Chapter 11: Decay

When it was over, Bucky flirted with consciousness. His arms and legs ached. He sucked in deep breaths, his body demanding more oxygen than the metal coffin seemed able to provide. The eye shield moved away with a hiss of air, and the hum of the machine went silent. Metal clanged, and the lid opened.

The muzzles of three guns pointed at him. Zola's face tilted into view, eyes wide, mouth slowly turning into a smile. "You survived, and by the looks of you, it worked. You will be the new Fist of Hydra."

His breathing settled. He was alive. He didn't know what Zola meant about the look of him. He wasn't sure he wanted to know, but if he had a red skull like Schmidt, he'd find some way to end his life. There was no coming back from that, even if he ever managed to escape.

Escape.

He'd been hanging on to that hope for too long, but they never let their guards down. There were too many guns, too many men, too many locked doors. With one arm, he presented little threat.

It was time he faced the truth.

"How do you feel?" Zola asked him.

He wasn't going to be their lab rat, anymore. Maybe he couldn't escape, but he'd take as many of them out as he could before they cut him down. Now was as good a time as any with Zola here. If Bucky were lucky, Zola would be one of the bastards he took out.

It was obvious they expected the procedure could prove fatal, so he played up on that, groaning, pretending to be weak, barely conscious, eyes slits, mouth open. He drooled for good measure.

Something cool pressed on his chest. A stethoscope.

"Heartbeat steady."

The clang of a chain told him they were getting the waist belt ready. He couldn't let them tether his arm.

"I feel sick," he muttered. It wasn't a lie. His stomach was queasy, but there was nothing in it except bile. Still, he might be able to muster… He leaned over the edge of the coffin and spewed foamy greenish yellow liquid all over Zola's shoes.

Zola let out a grunt of disgust. Bucky grabbed a gun from one of the guard's holsters and flung himself out of the coffin. Shit! He was in the air, sailing high and fast, as if something propelled him out of the machine. The only thing that saved him was that the feat surprised the guards as much as it did him.

He fired as he came down, hitting the guard that recovered the fastest, then exchanging the handgun for the dead man's rifle and opening fire as he catapulted himself behind the open lid of the machine for cover. Through the glass of the lid, he saw Zola and Dr. Amsel flee the room.

Bucky exchanged fire with the remaining three guards. Sirens blared. He'd have more company soon. He cursed himself for not aiming at Zola first. That rat bastard had escaped. Again.

He took out one guard. Two more remained. He looked down at himself. His thighs were thicker, more muscular, but he didn't feel a foot taller. He hadn't grown like Steve. What exactly had Zola's machine done?

Time to test it out. He brought his foot up, braced against the metal machine, and kicked. It spun away from him faster than he expected, sparks erupting as it ripped away from power cables. It careened into the two remaining guards. Bucky heard footsteps in the hallway and aimed at the open doorway. He opened fire as soon as he caught a glimpse of the first man. Shooting them coming in would be like shooting fish in a barrel.

They figured that out immediately because no more men appeared. Bucky took advantage of the reprieve and switched out his rifle for another, then grabbed a second and slung it over his torso. Having the use of only one hand was a problem, but he wasn't going to make it out alive no matter what. Maybe, though, he could find a few more ways to do damage.

He caught a glimpse of another uniform in the doorway and fired. The man fell forward into the room, dead. Bucky kicked the coffin forward, into the door, slamming it closed and barricading himself inside.

It wouldn't buy him much time, but it bought him enough. He sized up the dead guards and picked the biggest one, relieving him of his pants. As Bucky shimmied into them, he sighed. It felt good to wear something, to be covered up. When he died, at least it would be with some dignity. He couldn't button them, but he managed to zip the fly most of the way. They were snug enough in the hips that they seemed inclined to stay on.

They were ramming the door. He had to move. No time to get into shoes. There was a rear door with a window, and he peeked through it. A short hallway was on the other side. He didn't see guards, which was odd. He tried the handle and pulled. It came off in his hand with a groan.

The door remained closed, the lock still engaged. Great, and he'd just taken off the only handle. Well, if he was like Steve….

He rammed the door and it caved, then he was in the hallway. He saw two doors, bulldozed through one, and found himself in an artillery.

Maybe God was listening and decided to cut him a break. Bucky knew guards would be all over the rear hallway soon. He grabbed a handgun, checked that it was loaded, and slipped it into a pocket on the side of the pants, then stuffed a couple of grenades in the other pantleg pocket. It would be awkward to reach, but doable.

He heard the clatter of footsteps and hurried back into the hallway, rifle slung around his chest and raised. A door at the end opened, and he fired, running forward, adrenaline pushing a yell from his throat. When he ran out of ammo, he grabbed one of the grenades, clamped his teeth around the pin, and sent it through the doorway, then he let the rifle in his hand dangle from the strap and grabbed a spare one. As soon as the grenade detonated, he was through the doorway, firing.

His legs carried him fast—faster than he realized. By the time the remaining guards opened fire on him, he was yards ahead. He exchanged the spent rifle for a fresh one from a dead man along the way and sailed up a staircase, aiming high and taking out the guards firing from above.

Bullets ricocheted around him. He felt the sting of one along his left ribcage, another in his right thigh, but adrenaline and whatever the hell Zola had done to him kept him going. The sirens clanged, echoing between the metal walls, assaulting his ears. He kept moving at an impossible speed, having no idea where he was going, just going going going, and firing, taking out as many men as he could.

He had no idea how he was still alive. He never expected to make it this far, but he took advantage of the situation. As he rounded a corner, he took out two more men. One ran.

Bucky discarded his rifles for the two fresh ones and kept moving. A splash of white up ahead. He fired. A scientist collapsed to the floor. Footsteps to his right, he turned, fired, mowed them down.

Was this what Steve felt like? Senses finely tuned, reflexes wound like a spring, pinpoint accuracy?

Two floors up, and somehow, he was still alive. Swapping out another rifle, he still hadn't used his handgun or remaining grenade. Rounding a corner, he spotted the dark uniform of another guard, raised his rifle, and, as his brain registered the face, shifted the muzzle at the last second. Bullets ricocheted off the metal wall near Pavel's head.

The kid dropped on reflex, arms covering his head. Moving forward, Bucky pressed the muzzle into his skull. He felt a bit bad about it, but the guy couldn't complain much. He was alive, after all.

"Easy kid, just point toward the exit, and I don't kill you," Bucky growled.

Pavel lifted a shaking hand and pointed down the hall to the right. Bucky took off. There was only one way to go, and he careened around a corner, saw another flight of stairs heading up, and leapt to the top in a single bound.

The footsteps on the metal decks gave away positions, which made taking out approaching guards easy. It also gave his position away, but with his newfound agility, he could cover more ground faster than any of them and leap up stairs to avoid telegraphing his position.

He spotted two thick metal doors up ahead. No way could he break those down. A man in a tan jacket saw him and turned to run. Bucky aimed his muzzle a few inches lower and took the man's legs out, then leapt and came down next to him, muzzle at his head.

"How do I open these?"

"You can't." The man curled into a ball, hands shaking. "Lockdown."

A foot to the man's face sent him out. Dead or unconscious, Bucky didn't know. His strength was new, and he was figuring it out on the fly. A clatter from behind him had him spinning around. He was pinned. Reaching across his body, he grabbed the remaining grenade. They were coming from below. Teeth holding the pin, he yanked it out and sent the grenade in their direction.

There was a control panel to the right of the doors. He fired at it, sending sparks everywhere, but the doors held. Time to try brute strength. Angling his shoulder, he rammed one side of it. Again and again. The metal creaked. His shoulder screamed in pain, but he ignored it. If this was the way out, he might just make it. If—

The doors gave, bringing light and frigid air. He ran.

Into ice.

White stretched as far as the eye could see. He stopped, feet sinking into hard snow, and spun around. There was nowhere to go.

Where the hell was he?

Men spilled out of the bunker, their rifles raised. He spun toward them, raising his own. An energy cannon aimed toward him. He stood his ground, chest heaving, feet blocks of ice in the snow.

Two men in the center parted. Karpov emerged, hands in the air. "Well done, soldier." He clapped slowly. "A valiant attempt, but as you can see, there is nowhere to go. If you run, the ice will get the better of you, and then we will find you…alive or dead, one way or another."

"Where am I?" Bucky aimed the rifle at Karpov's head.

"Siberia. Far, far away from civilization."

Warm blood dripped down Bucky's right thigh, pooling into a crimson puddle on the ice. He was at the end of the line. Thank God.

At least he'd die breathing fresh air with the weak kiss of sunlight on his face. He took a moment longer to relish it. Even freezing, being outside felt wonderful. He tilted his head back and indulged in a look at cloudy sky as he swung the rifle up.

"FIRE!" Karpov yelled.

Dozens of rifles fired, but instead of bullets, his torso and legs erupted with the pain of countless tiny needles. He looked down as he held the rifle beneath his chin, saw himself covered in orange darts, and felt himself fading, falling.

He tried to squeeze the trigger, but his fingers no longer worked. He fell sideways into the ice, his hand dropping limply from the weapon, and saw Karpov's black boots walking toward him before unconsciousness claimed him.

-0- -0- -0-

Frantic voices barking panicked Russian pulled him from consciousness.

Then English with a German accent. Zola. "Already? Impossible. His metabolism is faster than expected."

Bucky's head felt like cotton. His thigh, side, and bicep ached. The feel of cool metal was tight against his arms and legs. His heart pounded. He clawed awake fighting, an angry scream boiling from his lungs.

Men surrounded him, several with guns, others in lab coats. His arm was wrapped by three metal cuffs rising from his wrist to his elbow that were attached to separate, heavy-duty bolts set into a metal floor. He was on his knees, once again naked. His ankles were shackled to the floor, giving him no slack to move his legs. A grate the size of a dinner plate was set into the floor a few feet away. He felt something around his neck, and several chains descended from there, too. He could see one in front, two on either side, and as he tugged, he felt at least a couple more behind him.

A camera blinked at him from high in a corner.

A click behind him told him one of the cuffs had just been clamped closed. He'd woken up faster than they intended, but not fast enough, unfortunately. He pulled against the chains on his arm with everything he had, releasing a frustrated scream as his arm protested. Digging his toes into the floor, he pushed up. The restraints dug into his skin, arm, and collar bone. Metal creaked. His arm snapped upward.

A needle in the back of his neck and a slither of cool beneath his skin had him reaching behind him, his hand grabbing fabric. He yanked a body forward. The intern in the lab coat sailed through the air and landed with a hard thud against the far wall, bouncing off and collapsing on the floor, leaving a spray of blood behind. He didn't move.

The room spun, but he clung to consciousness.

"Bind his arm again." Zola's voice to his left. "Double the restraints."

A hood came over his head. More clamps fastened around his arm. Chains clattered. He struggled, tried to pull free, but whatever additional drug they'd pumped into him was doing its job.

"I'm gonna….k'lyou." He slurred. Were they even words?

"Not so much a lamb, are you?" Karpov's voice came from the rear. "Like a battle horse, the most valuable ones to tame are those with fire in their blood."

"Test it out, first setting." Zola again.

A high hum rose, like the sound of an energy canon powering up. Anticipation tingled along on the hairs of his arm and legs. They obviously had no intention of killing him, which meant whatever they were testing—

Something blunt pressed into his right side, lighting his torso on fire. He grunted against the unexpected pain, then breathed through the tingling after effects.

"A new device derived from one of the energy cells you helped us manufacture in the factory, Sergeant."

"Not Sergeant, anymore," Karpov corrected. "Just Soldier."

"Of course," Zola replied.

"Shall we see what setting two does?" Karpov suggested.

The device hit him again in the same spot, and this time his entire body seized. When it was over, he caved forward. The only thing keeping him upright on his knees were the chains.

"You killed twenty-two men in your escape attempt." Karpov's voice was closer now, just behind Bucky's left ear. "Quite impressive. You'll help breathe new strength into Hydra."

"I missed two." Bucky huffed through the lingering effects of the device. "Next time, I won't."

"Let me guess, me and your old friend, Arnim Zola?" Karpov replied coolly. "I'd expect no less. Of course, there won't be a next time, you realize? We've got a revised curriculum prepared for you. It starts now. In a few days, I'm sure you'll have a new perspective."

"Make sure you record the rate of wound healing," Zola stated.

"Of course." This time it was Doctor Amsel's voice.

A hand slapped the back of his head lightly. "Quite remarkable, really." Karpov's warm, calloused hand came down on Bucky's bare shoulder. "Your bullet wounds are mending at an incredible rate. They barely slowed you down. You will make a remarkable asset, once you have been fully…reconditioned."

-0- -0- -0-

His reconditioning entailed more sleep and sensory deprivation. How long would it take before they realized the same old tactics weren't going to work? When would they give up and put a bullet in his head?

The hood remained over his head and a monotone voice blaring from overhead speakers tried to teach him Russian. "Gun. Pistolet. Yes. Da." He already knew that one, thank you very much. "No. Nyet." Like he was an idiot. "Kill. Ubistvyo." What he would do to Karpov and Zola if he had a second chance. "Obey. Podchinyayetsya." In your dreams, Pal.

He went without food, water, or a toilet with no idea how much time passed. When he pissed, some of the urine went into the grate, the rest pooled around his legs. He'd stopped smelling it long ago. Without food, he wasn't having to take a crap.

Small favors.

He'd lost all feeling in his legs. He had only enough slack in the chains to switch position from a straight kneel to rocking back so his butt rested on his heels. He did that a few times an hour to keep as much circulation as he could in his legs.

Didn't the bastards know their asset would need two functioning legs? Maybe he'd teach them a lesson and stay with his butt on his heels until the circulation was completely cut off and they had to amputate both of his legs. That'd teach them.

It's not like whatever prosthetic they had for his arm would be as useful as his real one. There was no way they'd be able to replace his legs. He'd be a useless Hydra asset without them.

Not a bad idea. Hell of a way to go–slow and painful–but his options were severely limited.

He rocked back on his heels and stayed there. Hour after miserable hour. His legs went from numb, to achy, to numb again. Periodically, he heard footsteps around him, the scribble of pen on paper. The hum of the device they'd used–sometimes close to his ear, other times he'd feel someone in front of him, close, feel a sizzle of energy in front of his groin.

They enjoyed fucking with him.

Someone apparently figured out what he was doing, because he felt the tip of a pointy object run along the sole of each foot. A needle jabbed into his neck, just beneath the edge of the hood, and whatever they gave him was enough to knock him out.

When he came to, he knew instantly he'd been repositioned. The chains on the front of his neck were shorter. A strap was around his chest now, tugging him forward, forcing him into a straight kneel.

It felt like hundreds of knives were slicing into his legs. His knees ached. Whatever movement they'd done had restored enough circulation to bring sensation back to his flash.

Agonizing sensation.

Eventually, that, too, faded to a dull ache. The voice from the ceiling was moving on to teaching him Russian words for transportation devices. "Car. Avtomobil. Truck. Gruzovaya mashina."

"Hey!" he yelled. "How would I say 'Stalin is a gink' in Russian?"

The tip of the device touched his shoulder. He grunted. Level one. Easy as pie.

His stomach made its complaints known. Fuck, he should not have thought about pie.

As the hours stretched on, the voice from the ceiling started over from the beginning. "Gun."

Pistolet.

That one was easy enough, but after a few more, he realized he knew them all. Every single word, after hearing them only once. Steve had memorized the map in Zola's office after seeing it for a couple of seconds. Damn, this was some serum.

It would have come in handy back in school. Even Mr. Anderson would've been impressed.

The relentlessness continued, until he couldn't feel his body at all. He was floating in a dark void with the echo of words bouncing around his skull. The blunt thing would touch him, level one, and yank him back to his body for a few minutes, before he descended back to the void.

The blunt thing seemed to sense when he was in the void because it never let him stay there for long before striking like a snake with a bite as fast as lightning.

It bit him so many times, he became immune to its venom, and so it slithered off and returned with its big brother that had a strike that burned like fire.

"A strong heart will take ye further than any physical strength. A strong heart means ye'll never quit." He knew that Irish lilt.

Hello, Mrs. Rogers. I ain't quittin', not yet, but I wouldn't mind so much if my heart did. Maybe the big guy would even let me up there. Sure would be nice to see you and Steve again.

How long could a human go without water? He kept peeing. How was he peeing if he didn't have water? Maybe they'd put an IV in him. Had he felt a needle? He couldn't remember. Then again, he'd been out for a bit. Maybe they put it in then.

The place must stink to high heaven. Serves them right. He couldn't smell it, but he sure as hell hoped they got the full effect every time one of them walked into the room. Maybe it'd seep into their hair and clothes, follow them around like a case of the clap.

Reality shifted, and he was in the ring throwing a right hook at Joe Louis.

"Watch his left!" Steve called from outside the ring.

A shock of ice snapped him back to the present. It came again—a rush of water so cold it instantly stole his breath.

"What are you today? A little lamb or a soldier?" Karpov's voice from behind.

Something felt different….His neck. The collar was different. Thicker and wider. He must have been really out if they were able to switch out the restraint without him waking.

"I think maybe you're a lamb today, no?" Karpov prodded.

Bucky smiled, a tight, angry smile that stretched his face beneath the hood. Karpov had a little lamb, little lamb, little lamb. Karpov had a little lamb that bit his fucking dick off.

"You find something funny, little lamb?"

Was he laughing? His shoulders were shaking. Check. Good. Let Karpov wonder what the joke was.

The hood was yanked off, and even the dim light in the room hurt his eyes. He blinked against it to take in the six figures in the room. Zola, in the corner near the door. The coward. Always ready to make a quick escape. Dr. Amsel was near the opposite wall, clipboard in hand.

Two guards stood in front of him—Pavel, who quickly averted his gaze, and Dimitri with a long, thick baton that had two prongs sticking out of the end. It looked like a good candidate for the device they kept hitting him with. Bucky knew Karpov was behind him. The sound of breathing told him there was a second person behind him as well, a guard, most likely.

"The collar around your neck is powered by the same energy cell that powers Hydra's canon guns and the stun baton," Karpov said. "It can be activated remotely."

Message received. Don't try anything. Not that he could. He'd had nothing more than momentary fits of sleep in…days? weeks? No food.

He couldn't even feel his body.

Karpov was in front of him suddenly, a revolver in his hand. "It seems you have something of a friend here? Someone who had been sneaking you treats."

Pavel stiffened.

"Even pointed out the exit for you?"

Shit. Bucky didn't dare look at Pavel in confirmation. It wasn't much, but it was the least he could do for the kid.

"Take this gun and shoot the traitor."

Pavel tried to bolt, but Dimitri was faster with the baton, jabbing it into the kid's side. He dropped like a bag of potatoes—hard and limp.

Damnit. Damnit. Damnit. Okay, so the kid was Hydra, or at least Hydra adjacent, but maybe not unsalvageable. Except that he was now, because Karpov was going to have him killed.

And he wanted Bucky to do it.

That wasn't gonna happen. They could chain him, starve him, electrocute him….but he'd never let them turn him into a murderer. This wasn't like killing someone in war. This was killing a kid who somehow found himself in the wrong line of work and probably didn't know how to get out.

Pavel groaned as Dimitry cuffed his hands behind his back and yanked him to his feet. The kid swayed, his head forward. His eyes flickered up to Bucky, then to the gun hanging in Karpov's hand.

"Take this." Karpov held out the firearm. It has one bullet in it. Use it wisely. There is only one right choice. Any other choice will have repercussions."

"How do you expect me to take it with–" he looked down and realized his arm was unshackled, and there was an IV line taped to the back of his hand. They were, apparently, determined to keep him alive. The IV line also meant they could pump whatever shit they wanted into his system at any time.

The collar hummed to life with a split second sizzle that had him grunting. A warning.

"Take the gun."

Bucky's arm felt like limp spaghetti, but somehow he raised it. Karpov placed the gun in his hand. Bucky's palm wrapped around the metal barrel, his finger rested against the trigger.

He weighed his options. Three targets. One bullet, if Karpov was telling the truth. The gun felt light, but it would if it only had one round.

Target one: himself. They were no doubt ready for that, but he bet he could be faster this time even with a noodle for an arm. He was motivated, after all.

Target two: Zola. Rid the world of the rat bastard once and for all. Take his evil mad scientist mind out of the equation.

Target three: Karpov. The guy just had it coming.

He had made a promise. Zola was still in the corner by the door. One shot, and Hydra would lose its twisted version of Howard Stark.

Or one bullet to his own head, and all this would be over for him. Maybe God would show him mercy and he'd get to see Steve again. And Sarah.

Decisions, decisions, decisions.

Was the gun really loaded? Time to find out. He jerked his arm up, swinging the muzzle toward Zola, and fired. It clicked.

Nothing.

He huffed a defeated breath and dropped it to the floor.

"Repercussions." Karpov pulled the gun from his holster and fired at Pavel, hitting him in the right knee cap.

The flesh exploded with a spray of chunks and blood. Pavel dropped to the floor, landing on his side.

Godamnit. Bucky averted his gaze. He couldn't watch this.

Pavel's scream filled the room, then, after a moment, quieted.

"Look at him, soldier, or I'll make his suffering last longer."

Fuck Karpov and all of Hydra. "I'm going to gut you like a fish," Bucky growled at Karpov, but did as he was told.

He believed the colonel. The kid was already paying the ultimate price for his soft heart. The least Bucky could do was not make it worse.

"You disobeyed," Karpov said flatly. "This is the consequence. Had you fired the gun at the proper target, I would have made it quick for the young man. A single shot to the head."

Pavel's face was twisted in pain. He looked up at Bucky, eyes wide and almost…apologetic.

Fuck, kid, how'd you get involved with these psychos?

Karpov was going to murder the kid right in front of him. If he weren't chained to the floor, he could….

He wrapped his hand around one of the chains going to his neck and pulled. The collar sizzled to life, and he was vaguely aware of spasming like a dying fish, his hand clenched around the metal, his throat tight as his lungs screamed for air.

Then it was over, and his body deflated. The only thing holding him upright on his knees were the chains. His head hung forward, strings of long hair dangling around his face. He was useless. A helpless slab of suped-up flesh, a dog that couldn't break its chains.

Please, God, show the kid some mercy. He can't be older than twenty. He hasn't even gotten to really live.

"I'm not sure if God is listening," Bucky said, dragging his head up enough to look at Pavel, to be there for him in some way, so he wouldn't die completely alone, "but I put in a good word for you just in case."

Pavel nodded, tilted his gaze to Karpov, and said, "Fuck Hydra."

Karpov fired. A spray of red spattered on the wall and a dark hole appeared in the center of Pavel's forehead. His head clattered to the floor, eyes open and staring lifelessly ahead.

They reshackled his arm and left him in the room, hood off, with Pavel's corpse on the floor fifteen feet away. Rigor mortis set in, and still they left the kid's body there, denying him even a proper burial. Then the skin took on a ghastly sheen, and little blisters appeared on his face, neck, and hands. His eyes bulged, still staring lifelessly as red spots appeared on the lower lids.

Hours stretched into days. Sleep came in sporadic, fleeting bits, always interrupted by a jolt from the collar, which told him that someone was watching him with the camera.

Then a new horror emerged. The corpse moved. An arm twitched. A leg twisted. The head shifted, the empty gaze coming to rest on a point around Bucky's chin.

Pavel blinked at him, and then it wasn't Pavel's horrid, discolored face, anymore. It was Steve, staring at him, accusing. The corpse spoke, and the voice was Steve's.

'What a disappointment. You blew the mission, and Zola's free because of you."

I'm sorry, Steve. It was true. All true. What a fucking screwup.

'Look at you," dead Steve continued. "Chained like an animal. You blew the mission, you blew the escape attempt, and you couldn't even manage to kill yourself.'

I know. I know. I know. God, I know.

He tumbled into a restless sleep. Private Paulie Simmons was eating a hoagie on a park bench. "Hey, Sarge, you want some?" He held it out, but it smelled rotten. A black goo oozed from the discolored meat and dripped onto the ground.

A jolt from the collar pulled him back to himself. The corpse was still there, bloated now and filling the room with a putrid scent. Bucky's empty stomach revolted, and he gagged, but nothing came up. The eyes and lips were black, and the uniform bulged beneath the expansion of decaying flesh.

The door opened. Two masked men entered, dressed in medical gowns with thick rubber gloves and boots. They carried a stretcher and lifted the corpse—Pavel's corpse, not Steve's, not Steve's, not Steve's–onto the stretcher and carried him away.

A cleaning crew came in with buckets and mops and worked around him as if he wasn't chained to the floor. They wiped away the putrid mix of blood, urine, and decay juices. When they left, two guards entered, one carrying a metal bucket and followed by another masked, gowned figure with female curves. She held a mop in her hand with short, looped cotton fibers.

The guard set the metal bucket, filled with foamy water, on the floor. Then the woman set about with the mop and scrubbed Bucky as though he were part of the floor, and goddamnit, the water was warm and felt good. He closed his eyes as she worked his chest, back, and ribs. He no longer felt the pain of his wounds. He hadn't even thought to check out his thigh when Karpov removed the hood, but he didn't notice a bullet wound.

Had it already healed? How long had he been chained?

The mop pressed into the back of his neck, then his head, and he didn't realize he'd fallen asleep until he was startled awake by a jab between his legs.

He flinched, eyes springing open, as she worked between his thighs, into his groin, not being particularly gentle, but not overly aggressive, either, just matter-of-fact and diligent like someone washing a car.

He couldn't even bother to be embarrassed about it.

Finally, she left, taking the mop and bucket with her. Karpov entered, a tray of food in his hands. The smell hit Bucky instantly and awakened his screaming stomach. Another guard followed with a metal chair in his hands. He set it in front of Bucky, the legs a few inches beyond the chains, out of reach.

Karpov took the seat, the tray on his lap. Bucky's eyes went to the piles of slop on the metal plates—brown and gray—next to a spoon. Mystery food, but it smelled as enticing as any meal his mother had ever cooked.

"Are you hungry?" Karpov asked

Yes! Yes! God, he was hungry. So fucking hungry.

"I'm going to feed you. Try anything, and you go another day without food or sleep."

He nodded, his gaze glued to the food three feet away. He strained toward it, held back by the chains. Karpov lifted a spoonful of the brown slop and brought it to Bucky's lips. Some part of Bucky revolted against letting Karpov spoon feed him, but his stomach and the primal part of his brain took over, and he dutifully opened his mouth, swallowing the offering eagerly.

His stomach churned, angry, demanding more.

"Good little lamb," Karpov praised. "Another?"

Bucky nodded.

"Ask me."

He opened his mouth, tried to get sound out, but he hadn't used his voice in….how long? His throat was scratchy, tight. He pushed out a gravelly croak. "P'ls."

"What was that, little lamb?"

"Please."

Stop begging, a voice in his head demanded. Fuck off! something desperate inside growled.

Karpov gave him another heaping spoonful and smiled. "I'm glad to see your perspective has shifted. I'll tell the doctors their regiment seems to be doing the trick this time." Karpov glanced at the IV in Bucky's hand, then brought up another spoonful.

It tasted like butter and potatoes, then slid down Bucky's throat like a gift from heaven.

He's breaking you. He's winning. Bucky pushed the voice aside. Shut up!

There are drugs. They're drugging you. They keep you awake. They're taking control of your mind.

Shut up! He ate another glorious spoonful.

What if Steve's up there, watching you grovel?

He blinked, vision going blurry, eyes on the spoonful coming toward him. He opened his mouth, let it all in, relishing the divine taste, then took a breath through his nose and spewed it onto Karpov's face.

Karpov wiped a hand over his face and set the tray down calmly, then stood, towering over Bucky and delivered a firm slap. Bucky huffed, half sob, half chuckle, as he stared at the plate of unfinished food.

A hand grabbed his chin, fingers tight, and the pronged baton was shoved into his mouth, pushed back to his throat until he was gagging, trying to pull away, stopped by the chains. Karpov glared down at him, baton held at a firm angle.

"We'll get the chemical restraints worked out before your surgery, but this should give you something to think about."

The baton sizzled with energy.

Bucky was suddenly somewhere else, in the void, looking through a long tunnel, and at the end of the tunnel was his body, flailing within the cage of chains as muffled screams escaped around the baton shoved into his mouth. The tunnel closed around him, suffocating, pressing in, until there was nothing but silence and darkness.

Author's Note:

Hang on. We're not even at the halfway mark of this story, but there is light coming up around the bend a few chapters ahead.