Chapter 10: Finishing the Procedure

September 12, 1945

Bucky lived in a perpetual state of sleep deprivation and hunger. They kept him fed on enough mystery slop that he wasn't skin and bones, but his stomach was never satisfied. After Azzano, he was always hungry.

Sometimes, Pavel would be the one to slide him the tray, and every once in a while when that happened, there'd be a hidden treat. A small cookie. A cracker. A wafer. Once, it was a blessed square of chocolate pushed into a brown pile of slop that he held in his mouth, sucking the slop away until only the chocolate remained on his tongue. It tasted divine as it melted.

Karpov entered the room and stopped a few feet away from the cell door. Bucky was curled on the mat, staring at the wall, and gave the man a wary glance. Was it time for another session already?

"On your feet, soldier."

Apparently, it was. Bucky stood, keeping his feet on the minimal cushion provided by the mat.

"Approach the bars."

Bucky knew the drill. He walked to the bars and turned around. The leather came around his waist, and Dimitri grabbed Bucky's wrist and handcuffed it to the belt, then stepped back. The jangle of keys and the clank of metal told him the cell door was open, but he knew better than to look. Last time, that earned him a jab of the baton to his cheek.

"Follow me, soldier," Karpov ordered, then barked something at Dimitri.

Bucky obeyed, following Karpov out of the room with Dimitri taking up the rear. Another armed guard waited outside and followed them down the hall.

"I have good news for you." Karpov glanced back at Bucky. "Your new arm has arrived."

New arm?

Karpov led him to the workout room where two of the doctors waited. The gray-haired one was Doctor Amsel, a German who spoke fluent Russian. The younger one with dark hair and glasses was Andreyev. Bucky thought of him as an intern. Amsel seemed to be the one in charge between them.

Andreyev approached with a fabric measuring tape and used it as if he were a tailor fitting Bucky for a suit. He called out measurements while Amsel scribbled them down. Then they took his weight, height, and measured his vitals.

Karpov eyed him studiously. Bucky didn't like that look. He knew the man well enough by now to know it meant something bad was coming.

"Tell me, little lamb, who do you serve?"

There was no good answer to that question, and as much as Bucky knew he had to play the part of the meek prisoner if he had any hope of getting an opportunity to escape, he couldn't bring himself to say the words, even if he didn't mean them.

Karpov turned to Dimitri and held out his palm. "Your baton."

Dimitri smirked and handed over his baton.

Bucky stiffened, bracing himself as Karpov turned back to him.

"Not so much a lamb right now, I see. Who do you serve, soldier?"

"Technically, I think I'm still an army sergeant, so that would mean the U.S. Government," Bucky replied.

The baton came up hard between Bucky's legs, landing unforgivingly on his testicles. The pain dropped him to his knees.

"There is no United States government," Karpov said flatly. "Hydra destroyed it. Now, you serve Hydra."

Bucky breathed through the pain, straightening to look up at Karpov.

"Say it," Karpov ordered.

Just say it, Bucky told himself. It didn't mean anything, and it would spare him a beating and keep him strong enough to seize an opportunity if one presented itself. The words rang clear in his head, chanted in a steady, baritone voice.

But he thought of Steve behind the controls of the plane, sending it into a dive, sacrificing his life to stand against Hydra. Saying the words would feel like a betrayal, whether he meant them or not.

"No."

The baton clipped him on the jaw, sending him backward. He crashed into the hard floor, his ears ringing and his neck and jaw throbbing. A hand grabbed his hair, yanked him to his knees. He looked up into Karpov's angry face.

The Colonel held a blade in his hand. "Say Heil Hydra, or I'll carve into you."

Bucky swallowed, his heart pounding. "No."

Karpov released him, and Bucky fell back to the floor. The tip of the blade embedded itself below his left nipple and carved a path of pain to his hip. Bucky grunted, holding back the scream as warm blood spilled from the wound onto the floor.

Doctor Amsel scribbled on the clipboard and exchanged clipped Russian words with Karpov. There was a flash that had spots dancing in Bucky's eyes, and he realized the intern had taken a photo. Bucky picked out one word that meant something like data or information. It was a word the doctor used whenever he was scribbling notes from various tests.

Karpov leaned over Bucky. "I think you are not such a little lamb, after all. You think we are stupid."

Bucky didn't see any point in responding to that. His torso screamed fire from the angry wound, and he continued to bleed onto the floor. He didn't think the cut was deep enough to do real damage, but it sure as hell hurt.

"Say Heil Hydra," Karpov told him.

Bucky gritted his teeth.

Amsel pointed to Bucky and scribbled on the clipboard as he rattled off something in Russian.

"The doctor here wants me to try a different wound, a little deeper, so he can measure your rate of healing before the next procedure." Karpov slid the blade to Bucky's neck. "Not here, of course," he pressed the blade against Bucky's jugular, "because we do still want you alive." The blade slid down to Bucky's left nipple. "I could cut this out. You won't need that as Hydra's soldier." The tip of the blade dug into the nipple, stopping just short of drawing blood, then slid along his bare skin toward his still aching groin. "Or I could cut off one of your balls, but I think we may need more samples from you. Then again, you only really need one for that."

Bucky stared at the ceiling. His heart was a jackhammer in his chest. He gritted his teeth and tried to get a grip on his fear.

"Are you sure about your decision, soldier? One last chance." The blade slid upward.

Bucky's fear slipped, cracked, morphing into a hot rage so suddenly that his body reacted before his brain could veto the decision. His knee slammed into Karpov's jaw hard enough to send the man careening backward, and then the rest of his leg followed through, sending a hard kick into Karpov's groin that had the man screaming.

The barrel of Dimitri's gun swung toward him.

"Nyet!" Amsel shouted.

Bucky spun away from the barrel as Dimitri hesitated, using momentum to swing his legs into Dimitri's ankles, sending the guard backward to the floor and the gun fired into the air as he fell.

Footsteps clattered and there was a pandemonium of Russian commands as guards converged on Bucky. He skittered away as they descended with their batons, curling into a tight ball to shield his face, stomach, and groin the best he could. With his wrist tethered to his waist, he was helpless to defend against the blow to the back of his skull that knocked him out.

His next sensation was pain—throbbing in his head, fire in his back, ribs, and shoulders. He opened his eyes, a rumble emerging from his throat in protest of the two bright lights in his face. A dark figure loomed over him, and he blinked through the agony in his skull to focus on the man.

Karpov…with a mess of tape and gauze over his nose. His dark eyes were angry and bloodshot, framed by dark bruises that made him look like a raccoon.

Despite the pain he was in and the fact he knew more was likely to come, Bucky couldn't help himself. He smiled.

The slap was instantaneous, bringing the sting of tears to his eyes. It was totally worth it. He looked back at Karpov and chuckled. "You should thank me. The new look is an improvement."

So much for playing the part of the little lamb, but even though he knew it would cost him dearly, it felt good to see the results of his handiwork on Karpov's face. There was no point in submission, anymore. He was strapped once again to the exam table, helpless. Karpov was going to make his life even more of a hell than it already was, and Bucky wasn't looking forward to seeing how that was possible. He might as well go down like a good Brooklyn boy. He didn't have his fists, but he still had his mouth.

Karpov grabbed Bucky's chin hard and leaned close. His breath smelled like tobacco and cat food. "I promise you will know regret like you never thought possible." He straightened and turned to bark Russian at someone.

Bucky lifted his head. Dr. Amsel and the intern stood at the other end of the room with Dimitri and another guard. Looking down at himself, Bucky saw the slice in his torso was scabbed. No stitches. It told him he'd been out for a while, and apparently the wound wasn't deep enough to need stitches.

Karpov looked back down at him and grinned. "We could have started this while you were out, but I thought it best you be awake before we continued."

An unease filled Bucky's chest and he swallowed hard. Whatever was about to come, he'd just have to get through, no choice about it.

Amsel approached with a scalpel. The intern grabbed a camera and stood on the opposite side of the table as Karpov moved to Bucky's head and peered down at him with an anticipatory grin. It made him look even more like a deranged cheshire cat with his black eyes.

The scalpel sliced straight in between his ribs. He gritted his teeth, a grunt escaping, and the camera flashed as Amsel scribbled on his clipboard.

"Burns next, I think?" Karpov said, his smile widening as he met Bucky's gaze. "We want to make sure we have a complete before and after data set. Unfortunately, we don't have similar data from before Zola injected you, but this will still provide valuable information about the extent of your transformation."

Transformation? What mad scientist looney tunes crap were they planning?

"Dimitri?" Karpov waved at the guard and rattled off something in Russian.

Shit. Bucky tilted his head to see Dimitri light a cigarette, take a puff, and walk toward the bed. He locked eyes with Bucky and smiled.

"Kuda?" Dimitri held the cigarette in the air.

Amsel touched a place high on Bucky's right thigh, and a moment later, the lit end of the cigarette scorched through the top layers of skin. He clenched his jaw tight enough to hurt, but a cry still escaped with the searing pain. The smell of burning flesh turned his stomach. When the cigarette withdrew, the pain turned to a slow, throbbing burn.

He curled his toes and focused on his breathing. In and out. That wasn't so bad. Hell, Zola had done worse.

"We are only collecting data on his skin," Karpov said, glancing down at Bucky with a smirk that made it clear the man was speaking English because the anticipation of torture was part of the whole experience. "We need to test his insides."

Insides? Bucky sucked in a breath, bracing himself, but still his stomach and chest twisted into tight knots.

Amsel and Karpov exchanged words in Russian, and Karpov barked something at Dimitri, who grinned and spun on his heels, leaving the room. When the door closed, Karpov's finger traced a line on Bucky's chest to the right of the healing cut, down to his navel, ending at his groin.

"All of this belongs to Hydra." Karpov said, grabbing a section of pubic hair and yanking.

Bucky jerked, yelled, and strained his battered body against the restraints, but they held firm. There was no slack in the leather. The straps dug into his chest, arm, waist, and legs.

Karpov was at the head of the bed again, and his hand wrapped around Bucky's throat, cutting off the flow of air as he leaned close. "We've been too lenient with you, trying the traditional means to educate you, but you're too stupid to learn. So, like the mongrel dog you are, we'll beat you into obedience."

The strangling hold vanished, and he coughed, choked, then sucked in a greedy breath. His chest heaved with panic he fought to control, closing his eyes and trying to focus on something—anything–other than where he was. If Karpov considered the past hellish….months? years?...of starvation, dehydration, drugs, sleep deprivation, and mind games lenient, Bucky didn't know how he'd make it through the rest. If he were lucky, maybe he wouldn't.

He pictured his mother's face, imagined her voice singing the song about make believe, and clung to it, trying to block out the sound of the door opening, the footsteps, the shuffle of fabric, the scrape of metal, and the smell of disinfectant.

"Dimitri, well done. That is perfect," Karpov's voice intruded.

Unable to help himself, Bucky opened his eyes. He wished he hadn't. Dimitri stood at the foot of the bed with a straight, cast-iron poker. He pulled out a lighter and, with a smile, lit the flame and held it at the tip of the poker.

"We'll have to adjust these straps for better access," Karpov announced.

Amsel undid the lower strap first, loosening it one notch, not enough for Bucky to move his leg out-–his thighs were still tightly strapped, but enough to provide a bit more slack. Then, he moved up to the thigh strap and did the same thing.

Bucky tested the new slack, straining, trying to bend his leg, but it was futile. He watched the flame dance at the tip of the poker, his insides churning, his chest tight. He squirmed beneath the restraints. His wrist was still shackled to his waist.

Karpov grabbed a folded sheet from the cabinet and used his knife to cut it into long strips. He handed one strip to Amsel and tied the other around Bucky's right ankle, then pulled and secured the other end to the table leg. On the opposite side, Amsel did the same thing.

Bucky lay there, his legs spread, knowing now what terrible thing they had planned but unable to do a damn thing about it except watch the flame dance at the tip of the iron poker.

"Look…" His chest heaved the word out, "I…uh…I d-don't think that's a good idea." He hated the tremble in his voice, but when Dimitri closed the lighter and approached with the poker, his entire body vibrated. "Come on…" he squirmed against the restraints. "You want me alive, don't—"

The hot poker slid into his rectum, carving a path of searing agony. His body became a wild thing of its own, arching against the restraints as a scream ripped from his throat.

-0- -0- -0-

Hot. God, it was hot. Steve, turn down the damn radiator. The blanket was suffocating. He tried to kick it off, but it was heavy, restraining, like someone had tucked him in too tight.

Tucked in like he was five. His mother at his bedside, reading a story in her yellow dress. Becca, always underfoot, on her stomach on the floor, playing with his army men. It was so hot. Summer. Humid. A good day for the beach. Hot dogs. A milkshake.

Fuck he really wanted a chocolate milkshake, ice cold in a tall glass.

He shouldn't say fuck. His mother wouldn't approve. His dad wouldn't care, but his mom would. Sarah would, too, and she had a temper. He wouldn't be a bad influence for Steve, not that anyone really could. Steve was a force of stubborn no-quit righteousness, a tree with roots so deep, it would never topple over no matter how strong the wind.

Maybe Steve would want to go to Brighton Beach for the day.

Was that Steve shaking him? Had he fallen asleep? Someone was speaking. It didn't sound like Steve. It didn't even sound like English.

A thin, metal stick was shoved in his mouth, under his tongue. He tried to back away, but something stopped him. He turned his head. A hand grabbed his chin.

"Whuuu…" a sound came from his throat, half-word, half groan, and he opened his eyes to things that didn't belong in his room. Two bright lights. Tall men.

Where was he? What was happening?

"Welcome back, soldier." A face loomed over him and the fear came before the recognition. When it did, reality shifted to pain.

God, he hurt all over. He was hot. Weak. Tired.

Karpov's broken, bruised face.

No. No more. Please. He couldn't do it anymore.

God, just let it stop, let me go, wherever, please just not here.

But the seconds ticked by, the hands poked the places that hurt the most, the doctor scribbled on the clipboard, and God didn't seem inclined to answer his prayer.

Maybe he died when he fell and this was his eternity, thinking he was alive, but he wasn't, and there wasn't any way to escape Hell.

He wasn't a person anymore, just this thing of pain and humiliation. He was crying, he realized, sobbing, his chest heaving, his body trembling, bringing the pains to new life, and he could no longer see the faces or figures clearly because his vision was too blurry, his eyes and face too wet. He heard snickering, voices, Dimitri, Karpov, the doctor, gloating, sounding pleased, so pleased, and he couldn't stop weeping.

He was breaking, maybe already broken, just like his body, and he didn't want to be in his body, anymore. He wanted to abandon it, let them do whatever they wanted to it, if the rest of him could just please go someplace else, someplace so deep and dark that nothing would ever hurt again.

"Do not worry, little lamb," Karpov's hand pressed to Bucky's forehead, "your body is already healing. It's remarkable, really. Soon, we will continue Zola's procedure, and you will become new again. A soldier like no other."

"The Fist of Hydra," Amsel added.

Karpov left. The doctors and guard remained, and Bucky could feel Dimitri's gaze on him, knew the man was taking pleasure in Bucky's torment, his uncontrolled weeping, and that was its own humiliation on top of so many others.

Eventually, he exhausted himself, and he lay there, quiet, staring at the ceiling until his eyelids became too heavy, and he fell into a light sleep. The pain kept him just below the surface of consciousness, but even that kind of sleep was a blissful escape.

The baritone voice woke him. "Heil Hydra!"

Bucky tried to open his eyes, but he couldn't. Something was on his face, pressed against his lids, trapping him in darkness. He tried to move. The straps held him in place. He was still on the table.

He could hear nothing except the voice. There was a pressure on his ears, covering them, pounding his ear drums with the voice that never relented, so loud it drowned out everything else, even his thoughts.

"Heil Hydra! Heil Hydra! Heil Hydra!" Over and over again, making time stretch into an eternity.

Hours passed. Maybe a day or more. Sometimes he felt hands on him–poking, pinching, pressing on the various parts that hurt. A prick in the back of his hand told him an IV line was inserted.

When cold metal entered his raw, tender rectum, he tensed, his throat rumbling with a cry that he heard more clearly inside his skull than with his ears. The thing split into two, spreading him open, and something else slid in, carving through the itchy, fiery agony inside.

Everything hurt with a chaotic cacophony of agony that drowned out the individual pains

It felt clinical in nature, as if they were inspecting the damage, seeing how he was healing, but he couldn't see who it was or what they were using, and his heart beat faster. He tried to drown out the voice and fresh pain awakened by the things inside him. He pictured himself home, around the table with his folks and sisters, and Fuck! he hoped they were still alive, that Karpov lied.

Hydra hadn't won. Everyone back home was safe. Steve hadn't died for nothing.

The voice continued, making it impossible for him to focus, ripping the image of his parents' apartment from him, overlaying every thought of Steve's sacrifice with those words. "Heil Hydra!"

A sliver of relief came when the things inside him slid away, and he was left untouched for some time, the only intrusion to his sense being the deep voice that chanted the words so familiar, he heard them in his dreams. Time bled into a void of darkness and sound, an echo in his brain, until he saw the words, floating like white specters in the darkness. Heil Hydra.

Fuck Hydra! He chanted it inwardly each time the words drummed into his skull. Fuck Hydra! Fuck Hydra! Fuck Hydra! He wasn't sure he was actually screaming them until a hand gripped his throat, and thick tape was pressed over his mouth.

It was stifling, leaving him to breathe only through his nose, which had been fine before, but now felt insufficient. He felt like he couldn't suck in enough air. He was suffocating. His body fought against it, thrashing, survival instincts overriding pain as the straps dug into his flesh and constricted his chest.

"Hail Hydra!" the voice continued, its inflection unwavering.

His head felt light and thick, floaty, all of a sudden, and he had the sensation of falling. For a moment, the darkness yielded to snowy white mountains and a speeding train, the sound of Steve's voice. "Bucky!...No!"

Then everything faded to an almost oblivion, except for the voice. It shared the nothingness with him.

-0- -0- -0-

When he woke next, the voice and darkness remained, unyielding. Straps still bound him to the table. He couldn't hear anything other than the voice. He had no idea whether he was alone, though he knew it unlikely. There was probably a guard, a doctor, or both. Maybe even Karpov, hovering, studying him, smirking.

His skin tingled, the hairs on his arm and legs going stiff from gazes—real or imagined—that he could almost feel. His back and shoulders hurt from being on the table for so long in one position. He couldn't feel his arm or legs.

The voice continued its insistent chant, the words bouncing around his skull until they no longer made sense. His stomach ached. How long had it been since he'd eaten?

The ache turned to a grumbling and insistent pain over time. His back and shoulders felt like they were on a bed of nails. He tried to wiggle his toes, but he couldn't feel them.

Time stretched to an eternity with only the voice to keep him company. His mind played tricks on him. One minute, he could swear the voice was Steve's, praising Hydra over and over again. Then it was his mother's, and he could smell her rose and citrus scent.

When the voice stopped, he didn't notice at first. It continued to echo in his skull. It wasn't until the weight lifted from his eyelids that he realized he could see light through them. The pressure was also gone from his ears, and the voice had stopped. The tape was ripped off, yanking out stubble with a sudden pain that brought tears to his eyes.

He cracked open his eyelids, wincing from the blinding lights, and slammed them closed again.

"Get him off the table."

No. Was that—?

Zola?

He was hallucinating again.

The sound of buckles being undone. Straps loosening, lifting. Hands on his arm, legs, lifting him. The agony of shifting when pressure points between his flesh and the table released. The pain of renewed circulation in his arm and leg, tingling, stabbing.

He opened his eyes again, tried to lift his head. Figures were around him. Dimitri. Another guard. The doctor. The intern. Karpov. And there, near the door, a small man with a round face and round glasses. A face he'd never forget.

Impossible.

Their mission on the train failed. Proof right in front of him, unless Zola was just another figment of his imagination.

The Zola maybe-hallucination walked forward, smiled at him. "Today, you become the new Fist of Hydra, if you survive."

He was carried out of the room, down a hallway. His limbs were weak and tingling. Struggling was futile. The attempt to lift his head exhausted him. They entered a dark room that was suddenly light, and he squinted against the visual assault.

The world was a glowing blur. He was placed on another table. A machine hummed to life somewhere to his left. Metal creaked. Air hissed. A high-pitched hum filled the room.

He couldn't let them turn him into a science experiment, make him into their soldier. Whatever it was they planned, he couldn't take the chance it might work. If he died, then their plans died with him.

His wrist was unshackled, the leather waist belt removed. Hands grabbed him again, prepared to lift him. His time was running out. Sucking in a deep breath, he drew on reserves he didn't realize he had, forced his legs into motion, and connected his heel with flesh.

There was a grunt and a thud. The surge of adrenaline gave him a burst of strength. He kicked, punched, twisted and, when a hand came to close, bit down as hard as he could.

It was Dimitri's wrist, he realized, and the man screamed. The hands slipped, shifted, and Bucky fell to the floor, his right shoulder hitting first.

"No drugs!" Zola yelled. "We do not know how they might interfere with the process."

A weight descended on his back. Another on his legs. Hands wrapped around him, pinning his arm to his side. He bucked, felt himself being flipped. The figures surrounded him. Footsteps clanged against the floor, bringing more bodies, more arms, and more figures. Hands restrained him everywhere. Two on his head. Four on each leg. A set of arms around his chest. A head pressed into his stomach, another set of arms around his waist.

His strength waned, his reserves exhausted, and he knew he was weakening, felt himself being lifted, moved.

Then he was falling, dropped into something. He landed with a hard thud, barely able to catch his breath before a metal lid was slammed shut. He was trapped in a metal box the size of a coffin with a small window that gave a view to lights in the ceiling.

The coffin hummed and vibrated around him.

No! No! NO! He yelled, pounded on the metal and the glass with his one trembling arm. A metal shield slid over his head, covering his eyes, blocking his view of the glass. Despite the barrier's protection, a light brighter than he had ever seen slipped through narrow openings along the edges, and he squeezed his eyes closed tightly against its searing intensity.

A moment later, a pain like nothing he could ever imagine set fire to every cell in his body as muscle and bone changed, grew, and stretched. His screams bounced around the metal coffin, sounding like the tortured howls of countless dying animals.