When she'd awoken, she had no idea she was in a new location. In truth, it'd taken her a few hours to realize she was in a new cell. This one had a cot, and the toilet was in a different corner.
She figured at first, it was just a different room in whatever base she'd been kept at before, but it was different. The floor, the walls, the sounds. Although she never saw the building she was in before, this one felt… low. Like a basement or a sublevel. She wasn't sure how she could tell, but she was almost certain she was underground.
That wasn't much help though, it didn't give her any information to go off of, like how far from Pym particles she was, or how she would possibly get back to that S.H.I.E.L.D. base.
Another terrifying thought.
One that she did her best from overtaking her, although the pit of helplessness grew.
And it grew for what felt was years without the help of a clock, light, or schedule to keep her temporally positioned.
The only time she came in 'contact' with anyone, was when the slat beneath the door slid open for food.
It was no longer hard tack, but some type of loaf that Marlow was pretty sure had meat in it, but she couldn't be sure. It was bland and dense and every once in a while, she'd get a hard chunk of fat that would make her gag.
She'd always hated the chewiness of fat.
So, she tried to let her worries be of the little things; the nasty chunks of fat in her loaf, the lumpiness of the mattress, the inability to scroll through Twitter.
If she focused on those things, the thoughts of being stranded in 1970 were pushed to the peripheral and she could continue being naïve.
Because she was getting out of there. She just hadn't figured out how yet.
⁂
She decided that it had only been a week since she'd arrived when the cell door finally opened.
A week because she could mentally deal with a week. She knew she'd been fed at least seven times, but no more than thirty based on the paper cups she piled into triangle towers near the door. A week, because if she pretended that these people weren't complete monsters, she could say they fed her four times a day. Right?
Right.
A nagging at the back of her head reminded her that they were, in fact, monsters, and they most certainly hadn't fed her four times a day—let alone once a day—but she held her calculation.
The words barked outside her door though, were another issue entirely.
What Cold War era groups in the U.S. would be speaking Russian?
Fanatics, she suggested to herself.
Fanatics who followed Hydra and who are camped out in America and awaiting orders. Because that made more sense than her being in Russia. That made the ball of anxiety in her stomach calm down a little.
"Good morning, ptichka," a dark haired man drawled as he walked into the cell, eyes landing on the spot where Marlow sat against the wall.
"Finally," she wheezed, voice rough from disuse, "I've been waiting to place my breakfast order for hours."
Interestingly, the man laughed, apparently amused by her antics. "I heard you were… boltlivyy, that you talk too much, but never say the right things. Lippy, I think the word is in English."
"That's an understatement," she agreed.
"I am going to explain something to you, ptichka. I am going to ask questions, you answer. That is it. You know how this works. If you do not answer, you talk to the Soldat. I will give you a chance to answer without him, but it won't last. If the ptichka doesn't sing willingly, I will find a way to make her. Understand?"
"I never had much of a singing voice."
Finally, a spark of anger.
He reached forward in a flash, grabbing her cheeks the same way Richardson had.
What's with men grabbing my face?
"I only have so much patience for naglost. Make it easy for yourself, uh?"
Now that he was close, she saw he had pale blue eyes, so pale that they barely looked like they had color. And his startling features were only made more severe by the scar that tore from the middle of his jaw up to his right ear.
But she didn't let that sway her.
She just smiled beneath his fingers, cheeks pushing into her line of sight.
"Where are you from?" he asked before ripping his hand away.
"I was born in Sandusky, Ohio. Lived there before moving to Germany for work at eighteen. Stayed there a few years before going to New York. Wasn't even there a month before I was so rudely taken against my will."
"When were you born."
"January 14th, 1948."
"Where did you get your suit?"
"Captain America gave it to me."
"Captain America?" the man laughed, "you Americans are so uncreative with your names. Now, who gave you the suit?"
"Captain America," she repeated pointedly.
There was a pause before she got a swift backhand to the cheek.
"My patience is dropping ptichka. How does the suit work?"
"You think I know?" she asked airily, still partially dazed from the hit.
"Richardson said that it appeared on you. How did that happen?"
"All I know is that the suit is made of tiny little robots. Not sure how it works," she answered, hoping her response was outlandish enough for him to not believe her.
She didn't know much, but she knew that the suit was linked to her EEG's, meaning she was the only one who could activate it, but past that, she was telling truth; she had no idea how the technology worked. It wouldn't be hard to reprogram it though, even in this time period.
"Tiny robots? Were the tiny robots made by elves?" the man chided.
"Not that I know of."
Another back hand.
"What is the suit for?"
"It's based off Hank's design," she said evasively.
"Who made it?"
"I—don't—know," she grit, each word emphasized.
The man let out a roar, grabbing her neck and hauling her up without warning, not giving her even a second to take a breath before she was slammed into the cinderblock wall behind her.
"This is your last chance, who do you work for and who made that suit."
He released the pressure on her neck just slightly, enough for her to gasp out a response.
"I don't work for anyone, and I don't know who made the suit."
Her vision was a blur as she was thrown to the ground, shoulder and hip hitting cement before she could even think to catch herself. A whimper of pain escaped her as heavy footsteps receded, giving her a few moments to catch her breath and feel the full force of that fall.
"Zimniy Soldat, idite syuda!"
Once again, she was shocked by the eyes that met hers. They were so empty.
Last time she'd been too focused on the fact that it was her friend that she hadn't even processed that it was her friend without will or agency.
As she watched him come to a stop beside the Russian man, she was hit with the inhumanity of what was happening to him.
It may not have been her Bucky, but it was Bucky.
In forty years, he would escape, he would be on the run, framed for murder, he would meet her, fight in Wakanda, fight in New York.
But right now, he was a slave to them, and not even given the dignity to know it. He was a vessel. And she could see it in his eyes.
"The Soldat just returned from a mission. We thought that before he went under, he could partake in this little interrogation," the Russian man explained, looking at Bucky with pride. "Soldat," he said simply, spurring Bucky to stalk towards the girl, flesh hand reaching to pull her up by the hair.
Once standing, she couldn't tear her eyes away from Bucky's.
It's not him, is all she could repeat in her mind.
Not Bucky.
Not Bucky.
Not Bucky.
"Who do you work for?"
"No one," she hissed, partially at the pain in her scalp, and partially in indignance.
"Soldat."
She couldn't imagine getting shot was much different from the pain she felt at being punched by Bucky's metal arm. Or the burn she felt in her rib cage that she suspected was a broken rib.
Richardson had kept the beating rather clean; no metal arm for the only reason that Marlow could assume was as not to kill her.
This guy was obviously not worried.
She didn't even think that was the hardest he could punch.
"Who do you work for?"
"No one," she wheezed, "I don't work for anyone."
This time, the Russian didn't have to say anything. Bucky just forced her face downwards and into his awaiting knee.
She practically went limp at the impact, knee's giving out and having to grab at Bucky to keep herself somewhat upright. If he cared about the contact, he made no indication, only standing menacingly still as the room filled with Marlow's gasping breaths.
"I'm telling you the fucking truth, God damn it," she grunted, finally getting herself righted. Only to be thrown backwards into the wall, Bucky's hand moving to the front of her throat to keep her still.
Tears burn her eyes at the radiating pain from her spine and skull, mouth dropping open but unable to even make a sound because of the pain.
"Where did you get the information on the Soldat. And the rest of the information you have on Hydra?"
She tried to make sense of the words, to form a coherent sentence that didn't involve time travel, but she couldn't. Her eyes squeezed shut as she thought, trying to force her brain into submission.
"Where did you get your information?" he repeated.
She stayed silent. Unwilling to risk them learning about the suit. It's easier than she thinks, what with focusing on the pain that comes with Bucky slamming her into the wall again.
She was pretty sure that the Russian asked questions, but she was also pretty sure she has a concussion, meaning his words held no weight. Even as each hit risked a broken bone or bleeding out, she didn't answer. Maybe he was actually speaking Russian, she wasn't sure. She was too dazed—so close to blacking out but never getting the satisfaction—to even try to think about what he was asking.
The minutes that stretch until the hits finally stopped were indeterminable, but when she was finally left to lay on her side, she was unable to keep her eyes open any longer, letting the pain pull her into a state of unconsciousness.