The Omega Trials

by Samwise Baggins

Who would have thought than an innocent kiss on a hot summer's day would rock the world 83 years later?

20. Defiance

Chapter Title: Defiance

Author: Sam

Story: The Omega Trials: 20 of ?

Series: The Omega Rights (part two)

WARNING: Graphic rape and medical experimentation, along with war/ prison typical violence

Setting: AU: October 16 - November 3, 1943; Azzano, Italy and Austrian Alps, Austria

xxx

Translations:

Rendez-vous - Appointment - French

Repet, domnule! - Repeat, Sir! - Romanian

Da, domnule, mă predau. - Yes, sir, I surrender. - Romanian

en masse - in mass - French

Реци болесни и повређени ће ићи у изолацију. - Tell the ill and injured they will go to isolation. - Serbian

Singur? Pentru oamenii bolnavi? - Alone? Sick People? - Romanian

Приватна здравствена соба. - Private medical room - Serbian

Esti sârb? - Are you Serbian? - Romanian

Ne-am Serbia ia prizonier? - Did Serbia take us prisoner? - Romanian

Не, будало. Ви сте затвореник Хидра. Поздрав, Хидра! - No, fool. You are a prisoner of Hydra. Hail, Hydra! - Serbian

Hagel, Hydra! - Hail Hydra - German

Ви ћете радити за своју храну или ћеш умрети. - You will work for your food or you will die. - Serbian

Или се придружите славни Хидра! - Or join the glorious Hydra! - Serbian

Sergentul James Barnes, trei-două-cinci-cinci-șapte-zero,-trei-și-opt - Sergeant James Barnes, three-two-five-five-seven-zero-three-eight - Romanian

Jacques Dernier, Vive la France! - Jaques Dernier, long live France! - French

сте добили болестан, румунски. - you have gotten ill, Romanian. - Serbian

Фуцк иоу - Fuck you - Serbian

er wird auf die Isolierstation gehen oder ich werde ihn hier zu töten. - he will go to the isolation ward or I will kill him right here. - German

Cariad - Love - Welsh

Puis-je l'avoir? - May I have that? - French

Je vous remercie. Vous êtes ami m'a sauvé deux fois maintenant. Je n'oublierai pas. - Thank you. You're friend has saved me twice now. I will not forget. - French

Il est un homme bon . . . a un bon coeur, - He's a good man . . . with a good heart. - French

Et toi aussi. Que les anges venu pour lui rapidement. - And so are you. May the angels come for him swiftly. - French

xxx

Setting: AU: Saturday, October 16, 1943: Azzano, Italy and Austrian Alps, Austria

Folding the letter once more, Bucky slid the worn, dirtied pages into the envelope and tucked it into his shirt, next to his skin. The sound of shouting and gunfire distracted him, and the brunet looked back, over his head, though he could see little over the lip of the trench: night sky, trees, and stars, muted by explosions every once in awhile. It was so dark the soldier hadn't actually been able to see the words on his letter, but he knew them by heart. He'd actually been smelling the missive, not reading it; the sweet natural scent of his husband had faded from the paper, but Bucky still tried to get any sensation he could from the month-old correspondence - - letters came in so sporadically since the 107th had engaged the enemy at Azzano, Italy.

With a sigh, Bucky scooped up his rifle and paused, counting silently before he popped over the rim of the foxhole and fired on anything that moved out on the plain. He ducked back down and began drawing deep, quiet breaths to calm his racing heart. He didn't worry about accidentally shooting his own troops; only the enemy lay out there at the moment. The 107th, and reportedly several other allied units, had one goal at the moment: take the small base up the hill. After a set count, Bucky popped up, shot several rounds, then ducked back down. As he breathed, he waited and counted.

A small unit of Army Rangers had been scheduled to Rendez-vous with Bucky and his radioman Gabe Jones, a dark skinned musician who fortunately spoke both French and German. Once the Rangers arrived, Gabe, Bucky, and two other infantrymen would accompany them to scout the hill. Dum Dum, the red-haired brawler from Boston, would take a second small group shortly after and further to the east. But until their allies arrived and Bucky had something else to do, he and his men would keep up the wave of gunfire, protecting the ditch and hopefully taking down enemy soldiers at the same time. Beyond the ditch, over three more hills back away from the front, stood a command and medical camp rapidly deployed as support for this frontal assault.

As Bucky fired over the earthen barrier, a small group of people dropped over the back rise, each of them whispering "Ocelot Rainbow" as they moved. With relief at the familiar code, Bucky stopped firing and turned to the Rangers. "Two units of four each, scouting ahead," he suggested, receiving a nod from the lead Ranger.

Gabe pressed the button on his transmitter and said firmly, "Do not fire! I repeat, do not fire! Field is loaded! Do not fire, over!"

Once the word had been spread, Bucky slipped easily over the side of the trench, following the Ranger leading his small group, knowing that a few feet away and two minutes behind, Dum Dum and his group would follow.

Moving stealthily, carrying their weapons at the ready, the groups approached through fire, craters, and dead and wounded. Not allowing himself to be distracted, the brunet Sergeant refused to look at the men scattered broken on the ground; he could do nothing for them.

At the top of the hill, a firestorm of explosive mortars followed by a hail of hot lead and live grenades rained down on the scouts. "Retreat!" Bucky called, cursing himself for the trap they'd blindly slid into. The raid had ended before it had properly begun.

As mortars hit all around the small groups, earth and rock became deadly missiles. Fire roared up and the men of the scout parties had to turn and run back to their trenches. With a mighty leap, Bucky threw himself into the ditch, slamming against the far side with the force of his jump. Dum Dum and Gabe followed, along with the other five men.

Releasing a curse under his breath, Dum Dum looked at the younger sergeant, "There's gotta be at least five mortar companies out there"

Glancing over at their communications specialist, Bucky ordered, "Radio B company. Tell them we need cover." He glanced back up at the ridge before him.

Gabe grimaced and motioned towards the communication unit on his lap, smoking and completely useless, "That might be tough"

Dugan's eyes widened slightly as movement across from him caught his eye. "Bucky, behind you!"

A series of bullets strafed the trench as Bucky dodged. Dum Dum nearly got hit, but only his hat took the bullet, knocking it from his head. Gabe tossed the comm unit, ducking into a ball.

Bucky glanced over the rim, saw at least two platoons of soldiers, but he couldn't identify them in the dark. In warning he screamed, "Here they come!" and switched to the other side, next to Gabe, closest to where hill they'd failed to take.

Grumbling as he picked up his shot-off bowler, Dugan dusted off some of the dirt and stuck it back on his head, "I hate these guys."

A sudden flash of blue lightening caught the three men's attention, they watched as a fellow soldier was hit with the flash and disintegrated before their very eyes. Bucky's mouth dropped open and his eyes widened in shock as he took in what had just happened. Another hit of lightning lit up the field, taking out any man in its path, regardless of which side he fought for. Both Axis and Allies soldiers were being disintegrated!

Gabe let out a ragged breath and shook his head, staring horrified at the scene in front of him, "No!"

Dugan slowly straightened as he looked over Bucky's shoulder at the field.

Sounding almost frantic, Gabe looked at Bucky, "what the hell was that?"

All three stood from ditch to get a look, confusion crossing Bucky's pretty features.

Dum Dum focused on two bright blue lights in the smoke; cautiously he said, "that looks . . . new."

Those two lights came closer, rumbling as if the earth would cave in below them. The darkness regurgitated a humongous tank behind a running, chaotic mass of humanity. Bucky's confusion turned to worry, fear, and shock all at once. Without hesitation, the gun port rotated and the tank aimed directly for the men on the lip of the trench.

Terror filled the Sergeant and he dove face first into the foul mud, screaming "Duck!"

Dugan and Gabe dove back into the ditch followed instantly by the over-bright blue light.

Many of the men who didn't make it to the ditch, or didn't duck low enough, were slaughtered, gone in a blink of an eye. As confusion fused into sickening silence, a voice called over the trench in a foreign language, and those in the ditch below looked around, hesitant.

As their neighboring soldiers' eyes focused on Gabe, the man shook his head. He didn't know what the enemies said; it definitely wasn't French or German.

The angry words came again and Bucky stood, arms high, weapon left on the group.

Looking at the sergeant with wide eyes, Dugan asked incredulously, "you speak that shit?"

Bucky answered in a steady voice, far from the dread he felt inside, "nope, but if I had a big ass tank that shot lightning, I think my first words would be 'surrender or I kill your sorry ass'."

The others soldiers stood and several men in black leather with oddly shaped gas masks and thick goggles carrying long, sleek black rifles stood in a vast line, elbow to elbow, up and down the trench. The man three down from where Bucky stood, almost directly in front of Dum Dum, screamed his phrase again. Bucky studied the apparent leader carefully and noticed the man waved his hand, palm down, towards the ground. Bucky dropped to his knees and put his hands on his head. His men followed suit, imitated by others up and down the field, a mass surrender without so much as a single shot in retaliation. The man on the opposite force nodded once and screamed something entirely different. He seemed to look directly at Bucky, as if he expected he'd found someone who understood his words.

Bucky couldn't clearly hear what the man said behind his mask, but some of it sounded vaguely familiar. Perhaps he spoke a similar language. Taking a wild guess, Bucky called out, in unaccented Romanian, "Repet, domnule!"

The man strode directly over to Bucky and put the barrel of his odd-looking rifle right to Bucky's temple. He repeated his phrase, and Bucky caught the general idea of what the man wanted. He hadn't spoken Romanian but something that derived from the same lingual base. Bucky, translating to English, called out "Chimera wants our lives! We must surrender!" He had no idea who Chimera, or whatever he'd said, was, but Bucky was willing to bet the group didn't appreciate rebellious prisoners.

Now even the men who knew Bucky, had served with him over the months they'd been on the front, stared in confusion and awe at the Sergeant. Jenkins, the ass from Bucky's basic training, called out "what the hell? You understand him, Sarge?"

"Surrender, Jenkins. Talk later!" Bucky called back, staring up into the dark, unreadable lenses of the strange gas mask. Bucky nodded at the man and agreed, again in Romanian, "Da, domnule, mă predau."

Dum Dum and Gabe followed the sergeant, trusting Bucky's judgement. They dropped their weapons and held still.

The rest of the desolated troops caught on and surrendered en masse. A handful refused but were disintegrated on the spot by controlled lightning bursts - - no one else rebelled. The spokesman waved his free hand towards the smoking, flaming hill. His men pointed weapons at the surrendering allies, forcing them to march back up the hill they'd tried to claim. At the top sat the destroyed Nazi base, smoking and on fire, but no signs of bodies remaining.

And the group of several hundred men were marched further into enemy territory. By Bucky's guess they headed further into the Italian Alps . . . in October that mean ever increasingly cold weather.

xxx

Setting: AU: Tuesday, October 19, 1943: Austrian Alps, Austria

The mass of weary soldiers trudged through barren landscape and destroyed trees into an ever increasing woods, snow littering the group and turning the dirt a varying hard texture and churned mud. As they made the exhausting, painful journey, men collapsed from prior injury, illness, or even hunger. The prisoners had been provided rations once a day and water twice, not enough by far to keep up strength or energy. Medical care had been withheld and anyone who dropped had been shot where they lay. The enemy gave only one warning shout to the fallen man before disintegrating him with blue lightning.

Three days later, the remaining men were herded into a large, old stone compound surrounded by weaponry, vehicles, and black-clad soldiers.

Inside the largest building, the group was herded into a series of round floor to ceiling cages of strong, thick iron bars. After only a few minutes, the man they'd identified as the leader, the only one who had spoken, beyond a firing warning, the entire time they'd marched, walked past each cage and either pointed out the sickest and most injured or moved on to the next prison cell. Those he pointed out were removed and carried, in few cases forcefully, down the hall, deeper into the grand building.

Finally, the leader appeared before Bucky, apparently determining that the brunet American was the spokesman as he had been the only one to effectively communicate, though Bucky suspected others may have understood the man and let the 'crazy American' answer. The man looked down on the brunet soldier and spoke, rather clearly, in his foreign tongue "Реци болесни и повређени ће ићи у изолацију."

Bucky had been right; the man spoke a language with roots similar to Romanian. With a frown, the lingual hobbyist tried to translate for the others; he only knew a few words of Serbian, enough to travel with in a pinch. Thus, he said, loudly, "if you are sick or hurt, you go alone." He didn't think that sounded right, so dared ask, "Singur? Pentru oamenii bolnavi?"

"Приватна здравствена соба." The dark clad man insisted back.

Bucky nodded and called, "private treatment. I think he means isolation." Waiting a few heartbeats, the brunet called to the prison guard before the unknown man could walk away, "Esti sârb? Ne-am Serbia ia prizonier?"

"Не, будало. Ви сте затвореник Хидра. Поздрав, Хидра!" The man screamed, hand shooting out in the familiar Nazi salute, but the words did not match what Bucky would have expected.

Suddenly, a variety of voices answered the man in many languages. A man nearby with a deep bass voice answered "Hagel, Hydra!"

"Hydra?" Whispered Gabe, but Bucky merely shut his mouth. He had no idea who Hydra was, or who they worked for, but he suspected they were a very determined, very deadly faction with their own agenda, apart from either Axis or Ally.

The Serbian man seemed to look straight at Gabe then turned back to Bucky. "Ви ћете радити за своју храну или ћеш умрети."

Bucky nodded and translated loudly, "We work to eat or we die."

With a nod, straightening, the dark clad Serbian reached through the bars, grabbed Bucky by the shoulder, and pulled the taller man close to the bars. In an almost reverential tone, their captor stated, "Или се придружите славни Хидра!"

Bucky didn't need a translator to understand what he'd been offered. Join them? Not in this lifetime! Loudly, defiantly, in Romanian, he screamed "Sergentul James Barnes, trei-două-cinci-cinci-șapte-zero,-trei-și-opt" Then, looking around at the other prisoners, he changed to English "Sergeant James Barnes, three-two-five-five-seven-zero-three-eight!"

In echoing defiance, across the large room, rose the answering calls of many voices, overlapping in a cacophony of names, numbers, ranks, and even a few non-English languages. Right next to Bucky, a man screamed in fluent French "Jacques Dernier, Vive la France!"

xxx

Setting: AU: Friday, October 22, 1943: Austrian Alps, Austria

In the entire time James Buchanan Barnes had been in the military, overseas, in the heat of battle, or even lying in a cold ditch waiting for orders, he'd never once gotten ill. He'd survived their last battle unhurt, even managing to save several hundreds of men from being disintegrated, even if that meant giving themselves over to forced labor in inhumane conditions. Bucky had marched three days through forest, snow, and mountains, with little to drink and less to eat, and the American Sergeant had managed to stay strong and in relatively good spirits. He translated willingly for his men, giving a broken version of their captor's Serbian orders. And, along with the vast group of prisoners, Bucky had been locked into relatively damp, cold stone cells, surrounded by a circle of bars with only one bucket to share among the men in the cell and a grate in the ceiling allowing freezing, foul-scented wind to blow down on them.

Finally, after all that, Bucky developed a deep chest cough, fever, and weakened shaking limbs.

Miserable, he tried to keep his cough quiet, smothering his rasping hack in the jacket he'd pulled off in a fit of fever-heat. Drenched in sweat and rapidly cooling, Bucky's body shook so much, he could barely squat near the bars. With a shake of his head, he refused the gruel-type food Gabe Jones tried to offer him; his throat hurt too much to choke down more than a little water . . . and already that had come back up once or twice.

"C'mon man, ya gotta eat," Gabe whispered harshly, eyes darting around to make sure none of the guards could hear them. "Ya gotta get your strength back."

Bucky coughed into the jacket again and gasped, his voice a harsh rasp, "nauseous . . ."

Dugan winced at the wracking cough and snuck in a quick, concerned glance at Gabe before looking back at Bucky. "I know you are Sergeant, but ya gotta try . . . just a little?"

Bucky opened his mouth, his normally olive-toned skin a pale greenish colored bronze. He looked like he was about to collapse, but he tried, as they'd instructed. He doubted he'd manage to keep even a spoonful of the thin porridge down.

With a little sigh, Gabe scooped up a little of the foul tasting food and fed the spoonful into Bucky's mouth. Dugan and he had come to an agreement, they would not let the guards figure out the sergeant was sick . . . they couldn't let Bucky be taken away. Men never came back once they were taken away.

The man immediately clasped a hand over his own mouth, trying to force himself to swallow the food. His eyes watered and he went another shade of sickly pale, but he managed to swallow past the burn in his throat. Hesitantly he shifted his hand to rest on his own shoulder, knowing if he let it drop, he might not have the energy to pick it all the way back up again. And if they were going to fee him, he'd need to use his hand to hold back the inevitable vomit, forcing himself to swallow that back down as well.

Unfortunately, Bucky broke into another deep, hacking cough just as their Serbian captor strode towards them. The man paused, foot slowly lowered, expression hidden behind his mask. Swiftly, he signaled two other soldiers to attend him and the trio walked quickly over to the cell. When the cough faded off, Bucky trembled, leaning into Gabe, his skin clammy and feverish at the same time. The Serbian crossed his arms, apparently studying the definitely sick man.

Gabe looked up at the Serbian, a defiant gleam in his eyes, however he fought the urge to wrap his arm around Bucky.

With a nod, the man said, almost gently, "сте добили болестан, румунски."

"Фуцк иоу!" Bucky rasped out in Serbian; that was one of the phrases he did know. He didn't care if his mother would have washed his mouth with harsh soap, either.

Looking over at Dugan and then back at the guard, Gabe shook his head; he didn't know if the guard could even understand him but he had to try, "he's not sick! Just a little tired."

A fourth black-clad soldier strode over with a lighting gun. He aimed it into the cell, directly at Bucky. This man called, in German, "er wird auf die Isolierstation gehen oder ich werde ihn hier zu töten."

Gabe felt helpless, he couldn't do anything to prevent these men taking his friend.

"Let me go, Gabe, Dum," Bucky rasped softly, exhausted. He didn't want to die, but the brunet feared these Hydra men would kill the other Americans happily. Weakly, he fumbled into his T-shirt and pulled out a sweat-drenched, foul smelling envelop. "Dum, give this to Cariad. It's his."

Sighing, Gabe nodded and looked away; he couldn't watch the guards drag the sergeant away.

Jaw clenched, Dugan nodded firmly and took the envelope from Bucky's shaking fingers, "sure thing, Sergeant."

The cage swung open and the Serbian pulled out the weak American while the three other soldiers covered him. Hefting Bucky against his side, he pulled the brunet back from the cell and the barred door swung shut, locking once more. As the foursome dragged Bucky down the hall, past many a silently watching man, the small Frenchman who'd been locked in with them pointed to the jacket left behind on the dirty cell floor. "Puis-je l'avoir?"

Gabe narrowed his eyes in the other man's direction and snatched up Bucky's discarded jacket. He looked at the Frenchman, dressed in a thin, short-sleeved shirt then sighed; running his fingers along the thick material of Bucky's jacket, Gabe nodded and threw the garment at the man. Bucky wouldn't have wanted it to go to waste.

Catching it deftly, the Frenchman slid the warm material over his small body and called, "Je vous remercie. Vous êtes ami m'a sauvé deux fois maintenant. Je n'oublierai pas."

"Il est un homme bon . . . a un bon coeur," Gabe replied softly, his eyes flickered up to look at the long hallway that Bucky had been dragged down.

"Et toi aussi. Que les anges venu pour lui rapidement," the man replied.

The words of his friends faded by then and Bucky began another hacking, body wracking cough. He hung limp by the time it finished, unaware and little caring just where he had been taken. No one had returned from isolation; the brunet felt those taken here were most likely killed swiftly to avoid wasting time on their care.

A pair of enemy soldiers lifted the sick American onto a hard, metal table then backed off. One man, in broken English, reported, "this one speaks much, Doctor."

A short, balding man in a lab coat turned to look at the sick soldier on the table, pushing his thick glasses up; the man said in a strong Swiss accent, "mouthy soldier, huh? Well, we shall see after we begin our experiment. What is your name, soldier?"

"Not mouthy," Bucky panted. "I speak languages." He took some painful breaths then answered the man, "Sergeant James Barnes, three-two-five-five-seven-zero-three-eight."

Writing something down on a notepad, the doctor looked over at Bucky with mild amusement and curiosity, "Languages? What languages do you speak, Sergeant Barnes?"

"Sergeant James Barnes, three-two-five-five-seven-zero-three-eight," repeated the weakened soldier, defiantly.

Sighing, the doctor jotted something else down before setting the notepad down on a table. "All you soldiers are the same." The small man plucked something off the the small table set up near the edge of the metal surface.

"He speaks Romanian fluently . . . and some Serbian," the black-clad Serbian reported in perfect English.

"Very interesting. Smart soldier, yes?" The doctor held up a syringe filled with a bright blue liquid and tapped it a few times.

"He may understand French and German, but I have not heard him directly speak either language, Doctor," the enemy reported again.

In a rasp, Bucky said "Sergeant James Barnes, three-two-five-five-seven-zero-three-eight."

"Strap him down," the doctor ordered but he looked down at Bucky with intrigue.

"Pretty," the man said, confusing Bucky into shutting up for the moment. The man quickly drew heavy leather and metal straps across the sick man's body, fastening them then drawing them even tighter, practically cutting off Bucky's breathing. "He is perhaps not what you seek, Doctor? He is too pretty."

Pulling up the dirtied sleeve of Bucky's left arm, the doctor looked up at the guard with a disgusted sneer, "he may be just what I am looking for, soldier."

Without comment, the man nodded behind his intricate all-covering gas mask. "Shall I undress him?"

"All you soldiers think about is sex," the doctor shook his head and looked back down at Bucky's arm, he tapped the syringe a few more times.

With a bark of laughter, the man shot back, "he is too ill for sex, doctor. He would die below me. I can wait."

"Good," the doctor moved to place the needle against Bucky's vein.

Bucky remained silent, horrified at what he'd heard. Secretly, he felt relief that none of the prisoners had plotted an escape in front of the enemy; while these black-clad soldiers had never spoken in English, it was quite apparent that many of them understood the language quite well.

The doctor pushed the syringe against Bucky's clammy skin.

Just before the needle broke his skin, Bucky began to struggle against his bonds.

"Now, now, Sergeant Barnes . . . do not make this harder than it has to be," the doctor chided gently, as if speaking to a child.

"What are you doing to me?" Bucky hoarsely rasped, anger in his eyes overshadowing but not completely hiding his fear.

"We are healing you, Sergeant Barnes," the doctor answered with a smug smile and then plunged the needle deep into Bucky's vein.

"That stuff looks like the stuff in the guns," Bucky eyed the fluid as best he could then screamed as the blue lightning ran through his veins and into his organs. He thrashed against the straps, head whipping side to side. As darkness swamped him, Bucky vomited, still lying dangerously on his back, and began to choke helplessly.

The soldier jumped forward and turned Bucky's head to the side, scooping out his mouth with leather-clad gloves as the American repeatedly vomited up bile, pus, and other fluids. "He's got an infection of the belly, too, doctor," the soldier said in a neutral tone. Bucky's body continued to heave and shudder, despite his unconscious state.

The doctor clucked his tongue and sighed in what sounded like disappointment. "He'll be dead within the day . . . Americans . . . always so weak."

"So, his Romanian blood will not win out?" the man sounded disappointed. "A shame, really. He is so pretty. Do you think he is that elusive nature? That Omega the other doctor wanted to find?"

Looking down at Bucky, the doctor shook his head, "it is hard to say, soldier." He turned and picked up another syringe and inserted the needle into Bucky's vein and began to draw blood.

"Omegas have extra body parts, correct? Perhaps radiological pictures can tell us?" The man watched impassively as Bucky's eyelids began to flutter.

Withdrawing the needle, the doctor held up the vile of blood and looked at it closer. "Perhaps. If Sergeant Barnes survives the day we will take a closer look, yes?"

"Yes," the man agreed. "The Russians will pay good money for a strong soldier. Do you think Herr Schmidt will let us sell him when he has no further use of him?" The man began to clean up the vomit, removing his gloves as he worked, exposing pale, shapely hands similar to a pianist's.

"It is hard to say . . . Herr Schmidt is a rather hard man to read." The doctor walked away from Bucky's side and set down the vile of blood carefully on the counter.

Bucky's eyes opened wide as he understood what they spoke of: selling him into service for the Russians. Was this factory geared at producing weapons and slaves? Bucky would rather die than be sold into slavery. He narrowed his eyes and coughed, a deep rasp that burned before his entire body seemed to set on fire from within. Bucky let out a scream once more before passing back into unconsciousness.

xxx

Setting: AU: Wednesday, October 27, 1943: Azzano, Italy

Breathing shallowly, trying to block the pain once more, Bucky slumped where he'd fallen. His body surged with the pain of the latest beating. It had been brutal and extremely painful, but over the past four days, Bucky had discovered that the pain subsided within an hour and his wounds healed within a day or two. He had no idea what cocktail Doctor Arnim Zola had been shoving into his veins, but the unexpected beneficial side effect seemed to be an increased healing. Bucky knew that Zola was pleased with the result, though he did seem frustrated it hadn't done more. Thus, the continued tests and forced drugs, the repeated beatings, and the ever-present threat of being given to Predan, the Serbian assistant, for the man's pleasure.

"How are you feeling, Sergeant Barnes?" Zola asked as he stepped into the room, eyes focused on the clipboard in his hands. The small man walked up to Bucky's side and took in the multiple painful injuries covering the brunet's face.

Looking up from his slump, Bucky took a breath and spit out the mouthful of blood. He was thankful that whatever the man had given him had knocked out his pneumonia and stomach infection, at least, though if given the choice of being beholden to the enemy or die, Bucky would be hard pressed to choose. Finally, in a bitter heavy Brooklyn drawl, he spat out "Sergeant James Barnes, three-two-five-five-seven-zero-three-eight." The only time ha'd said anything else to this doctor had been when he'd first arrived in the isolation ward.

"Sergeant Barnes, we've been playing this game for one week now," Zola sounded annoyed, "I do not wish to let Predan have you . . . the whole thing is quite barbaric but you are about to give me no choice. The man has been looking forward to it . . . so I will ask again; how are you feeling, Sergeant Barnes?"

Slowly, Bucky forced himself to rise, using the wall behind him for support. He managed to get to his feet, leaning heavily, arm wrapped around his ribs, which felt bruised or maybe even broken. Growling, Bucky said again, "Sergeant James Barnes, three-two-five-five-seven-zero-three-eight."

Shaking his head, Zola scrunched his nose up in distaste and turned his head, "Soldier!"

The man in black leathered armor and gasmask strode forward smartly. He began to remove his gloves.

"Sergeant Barnes . . . you can stop this. Just cooperate with me." Zola turned to look at Bucky again, his tone calm and firm.

The sergeant shook his head, eyes watching the soldier warily. Softly, defiantly, Bucky said "Sergeant James Barnes, three-two-five-five-seven-zero-three-eight. Sergeant James Barnes, three-two-five-five-seven-zero-three-eight," he began repeating himself.

"Soldier," Zola shook his head and turned to leave the room, "maybe you can teach Sergeant Barnes some manners."

Predan stood still as he waited for the doctor to leave; as soon as Zola's footsteps could no longer be heard, the man stepped closer to Bucky, dropping his gloves on the ground. "Pretty American," Predan said flatly as he reached up to take off his mask.

Bucky kept leaning against the wall despite feeling much better. He kept his arm around his waist, feigning continued injury, though he merely felt sore: must have only been minor bruising then. Slowly, he responded, "Sergeant James Barnes, three-two-five-five-seven-zero-three-eight."

The guard laughed as he took off the gas mask, revealing a man with a strong jaw and thick black hair. His cold hazel eyes traveled down the length of Bucky's body as he dropped the mask unceremoniously. "You chose this, Pretty American. Zola was giving you a way out. Maybe you want this? Are you really an American bitch?"

Eyeing the man, Bucky shut his mouth but kept his look of defiance. He crouched slightly, wary steel-blue eyes taking in Predan's every movement. Finally, softly in English, he said "Perhaps you are a Serbian bitch. You seem to be in heat." Even through all his beatings, Bucky had never said anything but his rank, name, and service number.

Predan's eyes flashed but his lips curled into a predatory smile; he took a step closer, now within arm's length of Bucky.

Bucky slid down the wall, away from the other man, towards the door. He did not move obviously in that direction, but the escape attempt wasn't entirely unplanned, either. He kept his eyes on Predan.

"My American Bitch," Predan said, closing the gap between them.

"Go to hell," Bucky spit. "I'm not your anything!" His wedding ring, on his right hand, flashed dully as he slid again. It had been cold in the cells, but it was colder in the isolation ward without the body heat of the others. Bucky had to fight the chilly trembling of his limbs, dressed only in his T-shirt and trousers; they had taken his boots and socks that first day.

Predan reached out with his long fingers and gripped Bucky's hair in a firm fist. "You will be by the time I'm done with you. You'll be crying like the little bitch you are."

Bucky flashed out with his left hand, uncurling it from his waist in a quick blow to Predan's throat. "Fuck you!" He dropped down to try to get out of the man's range, heading for the door.

Recovering quickly, Predan straightened and stomped his foot down on the small of Bucky's back, grinding his heel down on the man's spine. "Feisty American," Predan spat.

Pain shot up and down Bucky's spine followed by a searing numbness, toppling him into fear as he lost sensation. My God, the man had crippled him! Bucky scrabbled at the ground with his hands, terror in his light blue eyes.

Kneeling down, Predan grabbed Bucky's hands and wrenched them painfully behind his back.

Feeling the sensation come back in sudden, lightning pain, Bucky screamed.

Laughing, Predan took off his belt while still holding Bucky's hands in the other. He efficiently wrapped the belt around the younger man's forearms.

The brunet fought to keep the man from tightening his belt, bucking his hips and back to try to shake Predan off, growling out as he fought "Sergeant James Barnes, three-two-five-five-seven-zero-three-eight." His eyes flashed defiance, the relief of not being crippled disappearing almost before it registered.

Predan growled as he tightened the belt around the brunet's arms, finally locking the belt in place.

Kicking backwards with one bare foot, hoping for his heel to connect with the man's face, Bucky growled back.

Smiling at his handiwork, knowing that Bucky would not be able to break free of the restraint, Predan straddled the younger man's hips. He ran his fingers down the brunet's back; however, his eyes caught on a silver scar where Bucky's neck met his shoulder. Touching the mark gently, Predan leaned down to whisper in the brunet's ear, "what's this? Like biting, American?"

Bucking, trying to dislodge the other man, the American growled, "fuck off." He turned defiant, angry eyes on the man.

"No, but I will fuck you," Predan sneered and bit down on Bucky's earlobe before moving down to grip the waistband of the brunet's trousers.

Struggling, twisting his hips, Bucky growled out, "your superiors know you're queer?" He kicked again with his foot, aiming to try to hit the man's face.

Easily dodging Bucky's blows, Predan pulled down on the brunet's trousers and underwear, leaving long scratches down the back of Bucky's thighs.

Another scream ripped from his lips and the American bucked again, twisting fiercely. "Doc!" He broke down and pleaded loudly, knowing if he couldn't handle Steve's gentle attempts to enter him, there was no way he'd be able to take this rough man with the sadistic streak.

Predan gripped Bucky's hips tightly and hauled the younger man's ass in the air, "Zola is not coming for you American. You're my bitch, right now. You going to cry for me?"

Ashamed of his own break down, the man's words suddenly forced an angry well of defiance back up. Bucky clamped his mouth shut and glared, impassive, forcing himself to lie absolutely still. He had a feeling this guy enjoyed his struggles . . . so, if he couldn't prevent this rape, he could make it less enjoyable for the asshole. Bucky lowered his face to the floor and began muttering under his breath.

Unbuttoning his trousers, Predan pulled out his nearly fully erect member and moved one hand to tightly grip the back of Bucky's neck. Without any more warning, the guard began to push into the brunet with a low groan.

Bucky's eyes widened at the immense pain, worse than the beatings he'd been daily receiving, worse than the blue lightning liquid shoved in his veins every night. A wordless scream parted his lips, but the American was unable to produce any noise. His back arched upwards and his entire body tightened in protest. A sudden gasp broke through his pain and Bucky let out a soul-tearing scream, eyes rolling back in his head, but he remained nightmarishly awake.

Predan didn't stop until he was all the way inside Bucky. Blood ran down the younger man's thighs as the guard pulled back out almost completely, only to snap back hard.

The scream ended in a sob and Bucky once more pushed his face into the cement. His entire body shuddered and his hands clawed his own arms, still bound behind his back, fingernails digging deep into his forearms, blood welling and running down as swiftly as that from his tortured ass. Trying to find something to concentrate on, something to ground himself, Bucky settled on the one thing that had been drilled into him from basic training on. Muttering, over and over, he recited his name, rank, and service number until it blended into one long, never ending loop of words mixed with grunts of sheer pain.

"Such a good little bitch," Predan groaned as he set a harsh, brutal pace. Head falling back, the guard kept his bruising hold on Bucky. "Good little whore."

Beyond acknowledging the man, Bucky forced his mind away from the horrors being inflicted on him. He imagined he was back in Brooklyn, beside Steve in a back alley, being pummeled but about to turn the tide and win . . . just a bit more time and they'd be free. He continued his cycle of words, chanting it like a mantra, like a protective ward.

Predan began to lose his rhythm and his thrusts became more erratic, with one more painful thrust the guard came hard inside Bucky, fingers tightening around the brunet's hip and neck.

Bucky barely noticed the hot rush of cum up his bleeding, burning ass. He continued muttering and trying to dream himself away.

Pulling out, Predan clucked his tongue at the bloody sight of his flaccid member. "Such a mess you made, American Bitch."

With a single whimper as the man removed his spent erection, Bucky collapsed into the cement, panting. He began muttering once more, his gaze hateful and defiant, no longer forcing himself away. Rather, Bucky Barnes began to plot. He would not break again. He survived this brutal rape, he could survive anything the enemy thought to try.

Predan grabbed the fabric of Bucky's shirt and wiped the blood and semen off his member. Once clean, he tucked himself back into his drawers and stood up. As he buttoned his trousers, the guard stepped on the small of Bucky's back again then he began to loosen the belt on the brunet's forearms. When Bucky's arms were unbound, Predan straightened out and spat on Bucky's face, "American Bitch."

Bucky raised his voice slightly, defiantly, "Sergeant James Barnes, three-two-five-five-seven-zero-three-eight." He hurt, still bleeding, but he would not give in. He would break free and make the son-of-a-bitch pay. Blue-grey eyes went as cold as steel.

"Keep defying Zola . . . this was fun," Predan walked away, grabbing his discarded gear on the way out.

Finally, Bucky let himself fall silent, burying his face once more in the cold, dirty cement floor. He needed a moment before he could get up and leave. Hopefully, Predan had forgotten and would leave it unlocked.

Unfortunately, Bucky's luck remained missing. Two burly guards entered and grabbed the messy, half-dressed man. They pulled his trousers up and tossed him onto the exam bed. Holding him down, despite a renewed bout of pained screamed when his rear hit the metal bed, the men strapped the brunet down then left, leaving him in his filth and blood.

Bucky sobbed, and began his mantra once again.

xxx

Continued in Chapter Twenty-One: Rushing Headlong In