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CHAPTER SEVEN
So Cold
... ... ...
~ Siberia, Russia 1946 ~
In some vague, indistinct way, he knew there was a vastness to the world. Enough to understand just how much it had reduced down to become a raw knot of pain.
In a throbbing stupor he stared up at the ceiling, focused on the blotchy, beige-brown rings of the water stain radiating outward from a seam between panels. Was this hell? Was he dead? He didn't know. He had no idea how long he had been there, strapped to this cold metal table. Time had ceased to hold any meaning. As had most everything else.
A high, unsettling whine reached his ears – mechanical in nature, he thought. Followed in an instant by the teeth-gritting noise of two surfaces grinding together, and a stabbing pain radiating up from his left shoulder, streaking straight into his skull where it collected, built, swelled and burst like an aneurism.
He greeted the reprieve with a rattling sob, his lungs constricting in sharp, hard spasms.
He hadn't been trained to resist torture. Not enough to matter. Not outside the command to retain his silence. He knew only what instinct told him – to endure, to fill his urges to speak and make everything stop with something else.
But in order to do that he must have something else with which to fill those moments.
Desperately he reached. With every burning part of him he reached, fingers scrabbling against slick steel, mind gripping to what seemed like a gauzy ribbon of smoke in his head, drifting upon a breeze to carry it just out of range. He didn't understand it. Things that had been all but burned into his consciousness retained all the solidity of ice – sturdy enough until he tried to grasp it, whereupon it melted, running down his proverbial fingers in useless drops. He didn't know how to stop it. Stop any of it.
"—three, two…Barnes, Ja—five…seven…"
"No, no. The damage is too intensive, see?"
He turned his head, swallowing down the swooping pull of nausea this created, trying to locate whoever had spoken. His vision was too blurry see anything beyond the faint, rough-hewn shapes in degrees of light and shadow and color. Vaguely humanoid shapes. Perhaps the dull gleam of metal?
"…S-Sergean—five, seven…seven—"
"Take it all the way up to the joint."
Again the awful grinding noise. The sound alone tangible as a knife set to his teeth and bones, measuredly pressing, trying to peel the outer surface from them like one might have the skin from an apple.
Pain bloomed like the unfurling of rose petals. Everything in him seized, contracted. The reeking taste of copper pooled in his mouth, and it wasn't clear whether he gagged upon it, or upon his own screams.
...
~ Siberia, Russia 1947 ~
His head felt packed with brick, heavy and cumbersome as it lolled to one side. Eyelids fluttered. Parted. Everything around him was consumed by a blazing white light, so bright that it seemed to sear through his pupils and burn holes straight into his brain.
He squinted, attempting to balance out the piercing light with enough dark of his own making, but could make out little beyond the indistinct forms, outlines, and shapes.
White light.
White sheets.
White snow…
No. Not snow.
The blurred, ovular shape of heads atop bodies draped in pale blue turned, angling toward him brought the itching sensation of being watched. His head throbbed. His hands reflexively curling…and finding stiff cotton, not steel.
He was not bound.
"Hello, Sergeant Barnes."
Why did his left side feel so heavy? So much heavier than the right.
"You are to be the new Fist of HYDRA."
He blinked once, twice, his eyes adjusting to the burning light as – with effort that tore at his neck and chest – he lifted his heavy head.
Not far enough to see.
Trembling, nerves tingling with the needle-prick pain of prolonged numbness, he lifted his hands, his arms. Something flashed silver at his left. Slowly, with the swaying, unsteady liquidity of the drunken he looked, staring at the metallic gleam of his left hand, the glint of light upon the blade of a knife, but wrong.
Wrong…
He turned his wrists and blinked, trying to clear the odd illusion from his eyes. The movement was sluggish, the mechanics of the joints clogged or sticking, the sense of connection to his own body seeming off. It was as though parts of him had been re-wired like a car engine but a few had been forgotten, left to dangle useless.
The colored blur to the left of the examination table moved – the collected shapes which comprised a person aligning within his mind's eye as the doctor turned to him. A lean man, with dark, close-cropped hair neatly combed, parted, and graying at the temples. An angular face. A pale blue lab coat over crisp shirt and tie.
The face went hazy as it moved closer. The man leaning over him, hand rising to land soft and careful as a butterfly upon a flower to run along the arm-shaped column of silver.
He felt the faint pressure of it. The heat of skin. But it was wrong…
"The integration is...spectacular."
The man leaned closer still, wire-rimmed spectacles doing nothing to hide the gray eyes behind, nor the fascination and satisfaction within them.
His head was pounding. As if great hands had taken it between them and were slowly squeezing, fit to crush his skull. There was a dull, pounding throb in his temples, his chest tight, his ribs suddenly too heavy by far for his lungs to lift and fill.
Confusion flickered and burst into lightning spark of panic.
A faint rhythmic chirping joined the throb in his head, the tempo building, quickening to a near-frenetic pulse as if in time to the heart shuddering in his chest.
"Look at the phalangeal articulation," the man called over a shoulder, causing the two other human-shapes at the foot of the table to move nearer. "Both body and mind have accepted the replacement completely. All it took was to displace the recollection of—"
The pressure and heat increased, becoming a ring about his wrist. Turning. Pulling.
Let go, he thought, the words hot and searing, acid upon his tongue that he could not release. He couldn't make his mouth move, his throat work.
Another rising swell of panic hooking claws into his skin, dragging heavy at his lungs, surging thick in his veins.
He wanted it to stop – for all of it to stop. Wanted this stranger to get away from him.
And then he was breaking from the fragile shackle, the gleaming wrongness of his hand moving, so quickly that he couldn't trace it. Slicing through empty air to close metallic fingers around the soft, yielding column of the man's throat.
A wheezing gasp.
The clipboard cradled in the bend of the man's arm fell to the floor with a clatter, hands scrabbling, clawing and catching at the seams in the glossy surface.
Fibrous tissue crackled.
"Doctor Volin—"
"Put him back under—do it now!"
"Doctor Volin!"
Inarticulate voices joined the noise compounding in his skull, scattered pieces of words he only half understood.
A sharp slide of pain in his neck just as quickly gone. Replaced by a tingling cold.
His vision was splintering, the brilliant white light closing in from the edges. The pounding in his skull became a searing single note of whining agony. Reflexively trying to hold onto consciousness, his fist tightened.
A meaty, snapping crunch.
The man went limp, dangling from his grip like a broken doll.
Whiteness swallowed by black.
And silence.
...
~ Yekaterinburg, Russia 1952 ~
He gained entry to the house through the south portico, with the aid of a thin metal file and pick to coax the lock.
The lower levels were still and dark – deserted for hours now. The staff had all left for the night, by now tucked safe into their own beds in their own homes. The target would be in the study, directly above him. So said the schematics included in the dossier.
Utilizing the back stairs from the expansive kitchens, the Asset ascended to the third floor. He made not a sound as he stepped out into the long hall, plush carpets swallowing all hint of his careful tread, separating the soles of his boots from the hardwood floors. Unneeded to maintain his silence, but helpful nonetheless.
Light spilled from the partly-opened door directly to his right, the illuminated seams reminiscent of gouges in the hide of some great glowing beast – a comparison which had no practical merit, and was nudged aside to dissipate as quickly as it took form. A gloved hand lifted, fingers curling around the thick oaken edge above the ornate handle to push it slowly, carefully open.
The room, as the rest of the mansion, had been built and decorated in the pre-revolutionary style popular among the nobility. Neoclassical columns and intricate flourishes smoothly integrated with sumptuous Victorian excess. From the expansive bookshelves which comprised the walls to the tall, wide windows, Turkish carpeting, and ornate grandfather clock, to the great decorative desk of solid mahogany painstakingly carved with scenes depicting maidens and forest creatures. All of it to the taste of someone that had spent a great deal of time in poverty, only to overcompensate for the time lost once wealth was obtained.
As expected, the target was within; seated in a wing-backed armchair, face to the hearth and the dying fire within.
When the Asset stepped into the room, he made it a point for his foot to meet the bare space of floor where the carpets did not reach, intentionally allowing his weight to fall heavy.
The man in the chair startled at the sound. Gripping the arms of the chair, he turned, head jerking to locate the source. The face differed slightly from the snapshot included with the dossier. Thin graying hair entirely gone. A few more lines, cheeks closer to sunken than they once had been, the circles beneath the eyes etched deeper and bruise-dark. But eyes within shone keen and clear, belying the sharp mind beneath.
Those eyes landed upon the figure that loomed in the shadow-choked threshold and, interestingly, the startled surprise ebbed away. Thick fingers uncurled, releasing the scrolled arms of the chair as the old man leaned back.
"Ah…" he sighed, "I should have expected as much."
Thin lips curled in a sardonic smile.
"Perhaps I did. Arnim is not the sort of man comfortable knowing his secrets are shared by others."
Eyes trained to his target, the Asset moved deeper into the room, crossing the carpet with slow, measured steps.
The old man observed in seemingly unperturbed silence, at once contemplative and shrewd. "I wonder…" he mused softly, voice even and light.
Normally the way the man lifted his hands would have elicited a reactive response, urging the Asset to surge across the space and kick the chair back to disrupt the movement, or else seize the blade at his thigh and let it fly to pin one of those hands down. The inclination was acknowledged, and set aside.
"You'll have no difficulty," Commander Zola assured him, smile grimly satisfied behind thick spectacles. "By his own hand, Fenhoff is all but stripped of any weapon to fight you and he knows it."
The old man's right hand curved around his left, fingertips unexpectedly agile as they traced the heavy silver ring worn there. His gaze, trained on the Asset's face, rose imperceptibly. Mild gray eyes met bright blue.
"If I asked you, please, Soldat, to focus…"
Though the expression on Fenhoff's creased face was pleasant, his stare was intent. Knowing full what he was looking for, the Asset and also knew that the hypnotist would find nothing to seize hold of. He could run his mentalist tricks over the Asset as he might run his hands over marble and find no crack to squeeze between.
"…and give me your gun. Could you do that for me?"
A flicker of triumph crossed the old man's face when the Asset lifted a hand to reach for one of the many holsters at his belt. A triumph which faded as soon as it formed when that hand extracted not the firearm at the small of his back, but one of the thin, slender knives.
With a faint self-depreciative chuckle, Fenhoff dropped his hands back to the chair. "Of course not. You are much too sophisticated for something so crude."
Circling the chair, the Asset angled his head down, taking in the wine red dressing robe belted over fine nightshirt. Bare, bony shins and knobby ankles were visible between the hem and where feet disappeared into fur-lined slippers.
"Gde eto nakhoditsya?" the Asset demanded quietly.
Rather than answer, Fenhoff merely continued to observe him, running a hand over a soft and beardless chin.
Quick as a snake the Asset gripped his wrist and forced it down. Pressing palm flat to the sturdy wooden arm of the chair, he slid the narrow point of the knife just underneath the end of the middle fingernail – administering the faintest hint of pressure.
"Only once more. Where is it?"
"There is no need for such tactics," Fenhoff stated calmly, lifting his other hand in supplication. "What you seek is in the desk."
Releasing the old man's wrist, the Asset crossed back to the desk. The knife he kept unsheathed.
"There is a false bottom in the third drawer. You will find all of the pertinent notes and files there."
The drawer in question was cluttered with an assortment of pens, charcoal, loose sheet music, and other odds and ends. Without ceremony, the Asset removed the drawer from its seat with a calculated exertion of force to the frame and tipped the lot onto the tooled leather of the desktop. Locating the tiny catch, he pressed with the edge of his metal thumb, and coaxed the flat sliver of wood to slide free.
Underneath lay a small, worn cloth-bound book, and a file folder bulging with papers, secured with string.
Skimming both book and folder until he was sure everything he had been sent to retrieve was present and accounted for, the Asset set book and folder aside, and painstakingly returned the drawer to its prior state, down to the exact position of the crooked knob.
Papers and book tucked under one arm, he made his way back across the room to the fireside, eyes sliding over the little table to the right of the armchair. The tea tray there. The empty bone-china cup.
A kettle sat upon a brass warming stand, situated close to the coals. Reaching for it, the Asset lifted the lid, placing it and the papers upon the elaborately carved mantle. Extracting the tiny glass vial tucked into the protected pouch at his hip, he removed the stopper and held vial over open kettle, allowing three clear drops to fall within. Once the vial was safely to its pouch, he grasped the kettle by its handle, titanium fingers uncaring for the searing heat of the unshielded metal. Moving to the little table, he tipped the kettle to fill the empty cup.
Steam curled in gentle tendrils, creating a vaporous veil atop the pungent amber liquid.
For a moment the old man merely stared at it, as though he himself had become hypnotized by the sight. When he moved again, it was for his chest to expand and contract in a heavy breath.
"I see." The mild, pleasant voice was lightly resigned. "I suppose I shall be grateful for such merciful lack of violence."
Cradling the cup delicately between his hands, Fenhoff bestowed yet another considering glance up at the Asset.
"You know, I am as much a father to you as Arnim. And you are, without doubt, my finest work."
With a small, satisfied smile, he raised the cup to his lips, gently blew, and drank.
The Asset remained until color leeched from skin and breath ceased, until feeling for blood-beat resulted in only stillness and cold.
Retrieving the file and little book from the mantle, he tossed both into the flames which sparked, invigorated by fresh fuel. Then he left, as swiftly and silently as he had entered – leaving not a trace.
Little more than a ghost in the night.
NOTES:
So...this chapter is a bit weird. Originally it was going to be much longer, but then I realized my page count was going to be too high by the time I was finished, so I determined I'd have to split it up (good news is - I have 2/3 of the next one done already!). For this part, I wanted to give quick snapshot depictions of the shift in Bucky's mental state when becoming the Winter Soldier. I'm not sure it worked quite the way I wanted it to, and I got WAY carried away with the last chunk, but that's all right. I'm pretty happy with it anyway.
A few notes/thoughts, proceeding in order:
On the memorial piece for Bucky in the Smithsonian (the version in CAtWS, anyway), says that Bucky enlisted just after Pearl Harbor. But the Army serial number assigned to him, and that he's reciting in TFA when Steve finds and rescues him, indicates that he was drafted, not that he enlisted. This is probably an error, but we fans are ridiculous and deep-digging, and we noticed. So what does this mean? My headcannon is that he absolutely had to be drafted. We don't know the state of Bucky's family in the films like we do Steve's, but I imagine that if his father isn't dead, he was definitely injured in WWI and possibly not capable of working enough to support a wife and four children. I think Bucky would have had complicated feelings about the matter: feeling both that inclination to fight for what's right, but also not willing to leave his family and Steve, who all needed him, to do so. The complicated feelings could be the reason for the grim expression he has in TFA when telling Steve he got his orders, or it could be that he enlisted and only upon receiving the orders did it fully hit him what he would be leaving behind. I think that's up for interpretation depending on how one sees his character. In my head Bucky is something of a nurturer and didn't really buy into the propaganda of righteous American Exceptionalism and the glory of war when he had people to care for. But that's just me.
I shamelessly stole/corrupted one of the nameless doctors we see in the very rapid flashback when Bucky is being examined and repaired after the first fight with Steve in CAtWS. Because reasons like DRAMA, and because I have a weird obsession with integrating as much of the source material as I can in my fics. Technically speaking this doctor would have to be older than he appears in order for this to work mathematically, but whatever. Good genes. Fractured memory. Both and more. Anyway. Please just humor me!
In the first season of Agent Carter (If you haven't seen it) one of the main baddies is a Soviet psychiatrist and hypnotist who we see talking to Arnim Zola in an SSR jail cell at the end. While technically I don't think it's ever REALLY confirmed in canon, I personally find it very likely that this guy was involved in developing the Winter Soldier programming, and specifically formulating the list of activation words we see HYDRA use. I also see Zola wanting to keep the number of people who know this information to as few as possible (preferably himself), and once he's gotten what he needs from scientists, he eradicates any threat they may pose in the future. Just my headcanon (and, again, obsessive need to integrate all of the things)!
Anywho. More to come shortly!
As always - thank you to all of you who stop by to read. I appreciate so you very much. Thank you also to those of you who've left comments and started following. It is a lie that writers do what we do purely for ourselves, and the validation that the work we pour into our fanworks especially is enjoyed by others is...truly ridiculously rewarding. I don't know what the correlation is between the serotonin boost and the drive to do more faster, but I suppose one mustn't look that gift horse in the mouth. Either way, bless every single one of you. I adore you.
On that note, take care of yourselves. Be safe and be well.
Until next time!