.

He rolled over and saw Pavel slide the tray through the hatch, quickly slipping something out of his sleeve beneath the heaping plate of rehydrated eggs that sat next to the bowl of porridge and cup of water. Bucky reached out, slid the tray close to him, and devoured it all.

Pavel said something to Dimitri, diverting his attention, and Bucky lifted the plate quickly to steal a quick glance. It was a small, thin wafer. He shoved it into his mouth quickly. It tasted like vanilla and lemon and instantly made his cheeks tingle in satisfaction.

He caught Pavel's gaze briefly as the man continued to chat with Dimitri. He didn't dare give a nod or anything that would overtly acknowledge the gift, but he was sure Pavel got the message. It was a stupid thing for the kid to do, so yeah, he was definitely in the wrong line of work.

Author's Note:

Pavel is definitely in the wrong line of work. You don't have long to wait for the next chapter-it'll be posted in three days, per the schedule! I hope the 2x / week posting helps everyone remember what happens from chapter to chapter (and there are LOTS and LOTS of chapters left of this story).

As always, I welcome comments, kudos, etc. If you have a question or comment you don't want to post publicly, you can PM me on Tumblr at dcangstfiction. tumblr. com