Ow. Steve woke up, groggy and disoriented. Stun darts tended to do that sort of thing. Didn't help that he had gun wounds in his stomach that hadn't quite healed yet either. They hadn't touched the bandages, at least he could be grateful for that. With considerable effort, Steve hoisted his aching frame to a sitting position against the cold, smooth stone. He sighed and rested his head back against it. You're fine. You can do this. He didn't look at his hands - didn't want to. They probably weren't too bad anyways. Could be worse, right? Probably would get worse anyways.
So, how am I going to get out of this? If Scott is here, the team is on its way. There's no avoiding it now. Dammit. People never listen. His eyes traced a crack in the ceiling and rested on the bolted, metal door. He listened, trying to decide whether the sound was distant footsteps, or not, or if there wasn't really a sound at all. This is all wrong. It was my mission, if I died, it was my risk to take. I don't want my friends' blood on my hands. I don't want their blood on anyone's hands. He could feel the surge of guilt, anxiety, anger rise up from his stomach and catch in his throat. I can't let it happen again. He clenched his fists and threw his head back against the wall, harder than he needed to. The pain distracted him, suppressed the emotions, calmed him down. He closed his eyes, blew out another heavy breath and swallowed, his heartbeat slowing to a steadier thump.
The turn of the key in the lock was enough to send a tingle down his spine. The door creaked open slowly, dramatically. It was like Zemo to make every hateful moment of his bloody misery last for as long as possible.
He knew what was coming. How could he not?
Broken glass. Sharp wire. Needles. Nails. Water, hot or cold. Blades: serrated, smooth, hooked. Chains. Rope. A gun. A metal fist. Whatever he wanted was at his disposal. Torture devices of various kinds. Most of them simple, things you wouldn't think should hurt unless someone digs them into your skin. Complicated things too, but not as many. It doesn't take much to break people.
But it was his eyes. He was cold. Relentless. Gone.
It was terrifying.
No amount of talking, pleading, reasoning would make a dent in his demeanor. Soon it became painful to breath, let alone speak.
They had created a monster.
They had done a fantastic job.
It was like a dream, but he wasn't the one dreaming. It was Bucky who was caught in another world. Didn't remember his name. Didn't remember anything but the task before him. Wasn't the man who would pick up a man from the street, dust him off, listen to his story, buy him a drink. His hands weren't gentle like when he saved the newborn runt their neighbor's dog rejected when they were kids. He wasn't the guy who cared about girls and his grades, but his family infinitely more. Bucky wouldn't do this. Bucky wouldn't know how.
It had been five hours.
Steve didn't know how much more he could take. They wouldn't get him to talk, not to reveal anything that would jeopardize his friends. They wouldn't get him to make a call for ransom; besides, who would ransom him? And at what price? Would HYDRA accept the risk of ransom? No, that was off the table. What was it Zemo really wanted? Simply seeing him in pain? The trophy of defeating Captain America? Bucky, obviously, because he was useful. He was leverage. But why Steve? Did Zemo think he could convince the team to surrender?
No, it couldn't be. He isn't that stupid.
So why am I still alive?