Winter of the White Wolf

Chapter 26 - Starlight Obfuscation

Within Bucky's mind, the sound of Ayo's laughter shifted pitch, blending the ambiance of the busy cafe into a cacophony of rowdy voices that murmured in drunken conversation. They grew in volume and made way for a light piano accompaniment somewhere off in the distance.

Bucky found himself keying into the upbeat melody that acted as the establishment's newest heartbeat. 30's jazz. "I Cover the Waterfront" if he was being specific. The tempo was off and the rendition a little lax, but it was identifiable enough.

Some nights, he didn't mind taking a turn tickling the ivories, but tonight was definitely not one of them. The tinny, playful music went along just fine with the upbeat and near-celebratory ambiance of the voices in the adjoining rooms, but it had a way of making his nerves hitch. Rather than finding comfort in the steadfast companionship of his fellow freedom fighters like he usually did, tonight the presence of those voices came adjoined with an almost stifling, claustrophobic weight.

He'd tried to shuck it off. Really, he did. It was customary to spend time most evenings with the other soldiers and P.O.W.s that had survived Azzano, but sometimes there was already enough going on in his head that he didn't need the added distraction of any other voices. At least that's what he reasoned when he managed to politely excuse himself from the crowded tables and had chosen to take up an extended residence from a perch at the far end of the bar.

He felt like he'd done an admirable job playing off the lingering discomfort. Well, to everyone except him.

"Everything okay?" Steve's familiar voice posed the question from somewhere just to his left.

Bucky raised an eyebrow and summoned his best older brother impersonation as he replied, perhaps a bit too quickly, "Yeah. Why wouldn't I be?" He focused on maintaining a pleasant, nonchalant expression as he casually glanced from Steve's face to that damn olive green Army uniform of his. He didn't know if he could ever truly get used to seeing him like this, that was for sure. His face was familiar, but the rest of him was just so… foreign. Like someone had switched out the heads between two very different dolls.

The Steve he'd always known was, frankly: borderline sickly. It was like someone had dropped a medical bingo card on him with everything from asthma and scarlet fever through to high blood pressure, rheumatic fever, and heart trouble. As kids, they didn't talk much about the details, but Bucky overheard enough between Steve's mom and the doctors that made house visits to put things together and extrapolate.

It was just part of Steve being Steve, and it made it all the easier to appreciate the times when he didn't have a cold or a fever and his health was in the clear enough to get out of the house and go do things together. When it wasn't? They could hang back and read or play board games.

Maybe he was still trying to sort out the disconnect between going from that Steve, the pale, gaunt boy laying in bed under a mass of mismatched blankets with a mess of sweat-laden dirty blond hair, with the chiseled figure in front of him. He just couldn't get over the fact that in their whole lives, that spunky little punk hadn't ever been anywhere close to more fit than he was, but taller and broad shouldered. It still didn't seem real.

That being as it was: his best friend's newfound moxie and take-charge attitude looked good on him. It fit him, suited him in a way that made it seem like it'd been there all along. Maybe it had? Maybe it was just that now, he had the physique to go along with it, so when he stepped in to take charge, people were inclined to listen rather than laugh.

Bucky trusted him with his life. Trusted that spunky kid from Brooklyn who was too stupid and self-assured to back down, but it was still all sorts of backwards to not recognize his friend's silhouette and have to focus on his face to see Steve.

Bucky shifted his attention back to the pockets of soldiers and civilians gathered around the room as he took another sip of his drink, well aware that Steve was still evaluating him with that steady expression of his. He was looking for cracks, but Bucky was confident he wouldn't find any. He was a reigning champion at this game.

The two of them had something about a gentleman's agreement on how Bucky knew if he didn't ask Steve too many questions, then Steve would be inclined to return the favor. Steve's whole, well, the whole transformation bit wasn't exactly common knowledge. Bucky was pretty sure the fantasy of the Army's newest elite combat unit being led by Captain America and his star-spangled red, white, and blue was more appealing than the reality that it wasn't that long ago that he was an asthmatic who was a hundred-pounds soaking wet.

Even that was probably being generous.

So Steve continued to regard the side of Bucky's unconcerned face with that steady understanding of someone that knew better than to press too hard.

Bucky took another sip of his drink, "I said I'm okay."

"Just worried about you is all. After..."

After Azzano. Bucky silently finished.

Yeah. He'd been reading Steve's concerns loud and clear since the bold, one-man rescue mission to HYDRA's weapons facility in the Austrian Alps. In the aftermath, Bucky'd quickly decided that he wasn't going to give his friend any handholds of concerns to worry about even if Bucky had some of his own.

"There's nothing to worry about. Really," Bucky insisted as he turned his head to challenge Steve's evaluative gaze. Part of him briefly wondered if whatever they'd done to Steve gave him some sort of supernatural ability to tell if someone was telling the truth, like a living lie-detector. He didn't think so, but he wouldn't put it past him. At this point: anything was fair game so far as the blurry lines between real life and science fiction. Hovering cars? Vita Rays? Plasma cannons? This decade was something else.

Steve's blue eyes remained focused on his, "If you say so, Buck." He knew his best friend well-enough to know he wasn't entirely convinced, but he acquiesced for not the first time that day.

Bucky adjusted his shoulders, trying to take pride in the victory, in the perception of "normal" when somewhere not so deep down, he was realizing there was something of a schism developing between the two of them. It wasn't like they'd had a fight or falling out, and it wasn't as if he wasn't thrilled at the sight of a familiar face he knew he could trust, but the War… it had already started to change the reliable dynamics they'd comfortably settled into for years.

To start the silent accusations rolling: It wasn't like Steve offered up the whole Super Soldier thing in his letters. Hell: He hadn't even mentioned he'd gone and joined the Army to begin with. Who did that? Bucky wanted to think his own letters had been more honest, but he knew better too. Steve's parents had both served in the military, and his father had been killed in wartime. He wasn't any stranger to the risks and realities of serving the call of the greater good.

But that being as it was: Bucky didn't feel the need to go into any marginal amount of graphic detail about the things he'd seen firsthand out in the field and how he felt like it was slowly changing him, hardening him. He'd just… tried to keep his replies simple, phrased in a way that Steve wouldn't have to worry about him any more than he already did.

And now here they were: sitting beside one another, continuing to stuff things down because it was the sensible thing to do under the circumstances, and because ignoring emotions was easier than talking about them.

He hated it, but he also didn't see any way around it. He didn't want his friend worrying about him anymore than he already did, and he didn't need his pity. He certainly didn't need to know about the torture or the nightmares: It wasn't like Steve could do anything about them anyway. It'd just make him look at Bucky differently. Neither of them needed that. They had bigger things to focus on, like winning the War.

He was proud of Steve. Downright thrilled science had found it prudent to step in and help him embrace the calling he'd always been so eager to pursue, but damn if it didn't have a way of changing their longtime dynamic. He knew it was on him to get with the change of program, but it was hard when he had questions of his own.

"I think I might head out in a few," Bucky observed as if reflecting on the time, "You should go and do the whole-" He mimed a shielded salute, "'Captain America'-thing. Maybe even sell some war bonds. I hear there's a sweet song and dance if you tip well-enough," he saw fit to add.

Steve gave him a measured look, but the corner of his mouth had a hint of that smile he grew up with, "I think my dancing days are behind me."

"Pity," Bucky commiserated, "I would have spent a lot of my hard-earned greenbacks on war bonds just to see that." He toasted the air, as if saluting a fallen ideal.

Steve rolled his eyes, but his face went back to that empathetic look of his. The one that knew to check in on him when things at home weren't doing so great, "You sure you don't want to stick around awhile longer? Or if you're not feeling the crowds, I can head back with you. I don't mind."

On any other day, Bucky would have considered the offer, but he shrugged them off, "Nah. I was going to get a little reading in before the gang comes back and sees fit to obliterate the whole makeshift library ambiance I've worked so hard to build." While it wasn't technically a lie, he also didn't see fit to volunteer the fact that was barely even getting a buzz from the watered-down alcohol, his head was killing him, and the longer he sat there talking to Steve, the harder it was for him to pretend like any of this was normal. No less the other stuff which he was definitely not interested in talking about.

"You are such a nerd. You know that, right?"

"Takes one to know one," Bucky deflected as he downed the last of his drink and swung to his feet. He ran his hands over his uniform, flattening out the wrinkles and dipping a little deeper into a Brooklyn accent, "Word is you're paying the tab too? Awful kind an' considerate of ya, Cap."

Steve gave him another one of his signature toothy smiles as he shook his head lightly, "Nice to know some things haven't changed."

"Think of it as payback for all the times I had to sneak you into the nightclubs because they thought you were underage."

"You really are awful sometimes, Buck," Steve said with genuine affection.

"That's not what I recall you saying back then," Bucky retorted with a wink as he gave Steve's shoulder a playful shove. "I'll see you in a bit. You'd just better hold the troops off long enough for me to get at least another chapter or two in. You have no idea how much I had to trade and barter to get an English copy of "The Incomplete Enchanter" all the way out here that wasn't missing pages."

Steve snorted lightly, getting to his feet, "Fine, fine. Mission accepted."

Bucky started to turn to go, but Steve was quicker.

It wasn't that they didn't hug before the War, it was just that there wasn't usually much reason to. But ever since the rescue, ever since Azzano, it was like somewhere deep down, Steve had started to treat every parting like it could be their last: including benign ones like this that clearly weren't a soldier's send-off into the unknown fray.

Maybe the War'd gone and made Steve sentimental. Maybe he was still trying to find a way without those slippery words to convey how much he'd missed him, or what he'd feared might've happened if he hadn't found him sooner. Whatever it was: For as respectfully brief as the hug was, it was still filled with a heap of genuine emotion, and it did have a way of making Bucky feel a little bit better. Guilty, but better.

"Don't go getting all soft on me now," Bucky teased, offering Steve what he hoped was a suitable smile.

Steve returned the smile with a quiet, familiar, "Jerk."

Bucky just grinned. Yeah: He'd follow this punk till the end of the line. After all: Someone had to watch out for him.

He kept that steady smile plastered across his face until the door closed behind him and he stepped outside into the half-darkness of the night time street. It was only then he let his expression fall back to a brooding neutral. It felt good to not have to put on the dog and pony show of an upbeat expression for the world that he wasn't precisely feeling.

The sky overhead was cloudy and muted, hiding its usual cascade of distant stars that on any other night, were a veritable astronomer's dream compared to the hazy, overlit Brooklyn skyline.

His over-alert eyes glanced around as they adjusted to the low light. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew this was another one of those things that wasn't quite right, but he had no way of proving outright, and speaking it out loud wasn't going to help anyone. At best? It'd make him sound crazy. At worst? He wasn't even sure what was the worst case scenario. Maybe that one of the assholes that experimented on him would realize that unlike those other test subjects, he'd survived, and they'd track him down to see what'd become of their work.

But yeah: It sounded pretty crazy to even think that whatever they'd done had somehow made him able to see just a little bit better, just a little clearer, just a little bit further… even at night.

It wasn't natural.

It sounded just as crazy if not more crazy to try to figure out the other things that were going on with his body. They were subtle, not like Steve and his… whatever Steve got, but he was certain whatever Nazi vile they'd shoved into him were slowly changing him.

He rubbed one of his wrists and found himself glancing down to take a better look at it, remembering the tight restraints and the swath of welts and bruises they'd left behind looked like only days before.

The first thing he'd picked up on was the healing. He'd participated in and witnessed enough of both his own and Steve's fist fights to be a bonafide expert when it came to bruises. When you got a bad set, it was not only sore for a number of days, but it took time to run through the whole rainbow of colors. After a day or so, you'd start with a smart red mark that would shift to blue or black. Then maybe a week or so later, you were looking at an ugly greenish or yellowish mess that was still a little sensitive, but starting on its way out. After another few days, it would brown out and finally fade. It was a natural cycle, a predictable cycle.

Well, it had been until after Azzano. The bruises he'd gotten from the needles and restraints, as well as the earlier ones he'd gotten when he was working in the factory or being slammed by fat head guards had stopped hurting after less than a day, and they'd faded completely within about three. And the pneumonia that had led him to be dragged out and experimented on because he was no longer fit to work and very likely on his way? That had gone away at much the same time. Not only that: but aside from the headaches, he felt better than he had in years. Stronger. More focused. Like his mind had been sharpened in the same fell swoop.

Unlike the nebulousness of healing or the thought that maybe whatever they'd given him here in the med tents had kicked his immune system into high gear, the strength part was not only obvious to him, but it took a great deal of focus to keep it nice and under the radar.

The subtle stuff was where it started to pop up first. Holding, pushing, or pulling things with what was frankly his usual amount of effort, but the result was anything but. Torn zippers and buttons were early victims, followed closely by broken switches, overturned-handles, and bent hinges. He'd been able to play it off, but it didn't take long for him to figure out the correlation, especially when he saw his weight suddenly spiked. That made even less sense considering their poor rations in HYDRA's weapons facility.

The quiet time he'd usually put aside for evening reading and letter-writing had turned into a mixed bag of self-made experiments he'd concocted in a poor man's attempt to figure out not only what was happening, but how to keep it in check.

He knew he had to keep it in check.

He was relieved to find the tent empty by the time he made it back to the barracks, and slowly, carefully, he turned the knob on one of the nearby lamps to summon it to life. Another knob had already fallen victim to his golden touch the previous night.

Another thing that had found its way into a trashcan in the adjoining camp were about a dozen eggs. Regardless of how gentle he tried to be, he hadn't managed to lift a single one without at least cracking the shell, though most had suffered worse fates. He'd managed to make a damn mess of things over his wool blanket, and some of the yolk had even attempted an escape onto his books, which was like adding insult to painful injury. He'd be smelling that for weeks.

All of that led to more scheming, which was what prompted tonight's follow-up attempt that he hoped would be a deal less slimy and unpleasant. At least that was the theory of it, but as he sat on the edge of his cot, frowning into an open container of blueberries, raspberries, and plums, he was having second thoughts.

The raspberries probably weren't the best idea, seeing they were prone to staining, but they were the most delicate of the produce available.

He honed his focus as he dipped his pointer finger and thumb around the nearest raspberry and slowly closed them until they appeared to meet the flesh of the raspberry…

...which promptly bled red juice.

Too much pressure.

He didn't crush it outright, and that was progress for sure, but he was still getting the force all wrong.

He tried again.

The same result. Fingers? Yep. Already stained.

He wiped off his fingers and switched to blueberries. Though he remembered them being hardier than raspberries, he managed to flatten one outright when he tried to reposition one between his thumb and middle finger.

Plums it was.

The thick skin of the plums wasn't the same challenge as either of the more tender berries, but it also meant he had to be aware of the force of his whole hand rather than just his fingers. He considered it a sign of progress that he could hold it, even toss it lightly and still catch it without breaking the skin, even though he was certain the contact was generating unseen bruises.

Close enough.

He swapped the plum to his left hand while he used his other to dig into a knapsack and pull out some stainless steel cutlery he'd "borrowed" from the mess hall earlier. He regarded the bread knife, threading and it between his fingers. Focusing on keeping his left hand soft and steady, he put force into the fingers on his right, and with seemingly no resistance at all: he bent the knife in half.

He hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath, but he glanced to his left hand and was relieved to see the plum was looking a little bruised and not exactly round, but was still intact. Progress! He dug back into the knapsack and pulled free a more challenging prospect: a small combat knife.

The blade gleamed a warm silver in the lamplight, and he put the bruised plum back with its kin briefly to regard the blade, running a cautious finger along its sharp edge in some feeble attempt to ascertain just how strong his skin really was. It wasn't a test he saw fit to pursue tonight, but he knew for sure that if it'd been any other day, that the blade's edge should have at least shown faint marks on his skin, but instead it showed only pressure.

He could still bleed, he knew that much.

He plucked another plum free with his left hand and held it gingerly as he repositioned the combat knife horizontally with his right hand. Slowly, carefully, he tightened his grip, using his fingers to leverage the handle and the blade so they might bend together like the cutlery.

For a moment, he was actually genuinely relieved when the combat knife held firm and unwavering. It was as if the clouds briefly opened up and the stars shone overhead and saw fit to reassure him that maybe, just maybe this was all in his head.

That lasted for about five seconds, until he stopped being quite so tentative and really put force behind the motion.

As soon as he did, his left fist collapsed around the plum so hard that it cracked and shattered the seed inside, and the combat knife in his right had crumpled and folded in half in one smooth motion that made it seem as if it might as well have been made of hollow tin.

Bucky didn't move as he regarded the both of them with wild eyes. Once he came to his senses, he quickly grabbed a rag to clean the pulpy shreds of plum off his hand, tossing the remainder of it in a nearby waste bin as a way to hide the evidence. But the knife…

The combat knife was bent clear in half like it was a children's toy, and the force of it was frighteningly inhuman. He regarded his trembling hands cautiously, not with excitement, but with a palpable mix of horror and concern. What was happening? What had they done to him?

He looked at the remains of the plum in the waste bin, and his mind went to darker places: What if he accidentally hurt someone without even meaning to?

He tabled the concern when he looked back to the knives. He couldn't very well leave the cutlery or combat knife looking like that, so heused both hands to bend first the butter knife, and then sharper blade back, as if somehow the act of resetting them to their natural form might wipe his worries and conscience clean.

He couldn't tell Steve. He had to figure this out on his own and protect Steve so he didn't have even more on his plate to worry about.

His mind spun around at a million miles a minute and was focused on anything but the knife as the blade separated from the hilt and snapped free in his hands, searing his fingers with a fresh jolt of pain.

"Soldier! Mission report!"

His eyes rolled back and fluttered open as a surge of electricity ran through him, pulling him to the present.

The first thing he saw was the ground and a pair of mismatched hands. One set was silver, pressed into deep grooves of a worn concrete floor. The other was flesh, bloodied, and the thumb was pinned under a black object. When a finger reflexively twitched, he identified it as his own.

His mind surged forward, working to piece together what had happened and where he was. He was numbly aware that his own weight was likely what was pinning his thumb, and his eyes quickly pieced together that his right hand was still tightly gripped around the broken and bent firing mechanism of what looked to be a heavy assault rifle.

He was curled over on his hands and knees, and he rolled his weight to his left hand to free his right, but the other arm immediately screamed objection to the movement. The metallic plates shifted as the added weight of his body settled, and he felt his breath hitch when residual jolts of pain shot straight through his shoulder and ribcage, where fresh incision points of the newly grafted arm pressed against angry, confused flesh.

The world around him came into form in bits and pieces: A tan and olive brown clothed figure at the far side of the room, bleeding and whimpering. The pistol on the floor at the figure's feet. The armed soldiers around him, with their weapons pointed at his own head. The acrid smell of munitions, blood, and burnt flesh.

"Soldier!" The first voice repeated, his intonation a hard command, a warning, "Mission report, now!"

Another jolt of electricity arched through him. His chin lifted upright as his eyes flashed open, responsive.

"The mission…" He tried to roll the events over in his mind, "To… eliminate the Target."

He found himself looking up, trying to remember what had happened, and when he did, he met the man's wild, frightened eyes. Blood cascaded from a bullet wound on his left shoulder as he made strange mewling noises the Soldier couldn't readily identify, "Miséricorde, pitié s'il vous plaît…" Mercy, mercy please…

He identified him only as the Target.

The officer standing over him kicked the heavy assault rifle he'd been holding away, "You missed. From this close range?"

He had. He wasn't sure why, but he had, "I… the trigger."

"Broken through your carelessness after you chose a coward's shot." The officer above him bent down and gripped his jaw within gloved hands, forcing him to look at the Target. "Now you make him suffer like a wounded stag. For what purpose? What did you hope to accomplish?"

He honestly wasn't sure. He remembered it now. The training mission and its purpose. How he was instructed that based on the clothing of those he faced, he was to consider some allies and others mere obstacles subject to deadly force.

He remembered seeing the man on the far side of the room when they'd turned the last corner. He'd raised the weapon towards him, towards the guards close behind, but the Soldier was quicker. Why hadn't he gone for a killing blow?

"I don't know," he admitted out loud, and he didn't. It was like the decision had been so baseline, so instinctual that he took the shot without a second thought.

"That's not good enough, Soldier." The man pulled him up by his throat and he felt his legs scramble forward so his feet could catch him.

The commanding officer made a gesture to a nearby guard, "Give him your pistol."

"But…" the guard started.

"Now."

The soldier watched as the grip of the guard's revolver was handed to him, and he took it in his right hand. The guards around shifted and kept their weapons focused on him as he did. The metal was still warm. He regarded it cautiously, fearful that he might break the device as he had inadvertently done with the assault rifle's trigger.

"Other hand," the officer commanded. He obeyed, switching the weapon to the chrome hand.

There was no tactile response to the hand, so he watched carefully as he wrapped chrome fingers around the grip and held it with what he hoped was a suitable amount of strength. It was hard to tell when all that remained was a phantom of a sensation. A shudder from his shoulder ran down his arm and the hand trembled as the plates shifted in reply. He would need to train more so it would be more properly responsive. It was a liability otherwise. A weakness.

"Leaving a wounded dog to suffer is not only cruel and unnecessary, but it's a danger to you and everyone around you. They're liable to snap back when you least expect it, and you know what happens then."

He felt something inside of him shift. He did. It'd cost lives. Lives he could have saved.

The Target continued to speak as he pressed a hand to the oozing wound on his shoulder, "S'il vous plaît, ayez pitié. Je me rends. Je ne faisais qu'obéir aux ordres." Please have mercy. I surrender. I was just obeying orders.

"Finish your mission, Soldier." his officer commanded.

He could have saved them.

He could have saved him.

He wouldn't make that mistake again.

The Soldier raised the pistol in his left hand and without another conscious thought, in one smooth motion, he flipped the safety and pulled the trigger. The shot rang true as it found its mark and the Target dropped lifelessly to the ground.

His ears flooded with a buzz of static as a medley of electricity, strobing lights, and sharp pain seared into him, blurring his vision and numbing his mind.

"Eyes open," a man's thick German accent tisked.

He obeyed, forcing his eyes open though they continued to fight him. Light and shadow swam around his vision, and the bursts of patterned light left echoes in their place like faded stars. It was hard to focus on much at all beyond the blinding bursts of light, and he struggled to imagine them as something tangible. Maybe the problem was that he was trying to think about anything at all?

He was strapped in place on a metal examination chair that was tilted back at an angle while a series of heavy instruments and gauges attached to mechanical arms rested over his hands, head, and shoulders. Though he could feel them rather than see them, he knew his body was safely locked in place with a series of alternating fabric and metal restraints. He was reminded they were there for his own safety.

His mind swiveled back to the other people in the room as the pain momentarily subsided and the headpiece was cleared from his vision. From his other side, someone stepped forward to remove the bite guard from his mouth. His vision swam with the residual after images of the lights. They were so like stars. When had he last seen actual stars?

The closest people to him were a team of three immaculately dressed scientists that regarded him with curious intensity of judges at a state fair. The nearest held a clipboard and pen, while the furthest casually held a syringe off to one side.

Behind the figures was a row of armed soldiers with the muzzles of their rifles and electrical cannons focused squarely on him. The sight of them didn't bother him, but somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew what the muzzle of each felt like when they were fired in his direction.

The thing was, he was having a harder and harder time remembering why he'd once felt an inclination to give them reason to turn their weapons against him.

Everything was so murky.

The instinct to fight and stay alert was still there, but not at all times. Now it just sat in his gut, like a reminder that he needed to remain vigilant.

"What is your name?"

"Soldier," his gravelly reply was instantaneous. There was a correct answer for most questions, and offering up anything less meant "enrichment." He seemed to recall other answers he used to have, but they were beginning to fade away, replaced by the 'correct' responses. Somewhere deep down he remembered once answering this question with other names but he was no longer certain why, or exactly what those syllables meant. Soldier was not only the correct answer, but it felt like the proper answer.

"Good. And who do you serve?"

"HYDRA." Another straightforward response. Another response that once had another answer, but not the correct one.

"Why?"

His face adjusted. This was a new question. It required reasoning. He focused on it, slowly working it out in his mind. Why? How had he gotten here? Where was here? Everything was so foggy. "I sustained damage?" He didn't mean for it to come out as a question, but he wanted to make it clear that if the answer was incorrect, he would willingly accept the correction.

"You did," the German scientist in front of him confirmed.

"And HYDRA found me."

Another affirmative nod.

"They seek to repair and augment me, so I can prevent others from getting hurt."

"By who?"

He thought over the question, but the answer was obvious to him, "By anyone that would stand against HYDRA."

"Very good, Soldier," the praise settled into him: He'd given the right answers.

His tired eyes drooped as they caught a glimpse at where the angry, stapled flesh of his shoulder met the gleaming metal of his prosthetic arm. The screws and attachment points where the two met internally continued to sear with every breath he took, so he tried to keep the movements of his chest shallow, measured.

The nearby doctor took notice of his attention, but the Soldier said nothing. Asking questions out of turn led to corrections. "Do you like it?" the man mused.

The question was confusing, because it implied he had a preference. He did not think he did. Was that the correct answer? He tried it out, "Preference is irrelevant." The Soldier attempted to move the chrome-plated fingers and they responded in quick, jutted motion. He would need more training. More control. He seemed to recall it was not always this way, that both hands and both arms once matched and were made of soft flesh.

"Yes, of course, of course," The doctor mused, and something in his tone made the Soldier feel he'd given the correct answer, "But the arm is a precious gift, for you are to be the new Fist of HYDRA." The doctor rolled a seat closer so he could sit down and take notes, "Do you remember what happened? What came before?"

"Before…" the Soldier found himself struggling at the concept. There were images of a rounded shield. A blaring impact. The feeling of free-fall and a sudden snap of bone and impact into white. Then red. Everything was pain, white, and so much red. His body trembled as it tried to sort out the past from the present. Where had these images come from?

"We saved you," the man reminded him, "There was a fight, and the Americans sought to kill you."

He tried to remember, but it was all a blur. He asked the question before even thinking, "...Steve…?"

The question manifested of its own volition, and from the reaction it got: he immediately regretted asking it.

It was a word. A presence. There was no longer a figure or face that accompanied it, but only a sense of loss coupled with shame. Failure.

He reflexively flinched, expecting the painful surge of corrective electricity, but instead the nearest scientist held up a hand and clucked his tongue, "Steve Rogers is dead." He drew his comments out slowly, "He died because you chose to wound his captors rather than shoot to kill."

Oh.

Right.

He'd forgotten.

He'd failed to protect him.

He frowned, but the scientist in front of him used a finger to lift his chin, "You must try harder, Soldier. If you do not, more will continue to die, and you will be decommissioned and replaced with someone more fit for the task. HYDRA needs you at your best and nothing less. Do you understand?"

He did.

At least he thought he did. Some part of him fought the remark, but he no longer understood why. He pushed it down so it could rest with other things he did not need. The questions. The fear. The loss. The shame. Emotions did a soldier no good. He needed to focus on protecting those that depended on him, "Yes. I understand. It won't happen again."

"Prep him," the scientist said to someone off to his left before looking back at him and declaring, "Hail HYDRA."

"Hail HYDRA," the Soldier recited as someone slipped the mouth guard back between his teeth and pulled the weighty array in place over his head.

The last thing he saw was the doctor's lips parting as they revealed a set of gleaming white teeth. He felt certain he used to know what that expression meant, but he no longer did. He pushed the thought aside as the machine whirred to life and the lights began anew, accompanied by a cascade of fresh pain that coursed through his body. His eyelids were heavy, but he kept them open as ordered.

He couldn't fail again.

Only then did a single, richly accented word peek over the static in his mind. He focused on each syllable as the starry lights overtook his vision, blinding him into a sea of dappled white.

"Желание." The voice repeated, "Желание." Longing.

Author's Remarks:

It is gratifying to write some of these chapters because it means I can finally share head canons I have been living with for SO many years.

Based on Bucky's reaction to seeing Steve in CA:TFA, I don't think Steve ever told him about joining the Army nor the Super Soldier bit, and reactively: I think any after effects Bucky was having from the Nazi version of the Super Soldier Serum he kept entirely to himself. Thus, when Bucky fell off the train, Steve was justifiably certain his friend perished because no normal human would have been able to survive such a fall.

Likewise: I'm sure the process of breaking Bucky was truly awful, but after they realized they couldn't wipe his mind to a completely blank and obedient slate, they shifted approaches and tried to instead leverage his natural instincts to reframe and reimagine events to make him not only compliant, but willing to buy into their mythos that put HYDRA (and The Winter Soldier) as the heroes of their own story. So if his mind slipped and he started to reflect, started to question, that's where it would default to before he'd get another "reset."

I'm certain Bucky put up a noble fight, but torture is torture and people *break* given enough time and horrors. I imagine there was a period of time where he felt he had to play along with some of the questions and responses just to get food, water, and to avoid being subjected to incredible and imaginative types of pain. And so you initially started with a time where if he was asked his name, he would probably spit and declare he was Sergeant James Barnes of the Howling Commandos and the 107th, and... he'd get swiftly corrected.

Then that led to times where he'd say the "correct" answer, but internally, he'd know he was just playing along to survive. But after a while, through sleep deprivation, outright torture, and enough experimentation with his mind… even that started to blur, and he began to lose touch with his past as well as his present reality.

And eventually you get to here… where he's not truly yet the full-blown Winter Soldier we saw in the MCU, but he also is clearly no longer James Barnes. :(

As far as random tidbits I'm trying to draw from MCU canon: A while back I saw someone point out that there is a piano seen in the background of Bucky's apartment in Brooklyn in TFATWS, so I'm going with the idea he used to play the piano way back before the war.

Beyond that…? This was admittedly a challenging chapter to write for since there was a lot of heavy stuff I wanted to cover. Bucky and Steve being Bucky and Steve, and the two of them caring about one another but also not being entirely open with their feelings. Bucky trying to sort out what had been done to him, and then how HYDRA delved into manipulating and confusing him to make him more compliant and meet their own ends, etc.

It's reassuring to know Bucky's on the other side of all of that now, but I'm not sure if memories like these are better or worse than later in his life when he was a more mindless, compliant killing machine. :/ Still having that bit of spark in there, just trying to get out… it hurts.

At least we know he has friends standing vigil over him outside the cryo chamber, because between these dreams and the one with Ayo, and not knowing what's going on with his memories… It's a lot.

Thank you once again for all your wonderful comments and words of encouragement. It's so heartening and inspiring to feel I have so much support in this whirlwind of a journey we're on together, and I appreciate hearing all of your thoughts and questions along the way!

Written to "I Cover the Waterfront," by (by Johnny Green and Edward Heyman) J.J. Sheridan, "Unauthorized Night Flight," and "Hydra Lab," by Alan Silvestri, from the Captain America: The First Avenger Original Motion Picture Soundtrack, and "Alexander Pierce," by Henry Jackman, from the Captain America: The Winter Soldier Original Motion Picture Soundtrack.