Author's Note: The German translations in this chapter were kindly provided by shadowvalkyrie, with additional comments and suggestions by gelbes_gilatier, lied_ohne_worte, and syredronning. Thank you all for your help!

3. Operant

'Look what you've done to yourself,' Zola said, somewhere out of sight, then let out a mutter of disapproval. Bucky kept his eyes half-closed against the light above him, but he could tell he was being wheeled somewhere. Faces drifted in and out of sight. He tried to lift his hand. Instead, his body spasmed again.

Zola's voice wafted above him. 'Calm down, Sergeant. Ist die Infusion bereit?'

Is the—infusion, he supposed—ready? Did Zola know Bucky could understand German? No time to think. There was a quick jab of pain in the flesh of his arm. Straps snapped around his wrists, a door swung open.

That stink again, hospital soap, rubbing alcohol. This time he fought them, he did, he could swear he did, but all he managed was to beat helplessly against the restraints. His sight was hazy with fever: it made the ceiling lights bob like corks. His head lolled to one side and he saw white coats, machines he didn't recognise. Out of the corner of his eye, a big wall clock, the number seventeen, some letters he couldn't quite see, 1947.

! ! !

'You are really going to have to calm down.'

Crazy. This is crazy. His throat was too dry to let the words out. He was going to die here, strapped to a gurney, his skin sloughing off his bones. He could feel it peel away and slip down to the floor. Die with Zola looking down at him and that smell filling up his nose.

'Here.'

Bucky's head slumped towards the voice.

Zola looked just like he did before. Same piggy eyes behind round glasses. Same slightly worried, slightly smug expression. Same bow tie.

No, all different. The rat bastard was holding a glass of water.

Thirst got up from the dust and came roaring back with a rocket blast. The fever turned into a sharp steel wire around his head. He could see the beads of condensation around the rim of the glass. His eyes prickled with sand.

'You want this, Sergeant?' Zola shook the glass. A few drops of water fell on the hand holding it. Bucky would have licked them right off his skin.

Yes! Please, God, yes! His tongue was a blistered mass in his mouth, but Zola didn't need to be told. He drew a step closer, holding the glass just out of reach, but close enough for Bucky to smell it, whoever said water had no smell was a goddamn liar, that smell, faintly mineral, faintly metallic, so cool, so sweet…

'I will give it to you, but you really have to behave better,' Zola said, in the tone of someone explaining something to a particularly dim child. 'What is going to happen next, you have to be a part of it, Sergeant. No more stubbornness. What do you say?'

No.

He would have offered Zola a suck job in exchange for a sip.

'—s'

'What was that, Sergeant?'

He closed his eyes so no one could see. His throat wept, but he managed to force the word out. 'Yes.'

'Very good!' He sounded genuinely elated. 'You see how easy it is, when people work together?' Still he didn't bring the glass to Bucky's lips. 'I can't let you drink right away, you're too dehydrated and would likely, ah—choke. But I will give you some ice, you will put it under your tongue and you will like it very much. Then you can have the water. Get you ready for the last procedure. Sie können den rechten Arm loslassen.'

A woman spoke in a language Bucky didn't recognise. Russian? Polish? Something Eastern European for sure, but it couldn't be Russian, the Russians wouldn't be working with the Germans. I am Swiss. Hydras, so many heads, cut one off, two more will take its place.

1947!

Thinking was agony. He just wanted some water.

The woman spoke again, German. Are you sure, Professor? An interpreter. 'Ich versichere Ihnen, wir haben das Versuchsobjekt unter Kontrolle,' Zola said. Having something under control? They were talking about Bucky himself, maybe. He didn't understand it all, this was science-talk, not ordinary German. Someone fussed with the binding around his right wrist. He opened his eyes, looked down at himself as far as he could, which wasn't far. His arm kept making little jerking motions, the skin covered in an angry rash, a needle buried in the crook of his elbow. The nails were half torn off, the fingers bloodstained. When had he done that? He didn't remember.

A man said something in the unknown language and a chorus of laughs followed. Bucky tried to twist his head around to look at them, but the strange machines were in the way. He thought he could see suits, maybe glimpse the muzzles of guns. A white coat came at him with a pair of scissors. He tried to raise his right arm but it only flopped and twitched helplessly. His gown was cut away.

'Here, Sergeant.' Zola held an ice chip in his fingers, and when he placed it in Bucky's mouth, he was careful not to touch the lips.

Cold. So cold and sharp and sweet. Zola droned on, but the world narrowed to the feel of the ice on Bucky's sore tongue, the melted water dripping into his throat. He shuddered, felt a wave of queasiness rise from his stomach. Still he chewed on the ice like his life depended on it, which it probably did. He heard gasps. It took him a while to realise the sounds were coming from his throat.

'—nur ein Prototyp.'

Pressure on his left side. He turned his head around to see—

What? God, what? More white coats swarmed around his arm, the one with all the metal. It was sitting on a table a few feet away. There was a ring of steel on his shoulder, wires and clips snaking out, hanging where the rest of his arm should be. Under the lights the ridges of scar tissue were a shiny pink, the red-purple of storm clouds. He tried shrugging his shoulder. Metal whirred, wires dangled. He didn't feel the motion; it was happening very far away, under panes of glass. Liquid oozed out. It stank of pus and engine oil, enough to make him gag. Ice water got into his nose.

'There, there.'

Hands placed a blindfold over his face. He started to struggle—to squirm in place—but it was only a damp cloth. No chloroform, no horrible chemicals. Fingers traced little circular motions on his temples. It felt… good, almost. 'Ja, machen Sie weiter, das wird ihn beruhigen,' Zola said, then fed him another ice chip.

'You are very strong, Sergeant.' A hubbub of voices. Machines, whirring away. 'Soon you will be in good enough shape for us to complete the procedure, even after all the damage you did. Very foolishly, I may add.'

Water dribbled out of his mouth. Thoughts were difficult, molasses-thick. In the half-dark, with the fingertips rubbing his temples, he just wanted to fall asleep. Don't. Don't. Don't. 'You. You did,' he gurgled.

'I most absolutely did not. I have not hurt you in any way. I have not even touched you. You have only yourself and your stubbornness to blame for any damage you suffered. Had you cooperated from the start…'

A gnawing in his stomach. Was it hunger? He had forgotten about it, and now maybe it was trying to remind him it existed. 'Tried to talk.'

'Hmm? No, I rather think I would have remembered that, Sergeant.' Bucky could sense Zola drawing back, then placing something cold and metallic against his fingers. It took a while for his hand to flinch, and slap weakly against the object. 'Do not worry, it's only a bowl of ice. Feel free to use it. The prep protocol can be very long. Very tedious. But be careful of the needle in your arm. You do not wish to hurt yourself.'

Yeah, anything but that, pal!

Rip it out.

He remained stuck in place, flesh splayed out on the table while his head drifted about in a fog bank. Once in a while he understood words, words that sounded almost like English ones. Protocol. Subject. Surgery. Things happened to his body while the words were said: a needle-prick on the back of his hand, suction cups attached to his skin. A saw buzzed to life and his whole body clenched, the restraints biting into his flesh. But the saw was far away, and the only smell was of smoke and molten metal.

The cloth slid off his face and he could see the ceiling, ringed by a gallery, vague shapes behind the glass, looking down at him. He knew he was supposed to feel embarrassment over his nakedness, but all he managed to do was stare up, to where the lights looked like a shoal of angry eyes.

Is it… done? He couldn't be sure if he spoke out loud. He tried to move his head but blocks of some kind were holding it in place. All he could do was look down or sideways until his eyes ached with the strain, and all he could see even then was a halo of wires around him, vanishing into the bowels of machines. Lines hummed softly on the screens. Snatches of German: Zola was talking through the interpreter. People scribbled away, ignoring the body on the table. He tried to move his right arm, but it wasn't free any longer, or maybe the flesh had just gone dead.

A machine hummed to life, started making a rhythmic clicking sound. Lines spiked across a screen. 'The procedure has already started, Sergeant Barnes,' Zola said, somewhere behind Bucky's head. The clicking grew louder, the thumping of an enormous heart. 'I am afraid it is likely to be long and… difficult. But I can anaesthetise—make you sleep, if you'd like. When you wake up it will all be over. You won't feel a thing.'

You must sleep sometime. No. No way. He tried to choke out a go to hell but only managed to dribble water down the corner of his mouth. He shook his head instead.

'Are you sure? Very well. Keine Betäubung. Er möchte bei Bewusstsein bleiben.' The woman translated again. There were a few titters of laughter. Zola turned back to him. 'You know, you are going to regret it. But if you insist…'

:=:

He regretted it.

:=:

'It is nearly over.'

The voice was very far away. The world was black wires, fuzzy green waves on screens. James. James Barnes. James Something. Something. Bucky. My friends call me Bucky.

He had long since stopped making noises. He had stopped thinking even before that.

Sergeant? Sergeant. Brooklyn. Three two…

Three two… Numbers, other numbers. Five. Barnes. Bucky Barnes. Brooklyn. New York. America. Something America. Captain! Captain America and his—and his—

Some of the screens turned grey. Lights swam above him.

Excited voices, saying something he didn't understand. His head was allowed to loll to one side, scratchy fabric on his cheek, a man moved towards him, white coat bow tie tuft of blond hair.

The man—the man—

Zola! His name is Zola! Zola!

'Here, Sergeant.' Sergeant, yes, Sergeant. 'You made, hmm, quite a fuss, but it's over now. You can— Ach je!'

He—

bucky my name is bucky

—had yanked his body sideways and swung halfway off the table. A drinking glass slipped out of Zola's hands and shattered on the floor.

Shards. Hands pulled his now-limp body back up. A cuff of leather and metal hung, ripped in half, from his right wrist. A needle was driven into the plastic tubing snaking away from his arm. Don't. On a screen a grey line was spiking, spiking, up and away. Where was his left arm?

I am going to take those shards and shove them right in your throat, Zola. Blood, trickling down, Technicolor-bright. He felt sick. You will open your mouth to say Ach je! But you won't get to—

:=:

The nausea woke him up.

Pain came right after, dull-edged, like he'd been pulled apart and stitched back together inexpertly. He rolled to the edge of the bed and dry heaved. A thread of spittle hit the floor tiles, but there wasn't anything for him to throw up.

His head. Something had happened to his head. He sat up, and that's when he noticed that his left arm wasn't just numb, it was gone, a bulky bandage covering the spot where it should attach to his shoulder.

But he'd had an arm, hadn't he? A metal arm. Orange-red light. Wires stitching his flesh to a screen full of green lines.

Oh God. Something had happened to his memories. He had woken up in this place before, in a—he thought—different room, and then something had happened to his memories of the after. Cut away at them until only frayed ends remained. The ragged edges of a hole. He tried to grab at the glimpses but it was like trying to force out a name sitting on the tip of your tongue. All he managed to do was make the inside of his skull ache.

He raised his remaining fingertips and touched the side of his head, gingerly, as though it were made of glass. His face was damp. He hoped it was just sweat and not tears.

You still have yourself, Buck. You still have yourself. The thought was faint, and it was mostly in Steve's voice, but it was still true. He didn't know how he'd ended up here and he didn't know what had been done to him in the meantime (what had happened to his arm?), but he still knew who he was, and where he'd come from.

James Buchanan Barnes. My friends call me Bucky. He tried to recall his earliest memory.

Dad.

Still a little jab of pain. The first time he'd met Steve, then. Maybe not the happiest memory ever, having to pull three bullies off him, but when a tiny scrap of a kid decided to go up against the biggest, meanest jerks in school and then shrugged off a black eye like it was nothing, you couldn't help but think things were going to have a way of turning out all right. You'd make sure they would, even if just for his sake.

Meeting Steve for the second time, in class. Steve was told off for adding all kinds of weird creatures to what was supposed to be a drawing of an apple. 'Don't mind him,' Bucky had said. 'I think your drawing is the bee's knees.'

Becca hanging off their sleeves in Coney Island, begging to go up on the Wonder Wheel, then Bucky sitting between her and Steve, wondering, as the car began to rock, about which of the two would be the first to turn green and upchuck their cotton candy.

'I see you're awake, Sergeant.'

Cold rippled through his flesh before a thought could form. Zola. He knew, from some place deep in the hole of memories, that Zola was here, that Zola had dome something to him, but he wasn't afraid. Not at (after) Azzano, not chasing the—

train

—creepy little ghoul across Europe, not now. Not now. Not now.

'How are you feeling, Sergeant?' Zola went on. His voice was coming from a speaker embedded at eye level in the wall. Looking at it made Bucky a little uneasy. He should have been going over every inch of the cell the moment he'd come to instead of sitting around moping.

'Swell. Probably go for a swim later, maybe a bike race...'

Door, where's the door?

'Ha! You are making a joke, but as it turns out I should very much like to see that. The procedure, I am happy to report, appears to have been a complete success. Enough for the General to share some of his excellent champagne, at least. And you must be feeling the differences already.'

What? What differences?

Who the hell is the General?

'Of course,' Zola went on, 'they won't be as noticeable as they were for the—the other subject. You must have become quite the expert on those, having been in such close proximity…'

If that was supposed to be a jab, Bucky ignored it. Instead he looked down at his bare torso, trying not to let his gaze drift to where his shoulder ended abruptly, or the spots where he could feel a phantom limb, lying against his side. There was a ring of pink, still-healing skin around his wrist, faded bruises on his fingertips. Seeing them—remains of injuries he couldn't remember—made the nausea swell until his head was swimming. What else had been done to him, in places he couldn't see? He balled his hand into a fist, squeezed it until his fingers ached. Focus. Whatever Zola was prattling on about, he couldn't…

Maybe he was a little bigger now, more muscular. And maybe that scent of soap he'd been smelling since he'd woken up wasn't the room, maybe it was a faint trace of scent clinging to his skin and he was picking up on it because now, he could. Better than—

He dashed out of the bed and got almost to the wall (so fast) before stinging pain arced through his body and sent him sprawling across the floor. He panted as his body shook, then stilled, beyond his control. A smell of singed skin hung in the air and he could hear the soft crackle of electricity.

'Oh, don't look so put out, Sergeant,' Zola said, sounding as though something terribly amusing had just happened. Pain still rippled under Bucky's skin, but he managed to roll up onto his side. This close to the wall he could see a fisheye lens next to the speaker, like a blind eye. Get up. Get up get up. 'It was only a little electricity. Should I have let you slam yourself against the walls? Was that the plan, hmm?'

'Thought I'd start by giving you a good kick in the pants, see how things went from there,' Bucky spat out, voice shaky. Those weird tiles on the floor… what if the whole thing was electrified? Maybe the walls too, they did look like they were made of some kind of metal.

'Oh, you wouldn't break through the walls, not even with all your new strength. But it was nice to see how fast you are now. You will be even faster once you have your new body under control, I am sure.'

'What did you do to me, Zola?' What did you do to my head?

Don't let him see you're afraid.

'Nothing you didn't want, Sergeant. Nothing without your—ah, eager cooperation, one might even say.'

Bucky sat up. His body was still sore, but it was no longer shaking, at least. 'Bullshit.'

The speaker let out a noise of disapproval. 'We are going to have to do something about your language, Sergeant. And it is not a lie. See for yourself.'

The black eye on the wall winked to life and a rectangle of white light appeared above the bed. Bucky could hear the rat-tat-tat of reels spinning inside a projector, maybe a few yards away.

He almost didn't recognise himself on the black-and-white film, even though he supposed he looked the same as always. In the film he lay on an operating table, staring vacantly as people—doctors, scientists, he supposed—put electrodes on his skin and pressed buttons on machines. His film-self's right arm was unbound, but he wasn't trying to break free. He wasn't even moving, just shuddering once in a while, like a cow awaiting its turn in a slaughterhouse.

'You drugged me,' he said, but how did he know? He felt another dry heave coming and lowered his head until the bout of nausea passed, then scrambled back onto the bed, where he wouldn't have to look at himself, letting it happen, doing nothing. 'Enough. Stop it, Zola.'

'As you wish.' The projector clicked back to silence and the beam of light vanished.

For a while, Bucky didn't speak. He sat on the bed, head on his knees, listening to his own breathing, the hum of the electric lights. He hoped Zola was gone, that he had finally left him alone, but he kept thinking of a metal mouth, a glass-covered eye, unblinking, ever-watching. Why hadn't these people just killed him? Why hadn't they just put a bullet in his head?

When Zola spoke again, his tone was soft, as though they were two friends chatting. 'Would you like to know what I think, Sergeant?'

'Been waiting for it forever,' Bucky said, but it was reflex. He felt more tired than he'd ever felt in his life, more tired than when he'd marched thirty miles across northern Italy, more tired than after two weeks under heavy fire. He knew he had only just woken up from a drugged sleep, that now he could probably go for much longer than he'd been capable of after the things after Azzano.

But here he couldn't close his eyes.

Zola, who had let out a polite little laugh at Bucky's reply, like someone indulging a child, went on. 'We have a file on you, Sergeant. I have studied it carefully, even though it does not make for very interesting reading. You are not, I have to say, a very interesting subject matter. Average grades, average intelligence, no particular qualities or talent for anything. If I had to sum you up in a word, I would have to choose "mediocre". Do you have anything to say to that?'

Bucky raised his head. 'Help,' he said flatly. 'I am being dressed down by a man who chops off arms and locks people up in his basement.'

'Ah, no real answer, then. Was that why you became friends with Rogers in the first place? Because even you might look good in comparison?'

His face heated with anger, but he said nothing. I might not be half the man Steve Rogers is, dumb funny pages and all, but you and all your goons couldn't pack his lunch. Not now, not when he was ten years old and swimming inside a shirt three sizes too big for him, not back when he was a scrap of a kid with a big mouth and who couldn't run up a flight of stairs without either his lungs or his joints killing him. When you got captured, you didn't answer questions. When your captors were batting that far away from the truth, you let them.

'Did it upset you, his change? I am sure it must have, on some level. It is all right, Sergeant. You can admit to it now. I am the only one here, and who am I going to tell, hmm? No? That is a shame. I was rather hoping we might be able to start off on an honest foot—footing, I mean. Well, you don't have to admit it yet, if it is too hard. But it is the truth, isn't it? I mean, there he was, finally, the hero, the golden boy. Whereas someone like you, well. Yes, of course they would have given you all kinds of little medals if you had gone back. And you made friends easily, didn't you? Or acquaintances, rather. They have a term for this, in the science of psychology, did you know? It is called "superficial charm".'

Bucky had to stop himself from shrugging, or perhaps laughing. Who cared—

I am invisible I am turning into

—about being a hero?

'You don't have to answer, Sergeant. But you must at least have wondered why Rogers hasn't come for you yet. He has had enough time by now. But the truth is, he is not even looking. Your family is not looking either. Nor are any of your "friends".' Bucky could hear the inverted commas in Zola's voice. 'Frankly, I think it is a little indecent. The speed they all forgot you with. Maybe it was the fact there never was a body. People say it is harder when there isn't one, you have probably heard it, but it is a lie. A probable, even almost certain yes is easier than a definite one. You can keep—what is the word?—postponing it. There is no grave to visit, no day set aside for the anniversary. You don't even have to mourn. You can just say to yourself that it's early days, that there's still hope, that you're not giving up. And all the while you are carrying on with your new life, new friends, new loved ones. You do not even have to feel guilt. Everyone will tell you how strong you are.'

There was a little burst of static, as though, in some other room, the flesh-and-blood Zola had just brushed the microphone. 'Ah, maybe I am wrong. Maybe it is not everyone, just the people who knew you. Maybe they all got the measure of you, eh?'

Hope. For all his cleverness the dumb fuck had just gone ahead and given Bucky hope. He didn't dare move, sure that Zola would see it on his face, the way he sat. His nose started itching almost immediately, but right now he didn't mind it.

Steve was alive. His family, alive. Dum Dum, Jim Morita, Jacques, Gabe, Falsworth (don't call me Monty), enough of them alive for Zola to say friends, plural; maybe all of them alive, God willing and with a little luck. Peggy and Stark alive, almost certainly. The war had been won and they were all alive and well, at least enough to move on and (but that was Zola's lie) forget him.

If in exchange for all that he had to be the one to face Zola, well, that didn't seem like too high a price to pay.

'No amusing curse words? You're slipping, Sergeant.'

Bucky looked straight at the lens on the wall. 'I've got the measure of you too, Zola.'

He had learned, after Azzano, strapped to that table. The kind of person who didn't know the difference between kicking a cat away and taking it apart still alive to see how it worked.

'Oh, I am sure that is of no consequence at all. All it matters is who you are. Being your Captain America's right hand, following him around, that must have given you a certain purpose. So what are you, without that? When following him brought you to this room? When everything is… stripped away?'

'Barnes, James Buchanan,' Bucky said. 'Sergeant. One-oh-seventh. Three-two-five…' He stumbled there, just for a moment. He could feel the rest of the serial number slipping into the black hole inside his head before he caught it again. 'Three-two-five-five-seven-zero-three-eight.'

Zola's laughter sounded like a spill of needles. 'Oh, Sergeant, it is not so bad here, I assure you. Think of what you would have had to look forward to if it weren't for me. Grubby little children, sour-mouthed wife, pinching every penny, drinking yourself into a stupor. But now, you get to be something extraordinary. Don't forget that.

Perhaps you won't even have to be alone. Do you think your dear Captain would like his own little room here?'

Bucky drew in a cold breath. 'You're a monster, Zola.'

'Ah, yes, I was sure that was what you would say! But as I said before, I read your file. All those fights you used to get into, you will say you were just defending your friend, yes? Stop the other youngsters from—ah, picking on him. I think, though, I think you enjoyed them. You certainly had no problem killing all those men in the war, without a single concern, I am sure. And when you were found and had your surgery, you nearly strangled someone to death. They were doing it to save your life, to stop your mangled arm from killing you. You woke up, and you nearly killed someone. The very first thing you did. So what does that say about you, Sergeant? About what you are? Do you know that the procedure amplifies what is already inside? So what will we discover about you, I wonder.'

Bucky's mouth opened, but he didn't answer. He pictured the bars of a cage, a strange bird trapped inside.

I have to get out of here.

'We are going to do great things together,' Zola said.

TBC…

Author's notes: Re: Bucky's father, when Bucky refers to his folks in CA:TWS, in my head-canon he's talking about his mother and stepfather. As for his birth father, comics readers can probably guess what the backstory is there, but in any case it will be delved into in future chapters. Some of what Zola says to Bucky in this chapter's last scene draws heavily on what "John Smith" (a serial killer who killed his victims by locking them in little rooms in the middle of nowhere and then screwing with their heads until they lost the will to live; so, well, I guess you can see the relevance…) says in the Cold Case episode The Road (season 5, episode 15). As for what Zola is doing in the USSR and how Hydra found another of its congenial little nests, again I will delve into that a bit more in future chapters. I have assumed that Bucky's metal arm went through several iterations, as it seems logical that they'd modify it as technology improved. Also, I thought of keeping a running tally of all of Zola's lies, omissions, and distortions, but this fic is already long enough as it is. If Zola's manipulative BS were a Where's Wally? puzzle, it would literally be a page of Wallies with just this one lady in a stripy sweater, istg.