1945 - Location Unknown

They've started keeping him in a cell, now that his body is more or less repaired. He can stand under his own power again, and even walk shakily from one end to the other if he's so inclined.
He rarely is.
He's not sure yet why they're working so hard to nurse him back to health, because it's sure as hell not out of concern for his well being. It's making his skin crawl, just sitting in here, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Bucky stands beside the plank of rough wood that they've labeled a bunk, his one hand braced against the wall for balance, and stares up at the ceiling, taking stock of what he knows. Things fade in and out of clarity alarmingly when he tries to pin his thoughts down, though the heavy feeling in his brain has finally subsided. He can focus if he really puts his mind to it, but the splitting headaches that follow are almost enough to deter him from trying.
He wishes there was more he could be sure of. He must've hit his head something spectacular back there, but at least it didn't completely scramble his noggin...

His name is at least still clear. James Buchanan Barnes, goes by Bucky among friends. He'll kill anyone here that calls him that. He's a Sergeant, captured before - and tortured. A sliver of a horrified shudder marks that memory and he doubts it'll ever fade. (Of course the memory he least wants is the most resilient. Why the hell not?)
He's knows he's a marksman for the US Army… or… at least he was. Bucky glances down at the short stump of what was his left arm. Not likely he'll be doing much sniping after all this. Can't aim worth a damn with one hand.
He knows he was wounded when he fell from somewhere up high, but he can't quite pin down where or how that happened. Someone was screaming his name as he tumbled head over ass. Someone important. His skull blossoms with scarlet arcs of pain anytime he thinks about it too hard. He'll come back to that one.

The thing that stands out the clearest in his mind is Steve. Thank god he can still remember that little shit. Or… well no, he reminds himself, Steve's a big bastard now. He lets himself indulge in a moment of pride about Steve before moving on.
Steve is safe somewhere because of Bucky. He's pretty sure he remembers that thought etching itself firmly across his brain as he fell. It's like a brand in his memory. Steve survived. As bad as things are here, that's important. He did his job. Now he's just gotta wait for Steve to find him and get him out of here… wherever the hell 'here' is.

It never occurs to him that Steve might not know where to look, or that he should be looking at all. Bucky's mind glides tractionlessly over the idea that, to his friends, he's a dead man. Somehow faith in Steve Rogers just comes so naturally. Instinctively. Barnes was rescued before when everything seemed hopeless. He will be rescued again; he just has to hold out until then.

The man in the labcoat has come back, this time bringing a little wooden stool with him. He shuts the door, nodding at the two black-uniformed guards outside, and sits down in the middle of the cell, serenely crossing one leg over the other and folding his hands on his knee.
"Sergeant Barnes, I have a question for you."

" 'Answer's 'fuck off'." Bucky snorts, settling himself gingerly on the edge of the hard 'bunk' they've given him. It has no bedding, but it's something to sit on. He glares at the man across from him. A sedate smile is his answer.

"Come now, that's no attitude to take. Let us all cooperate with one another. You know what we can do first-hand, do you not?"
This fucker speaks pretty good English, Bucky notices. His accent is definitely thick, but he's not struggling with the words like the guards usually do when they shout orders into the cell.

Barnes lets out a dark chuckle in answer and waves the inch-and-a-half nub of his left arm at the man. "Got news for ya', fucker. You didn't do this. Gravity's a real bitch sometimes, huh? I ain't scared of you assholes."

"Oh removing a limb is so barbaric and simple." That damned creepy smile just won't go away. It's giving him a chill. "No, I think your time with Dr. Zola should have given you a little taste of what resistance will buy you."

Bucky feels a tiny shudder start up at the base of his spine. He pushes it away. He could pretend to cooperate, of course. Feed them false intel... but he has the feeling they'd catch on pretty quick. This guy seems canny and eerily observant. Bucky doubts he'd be able to get much past him.

Barnes smirks sardonically. Maybe it's good that his head's all mush lately. He couldn't tell them anything useful even if he wanted to. "I ain't the code guy or the plans guy. Sorry, fucker. Nothin' interesting in here." Bucky taps his own forehead with two fingers. "All I can tell ya is name, rank, and serial number." He bears his teeth in a predatory smile of his own. "Ask Zola how good I am at tellin' that."

"Oh don't be silly, Sergeant." The bastard just sounds amused. "We don't need battle plans or secret codes from you." he flaps a hand dismissively. "We can get that information anytime we wish, and from a far more reliable source." The man's face tips slightly, as if considering something interesting. "I see you haven't heard the good news then."
He takes Bucky's smolderingly defiant silence as confirmation. His smile is like ice.
"Captain America is dead. I was going to ask if you knew."

Bucky's mouth falls open, in spite of himself. The serene smile across from him widens just a fraction.