He woke up cold. Every bone was frosted with ice, his hair dangling like icicles in front of his face. A supressed shiver sent his teeth knocking against each other.
"Is he safe?"
Is who safe? Was he safe? His eyes hurtled down his body, gazing at the metallic glint of his fingertips with a strong sense of deja-vu. Have I...?
"Yes. He's our soldier now."
"What do we call him?"
"We call him soldier, and nothing else. If that name is mentioned anywhere remotely close to his vicinity, the person mentioning it will be discarded immediately. Understood? We've waited too long for this; no one's going to mess it up now."
The cold was beginning to leave his body, replacing it with a warm fuzziness, building up inside of his veins, ready to explode. Inside his mind was still blank. No memories or names, no recollection of who he was. Just standard protocols.
"Hello soldier. Welcome to 1968. Enjoy your beauty sleep?"
Something inside of him twitched at that. The man was lying to him. The man with the blonde hair and the long nose and the green eyes who looked too thin and greedy to even be mistaken for his creator. Creator.
"We have a mission for you, and once you've completed it, you can go straight back inside that little coffin of yours. Is that okay?"
He nodded, because that was the only thing he knew to do. The man had given him orders, and he was the soldier, so he must obey them.
But even as he completed the mission (which was confusing and messy and had no set purpose that he could find) and was returned to his ice box, that unfamiliar heaviness in his chest wouldn't stop mulling over 1968 and icicles of hair.
"Who are you?" He growled, trying to push away the men that were clamped to his arms. It was 1993, and he'd just finished another mission. His mind had adjusted to the constantly changing dates, and had finally learnt not to talk back to his commander's. The creator was dead. He was their soldier.
"We're called Hydra. We're the ones who saved you all those years ago. It is very kind of you to be serving us after all this time."
The men sat him down in a chair, wrapping straps around his waist and legs. "I'm in debt to you. You saved my life and my..." His voice trailed off, flexing the silver fingers on his left hand. Images were flashing through his head, of a blinding pain as they sawed deep into his shoulder, promising that they were going to make it better...
"There it is. I'm sorry, soldier, but it appears the wards that we built in your mind are beginning to fall down. You might feel a slight pinch, followed by excruciating pain. Don't worry- you won't remember any of it."
The man smiled through young eyes, watching gleefully as one man shoved a piece of rubber into his mouth while the other clicked away at a computer behind him. Everything was fitting, the missing pieces of the jigsaw finally being found. It was 1942. It was cold. It was red.
A surge of energy rushed into his head, blanking out any previous thoughts. It was...red...42...was...it's red...
From the corner of the room, the man kept on smiling, watching Bucky Barnes flail and scream as he disappeared once more.
The Winter Soldier.
He liked it. The name seemed quite fitting, though he didn't understand why. Maybe because 'The Summer Soldier' sounded like a soppy romance.
An engine revved. He broke out of his daydream, making sure everything was ready. The mission was to ambush the vehicle and eliminate those being protected. The protectors were only to be killed as a last resort.
In the pale of the mountain, a truck with a bird caught in mid-flight on the side tripped on the traps he'd placed, turning over into the snow beside the road. His gun rang out four times, returning bullets barely chipping his armour.
Three threats down, two to go.
From the wreckage, two forms were emerging. One was a target, one was a protector. She (the protector) wore a skin-tight suit with her hair tied up, a few red curls falling lose. Six bullets bounced off his figure before she retreated, attempting to cover the threat with her own body. He smirked behind his mask.
The two fell to the ground, blood pouring from the wounds in their stomachs. She was still alive, scrabbling for her gun while the thumping of helicopters echoed around the mountain walls.
"You're a ghost." She whispered, fingers trying to cover the blood as it oozed out from her flesh. He'd missed her stomach.
Instead of replying, he fired a single shot at the final target, and walked away. By the time the helicopters arrived, he was gone, and she was unconscious.
It took three more brainwashes and another two years in the ice to get him to this moment. A group of young scientists were huddled in the room, watching him with wide eyes.
"These are our new recruits, soldier. Please be nice to them. You'll need to prepare- you have a big mission coming up. HYDRA is launching." The man grinned once more and left, the recruits scampering after him. Only one paused, casting her eyes over him in worry. He could tell she wasn't a volunteer by the blood under her nails and the fear in her eyes.
With a single nod, he walked out the door and down to the firing range. They'd had a new range of bombs in and he'd been ordered to check them out.
It was 2011.