Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

I knew him. I knew him. I knew him.

The Soldier tried every possible inflection of the phrase. It didn’t reveal any new meaning. It was a malfunction, a result of the long period he had spent out of cryo. They had come to pick up the Target two hours after the Soldier pulled him from the river. He watched as they lifted him onto a stretcher and rushed him away to a nearby medical facility.

There was no pick up for the Soldier. All HYDRA communication channels were down. He’d missed the appointed pick up, and the contingency. He’d failed to ensure the success of Project Insight. He’d failed to eliminate the Target, twice. He’d failed to eliminate the Secondary Target. He had failed the mission.

The Soldier knew protocol. A failed mission meant punishment, then the Chair, then cryo. He had to go collect punishment, to ensure proper function on the next mission. It would be a risk, going back to the Vault. Insight had been compromised, communication was down. The Soldier did not know if the Vault was safe. The head hurt. He had been out of cryo too long. The words of the Captain on the helicarrier had damaged the neurological function. He would need the Chair to return to working condition. The Chair was in the Vault.

The Soldier stepped silently through the brush, the damaged right arm pressed against one side. He could feel the bones shifting beneath the skin. The body was trying to heal; there was internal damage from the girder. He had tried to assess its extent. He had determined two fractured ribs, likely a fractured pelvis, and possible internal bleeding. The body would heal. It healed best in cryo. Cryo only came after the chair, the chair came after punishment.

It was a forty minute walk from the crash site of the helicarrier to the Vault. It would be a faster run, but the body was too badly damaged to risk it. The streets of D.C. would be crowded. There would be panic on the streets, throngs of people clamoring, police trying to establish barricades. The Soldier would draw attention. 

Before he got too close to Downtown, he slipped into an abandoned warehouse, punched through the brick wall on the south side, and pulled free the backpack hidden in the space behind. It was meant for the Soldier to retrieve in case of failed extraction. It was not a breach of protocol. 

The backpack contained a set of civilian clothing, a COP Derringer easily hidden underneath, a nutrition pack only to be taken in case of critical physical condition, and a communication device.

The Soldier stripped off the tac suit and combat boots and changed into the pair of dark jeans, henley, ball cap, gloves and leather jacket. The boots returned to the feet, the Derringer slipped under the waistband. He retrieved the remaining blades from the tac suit and placed them on the body; tucked between ankles and boots, slipped into the left sleeve of the leather jacket. The guns he would have to leave behind to be recovered later. He placed them in the backpack, along with the nutrition pack and comm device. The channels would still be down, likely compromised. It would not be safe to use.

The Soldier placed the backpack in the crevice and bricked up the hole. He checked the function of the Derringer, then replaced it in the waistband. He slipped out of the warehouse, out of the alley, onto the main street. He forced the gait from a slight limp to a normal rhythm. The limp might draw attention. The bones of the ribs and pelvis itched with the effort of healing. The pounding in the head was worse than the hour before. 

You know me.

He slipped through the crowds on the streets unnoticed. The direct way to the Vault was blocked off. He detoured through several smaller streets before he could circle back to the bank from the other side. The back entrance leading directly to the Vault was abandoned. He approached cautiously, prosthetic hand on the Derringer. The right was too compromised in its range of motion to reach. 

The hallway to the Vault was empty. There was none of the usual noise, no voices, no mechanical clicking of keyboards and tools. Even in absence of the handler or commander, there should be technicians at the ready. A maintenance team to receive the Soldier upon arrival. It was their task to be prepared at all times to return the Asset to combat conditions, or else to secure its storage until the next mission. There were no technicians there. No maintenance staff.

The chair stood abandoned in the Vault. The Soldier could not administer the treatment himself. There had to be technicians present. The punishment was to be received first. The handler was the only one who could determine punishment. He had to find the handler.

The pounding in the head was almost unbearable.

‘Till the end of the line.

The Captain’s words had triggered some sort of neurological response. Only the chair could correct neurological function. The chair came after the punishment. The punishment was to be decided by the handler. The handler was Pierce.

The Soldier turned away from the chair. The offices had been abandoned, seemingly in a hurry. The drawers were pulled out, empty. The lights were on. One of the metal bins was charred, ashes inside. Files had been burned. Insight had been compromised. The comms had been disabled, the channels were down. Had HYDRA been compromised?

Piercing pain in the head, behind the eyes.

The Asset does not question.

The Soldier needed information. The bases in and around D.C. were likely all abandoned, or about to be. There was no telling which compound Pierce would resort to. There were several surrounding the area which were probable. The nearest was a day's walk, in the Soldier’s current condition. He needed to ascertain what direction to take. He required immediate punishment, reset and cryo, else the function of the Asset would be compromised permanently. The function of the Asset was to be ensured at all costs.

He turned back, the eyes glancing at the chair on the way out. The back alley was still silent and empty. The crowds on the big streets had not dispersed. The Soldier weaved through the masses. He directed his steps towards an electronics store. There were three customers inside, two employees. Threat level: none. He entered.

“Welcome, Sir, how can I help you?”

The employee was male, mid-twenties, approximately one hundred eighty centimeters, seventy five kilograms.

The Soldier shook the head. “Just looking,” he said.

“Naturally, Sir, if you have any questions feel free to come to me anytime!”

The Soldier ignored him. 

There were four rows of tables displaying smartphones, tablets, laptops and TVs, from left to right. He slid into the aisle with access to the laptops, stopped in the middle, and opened the search engine. 

News D.C. today.

AIRCRAFT CRASH INTO POTOMAC

MASSIVE ACCIDENT IN D.C.

SECRETARY ALEXANDER PIERCE CONFIRMED DEAD

The Soldier paused. The pain in the head grew to a resounding noise.

I’m not gonna fight you.

Pierce was dead. The handler was dead. The handler decided on punishment. The handler was dead. The pain in the head was making him nauseous. He read on.

83 CONFIRMED DEAD IN D.C. INCIDENT, HUNDREDS MORE INJURED

HYDRA RETURNS: CLASSIFIED FILES RELEASED

CAPTAIN AMERICA IN CRITICAL CONDITION

Bucky?

I knew him.

You know me.

The man on the bridge, who was he?

I’m not gonna fight you.

But I knew him.

The hand stills in the air. It screams inside him. I knew him. I knew him. I knew him. The Target falls. The Captain falls. The hand clings to the metal. The Captain drowns. The hand let’s go, drags him out of the water. The head screams.

“Hey man, you okay?”

The Soldier flinched. He had not heard the employee approach. The noise in the head was too loud. He required a reset. Reset followed punishment. Punishment was determined by the handler. The handler was Pierce. Pierce was dead.

“You don’t look so good, buddy,” the employee said. “D’you need me to call someone?”

The Soldier shook the head. The employee's eyes fell on the screen, reading the headlines.

“Wild, right?” he laughed nervously. “Suppose emergency lines would be busy anyways. Sure I can’t call anyone for you, a friend maybe?”

“No,” the Soldier said.

“Just asking man, you look really rough. It’d be no bother, really.”

“No!” he turned to the employee and grabbed him by the collar of his shirt. “No calls.”

“Okay, okay, dude, chill!” the employee said, arms raised, palms facing the Soldier. 

The Soldier let go and waited until the employee returned to his desk.

The handler was dead. In case of the death of the handler, command of the Asset reverted to the secondary handler. The secondary handler was the commander. The commander was Rumlow. Rumlow had been inside the Triskelion during the failure of Insight. The Soldier had not read Rumlows name among the list of confirmed dead.

But Rumlow’s name was classified. Unlike the Secretary, the commander did not serve public duty. His name would not appear in the lists. The Soldier had to determine the status of Rumlow before any further decisions could be made.

He glanced up at the employee. He stood behind his desk, watching the Soldier closely. He did not approach. The Soldier logged onto HYDRA’s servers. It was a risk to access the servers from an unsecured logon point. It was a risk worth taking. There was so much confusion, no one would pay much attention.

The internal communications backup channel had been restored. Hundreds of agents typed frantic questions; a dozen of them arriving every second. There was no consensus on where to convene, or on who had command. SHIELD had discovered HYDRA’s infiltration of its every department, on every level. Loyalties were unclear. No one could be sure who was SHIELD and who was HYDRA. Both sides were in disarray. It didn’t matter. He needed to find the secondary handler. The secondary handler was Rumlow.

The pain in the head ebbed slightly. The secondary handler was alive. The MedStar Hospital Center was a sixty minute walk. The Soldier considered his options. The damage to the body was considerable; concealing the limp likely exacerbated the fracture to the pelvis. The neurological condition needed attending to before a permanent loss of function. Immediate reset was required. Reset followed punishment. Punishment was determined by the secondary handler. Rumlow must be reached as quickly as possible. The Soldier would take the metro to reduce travel time.

As he descended the stairs to the station, the Soldier mingled with the crowds, head downturned, ball cap pulled low. Public transport was only to be taken in an emergency. Under the circumstances, this was not a protocol violation. Still, CCTV was to be avoided at all costs. Discovery of the Asset was unacceptable. 

The clatter of metal on metal. Hissing doors, tinny announcements, loud voices. The smell of bodily fluids, beer. The pain in the head grew to a peak. Sharp, piercing pain behind the eyes. Black spots clouded the vision.

Come on, Buck, it can’t be that bad, you barely had anything tonight!

He nearly missed his exit, stumbling through the closing doors at the last second.

“Take a look at this idiot!” 

Someone laughed.

The Soldier stumbled up the stairs. The pain in the head was unbearable. He had never felt this pain before. Not that he remembered. There was no physical trauma. He did not receive a substantial blow to the head. The brain had not been deprived of oxygen. The pain started when the Ca– the Target spoke to him. He had received many punishments. He had never had pain induced by voice alone. Why had the Cap– the Target this power over him?

More pain.

The Asset does not question.

The Soldier dug the nails of the flesh hand into the palm. The pain in the hand distracted from the pain in the head. It was not enough. He needed to focus. He needed to find the secondary handler. He shook the knife from the sleeve into the prosthetic hand. He switched it to the right. He closed the fingers around the blade. It cut into the soft flesh, drew blood. The vision cleared.

The hospital loomed before him. There was no time to find a quiet back entrance. He required immediate reset. The neurological malfunction was threatening to shut down the body entirely.

Come on, Buck we gotta get you outta here. Just hold on, you’ll be just fine. I’m getting you outta here.

He closed the flesh hand tighter. 

The ER was busy, a constant stream of new patients arriving through the doors and being wheeled in on gurneys from the ambulance bay. The chaos was good. It made him blend in.

“Sir, you’re going to have to wait until we’ve taken care of the patients in critical condition. If you could just wait over there, someone’ll be with you soon as we can. If you’re in acute pain I’d advise you to seek out a clinic, the trauma centers are all currently at full capacity!”

The Soldier only registered slowly that he was being spoken to. The body needed medical attention, but he was to avoid civilian doctors until critical failure. The Asset was only looked after by specially trained technicians.

A response, however, was unnecessary, as the doctor had already disappeared. The Soldier slipped out of the ER onto the hallways. Only five hours had passed since the failure of Insight. If Rumlow was here, he was either in the OR or in the ICU. The OR was impossible to access inconspicuously. He followed the signs towards the ICU.

He continued past the ICU to the next floor. He acquired a medical gown and mask from a storage closet. He returned down the stairs and entered the ward. None of the staff batted an eye at his presence. One of the rooms towards the back of the unit was heavily guarded. The commander did not warrant such high caliber protection.

The Soldier passed by the rooms at a measured pace. He recognized none of the patients. He almost paused in front of the guarded doors. The face was swollen and discolored, but the Soldier was certain: Captain Steven Grant Rogers. By his side sat the Secondary Target. 

The Soldier faltered, then continued.

So what, you some kind of superhuman now, Stevie?

‘Least you won’t have to worry ‘bout me dyin’ on you every winter anymore.

Ain’t that right. Still worry ‘bout you dyin’ in the trenches though, don’t I?

Blinding pain. The head felt as though it was about to explode. He slipped into an empty on-call room and locked the door. He leaned back, slid down the wall. Flesh fingers dug into the knife, metal fingers dug into the temples. The pain ebbed slightly. He sighed.

He had an opportunity to eliminate his Targets. But the mission had failed. The primary handler was dead. The status of the secondary handler was unclear. All mission parameters were suspended until further instruction. Besides, the Targets were heavily guarded. Wilson, though no match for the Soldier’s strength, was in good enough condition to fight. There wouldn’t be enough time to eliminate the guards and both Targets and escape unnoticed. Discovery would be unavoidable. Discovery was unacceptable.

The man on the bridge, who was he?

Bucky?

Who the hell is Bucky?

I knew him.

The noise in the head wouldn’t stop. It only grew louder, louder, louder. He dug the knife in deeper. It didn’t help.

I knew him.

Bucky?

I won’t fight you.

Who the hell is Bucky?

You’ve known me all your life.

Who the hell is Bucky? Who the hell is Bucky? Who the hell is Bucky?

The Soldier required the chair. This needed to stop. It was too much.

The metal fingers pressed against the skull. If he pressed any harder he might break it. He forced the prosthesis still. There were voices in the hall, hurried feet, running. An alarm went off. More running. He needed to leave. If he stayed any longer he would be discovered. Discovery was unacceptable. He could not find the secondary handler. He was putting the safety of the Asset at risk by continuing in this condition.

The Soldier stood, breathed, unlocked the door. He slid into the hall and hurried down several flights of stairs, out onto the street. He deposited the medical gown and mask in a nearby dumpster. He ran.

The crunch of the ribs and pelvis were negligible compared to the droning of the head. The noise wouldn’t stop. He needed to find a secure location to rest. The body was not used to recuperating outside of cryo, but he knew it could, if necessary. It had done so before. Sufficient sleep might restore some of the neurological function. Sufficient sleep required a secure, undisturbed location. Preferably outside the city. 

A car would be the fastest. The Soldier could not drive in this condition. The neurological malfunction would interfere dangerously. The metro might take him far enough, but it brought risks. The body might fail while underground in a resting position. It usually fared better with something to do. ( You can’t ever sit still Buck, can you? Gosh, it’s annoying, you know that? ) He could keep running. The fractured bones would carry him for another three hours in a light jog. Enough time to leave D.C.. The body could heal during sleep. 

The Soldier set a steady pace and directed the feet out of the city. 

The noises in the head did not subside.

Night fell an hour into the Soldier’s run. By the time he reached the suburbs the sky was velvety black, but the eyes could see excellently even at night, so he pushed on. He only slowed to a walk as he approached the edges of an old industrial park.

The body could only rest in an undisturbed location. The industrial area was removed from civilization, offered protection from wind and weather, and was unlikely to house functioning surveillance. It was an acceptable location to spend the night.

The Soldier used the prosthesis to tear a hole into the rusted chain link fence. He slid through the hole and slipped into the alley between two warehouses, keeping close to the wall on his right.

That’s easy, Stevie, we just won’t let’em catch us!

The flesh fingers dug into the fresh wound on the palm. The black spots in the vision did not recede, but they did not grow bigger. He continued on. The back door to the warehouse was locked. He broke it open and slipped inside. The vast space was empty apart from several tarps abandoned on the concrete floor. 

It’s gonna be freezing again tonight, you sure you don’t wanna come stay over?

I’ll be fine, Buck, don’t worry about me.

One day, you’re gonna be the death of me.

There was snow falling. It was June. This was highly irregular. The pain in the head radiated, spread down the spine, into the joints. The body was on fire, burning hot. Burning cold, ice in the veins. Not the good ice, that brought dark and quiet. The sharp ice, that pierced skin and bone, stripped the body of all warmth, all energy, slowed the heart not all at once but over time, excruciatingly painful.

There was blood in the white, seeping into the snow. The throat was sore, dry, painful – there was a voice, screaming, then crying, then doing nothing at all. The light was blinding, white and blue, inside the eyes and outside. There was no light, only darkness, he could not move, the feet were bound, the arms–the arm?–chained.

He blinked and the snow was gone, there was heat instead; suffocating, oppressing heat pressing in around him from all sides. There was pounding noise, pressure blowing the eardrums, crackling as the membranes knit back together, the rush of blood in the ears; fast, too fast, the heart beating far quicker than expected.

The bright light was back, burning behind the eyelids, scorching the tissue, scorching everything it touched, leaving behind nothing but a gaping void where something was supposed to reside.

Grab my hand!

Bucky?

Who the hell is Bucky? Who the hell is Bucky? Who the hell is Bucky?

The noise echoed in the head, loud and unrelenting, racing along the nerves of the brain, pounding against the borders of the skull. He almost wished back the light; the light ended, the light had a purpose, the light he could bear until it was over. The body convulsed, suddenly, violently, shaking in every muscle, tearing at the throat, twisting the stomach.

32557038…32557038…32557038

Who the hell is Bucky?

32557038

Welcome back, Sergeant Barnes. You are to be the new Fist of HYDRA!

Then the world fell away.