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Bucky screwed his eyes shut, groaning as he returned to consciousness. He could already tell that things did not bode well for him - his head throbbed, and he could taste coppery blood in his mouth. Unless he’d gone on a truly epic bender last night and was just waking up (unlikely - he kept an opened bottle of vodka in his kitchen for emergency surgery), he’d been kidnapped - again . It seemed that Bucky had been attracting all sorts of unwanted attention since he’d broken free of Hydra’s programming. Before opening his eyes, he did his best to take stock, hoping that whoever had put him in this situation hadn’t noticed he was awake yet.
The air was cold and smelled earthy. He was underground, then, most likely some sort of bunker. Probing his mouth with his tongue, Bucky could feel ragged wounds on the inside of his cheek where he’d been punched, repeatedly by the feel of it. His ribs grated against each other as he breathed, and his hands were chained behind his back, pulling at his shoulders painfully. The chain was short, and he couldn’t move his arms past his sides without one being pulled back. He leaned back experimentally, and found there was hardly any slack.
Bucky opened his eyes and let them flick around the room. It was small, barely more than a closet, with only a sliver of light along the bottom to show him his surroundings. He was seated on the ground, half-slumped against the wall. Bucky let his head rest against the cool stone, trying to relieve some of the throbbing in his skull.
Despite nearly 75 years of practice, Bucky could feel a seed of panic beginning to grow in his gut. He felt weak and sluggish, telltale signs of being drugged, and his instincts to get out of his bonds were already screaming. Focus, focus, focus , he reminded himself. Try to think. Try to remember . Had he been outside? Had he been alone?
Bucky forced himself to his feet, a grunt escaping through gritted teeth as his ribs screamed in protest. “Hey!” He yelled. “Heeeeeeey!” He stretched a foot forward, trying to kick at the door, but was unable to reach it. Staggering backwards, Bucky leaned against the wall, his breath coming hard despite himself. The only sound was his harsh breathing, the subtle clank of metal chains shifting with him.
And nothing happened.
Nobody came to yell at him, to beat at his door and tell him to shut up. Nobody came to bring him food or water, or a bucket to piss in. Nobody came to beat his face to a pulp, to break his fingers and pull out his toenails as they shouted at him to give up Hydra’s deepest secrets. Bucky wasn’t even sure if anyone had walked by his door.
Bucky’s internal clock told him it had been about six hours since he’d first woken up, giving him plenty of time to think. Whoever had captured him, it wasn’t Hydra - they would’ve had him strapped to the nearest memory wiper the second they got their hands on him. They might not even fully know who they had locked up, although he suspected the metal arm gave his identity away. The metal restraints had resisted his attempts to pull them out of the stone, even with his augmented strength. He methodically went through a list of potential enemies, crossing them off as he deemed each unlikely. Once he’d exhausted his list, he moved on to how he’d gotten here.
Memories were starting to come back, fleeting and hard to grasp like old dreams. He had been alone - his first mistake. He’d gotten complacent in the months since his little swim in the Potomac, and he couldn’t remember if he’d warned his contact he was going out. As dubious as it sounded, there were many young people in Bucharest who were willing to take a wad of cash in exchange for the promise to burn down his mediocre apartment if he went 24 hours without contacting them. But his burner phone was gone now, along with everything else but his underwear. Bucky curled his toes inward, letting them scrape along the cold floor. It was packed earth, almost hasty in its formation. Prepared just for him.
Whatever they had given him had been specially chosen for him as well, to counteract Zola’s quasi-serum and years of tolerance buildup. Bucky rolled his neck, remembering the prick he’d felt in the back of his flesh hand as he’d browsed through the market, the apologetic smile of the man who’d handed him the meat. He could remember staggering into the alley, pressing his back against the dead end like a cornered rat, ready to lash out at whoever came after him. But it was like trying to remember going to sleep - Bucky couldn’t remember anyone hitting him, even if the evidence was there.
He started to sigh, but stopped as a bolt of pain encircled his chest like a vise. Exhaling slowly, Bucky closed his eyes again, not that it made much of a difference. His eyes were starting to adapt to the lack of light, but he could barely see more than the confines of his own cell. It was small, maybe seven feet in each dimension. If he sat on the ground, the pain in his arms eased, but the slumped-over position made his chest ache fiercely. But if he stood, his arms were pulled painfully backwards by the short chains. Crouching was impossible - it made his ribs shift and rattle every time he breathed.
It was going on eleven hours before the door opened. Bucky squinted at the sudden intrusion of light, roused from the half-stupor he had been sitting in. The man was of average height, with a stoutness that Bucky knew concealed strength. He glared upwards, knowing his defiance would look rather pathetic, but it made him feel better. The man merely cocked his head a little, before leaning back and kicking him square in the face.
Bucky’s head snapped backwards, his crown landing harshly on the stone wall behind him. He could feel blood welling up in his mouth and no doubt matting his hair, but made no noise other than a heavy exhale. Spitting a defiant mouthful of blood onto the man’s shoes, Bucky forced himself to stand up. The man let him stand, but as soon as he was upright, delivered a ruthless blow to Bucky’s stomach. He doubled over in pain, his ears ringing and white stars dancing across his vision as his already fractured ribs cracked. This time he groaned, eyes screwed shut as he shook his head to clear it. He tried to breathe as slowly as possible and not give in to the urge to start gasping, but he felt like the wind had been completely knocked out of him. Another blow to his face forced Bucky’s head back up, a cut opening above his eyebrow and dripping blood down his skin. It stung his eye, but Bucky forced himself not to react, blinking rapidly as he watched for the next hit. However, it did not come, and the man studiously wiped his own knuckles before slamming the door shut.
Wheezing, Bucky leaned against the wall and tried to steady his breathing. Every inhale felt like breathing in a thousand tiny pins, his ribs grinding against each other every time he so much as twitched. Bucky winced as his head touched the wall, a bruise no doubt already starting to form on the back of his head. Eyes closed, he did his best to let himself go, and let the Soldat take over.
It was disturbingly easy to detach from himself, to let the mindless taskmaster regain control over his body. Bucky fought the urge every day - the urge to use his considerable network to find any remaining Hydra bases and turn himself in, to passively accept a fresh mindwipe and a mission. But James Buchanan Barnes of Brooklyn, New York, had issued that concept a hearty middle finger and used his newfound talents to flee the moment Captain America had started breathing again. Who he was now, he couldn’t say: some bizarre mishmash of the two, perhaps. But he didn’t need Bucky now. He needed the Winter Soldier.
Confirmed injuries: fractured ribs, contusion to the back of the head, facial lacerations, dehydration, strained neck, shoulder, and back muscles. Suspected injuries: fractured cheekbone, concussion, hemorrhaging diaphragm. Possibility of punctured lung and further facial contusions under continued torture. Full recovery likely under ideal conditions, good chance under safe house conditions, unlikely in current situation.
Conclusion: escape.
But therein lay the issue: Bucky had no idea where he was. By his best estimates, he had only been out for about four hours, but that was more than enough time to hop on an airplane and travel halfway into Russia if his captors had so desired. On the other end of the spectrum, he could be right beneath his own apartment for all he knew.
Can’t find out until you escape , he pointed out to himself. The clock was ticking on his 24 hours, and if he wasn’t back home soon, his apartment would be torched. He didn’t want to lose it - it was in a good location, and all of his journals were in there. Starting from scratch again would be a literal nightmare.
Bucky rolled his shoulders as best he could, testing the chains. The bands on his wrists were about as wide as his palm, and two fingers thick. Even on a good day, Bucky doubted he could have snapped them. The chain links were equally resistant, and the eyelet they ran through was well-cemented in place. Bucky moved his hands experimentally, feeling one drag the other. They were connected by a single chain, rather than two separate ones.
Despite his pain, Bucky couldn’t help but smile grimly. His captors had made their first mistake.
Bucky continued to wait, precious hours slipping by as he hoped for his assailant’s return. Faint footsteps echoed through the hall after about five hours, and the door opened with a clang. Just as Bucky had hoped, the door was left open, silhouetting the man dramatically. Bucky stayed stock-still, one foot braced against the wall.
He was prepared for the punch this time, but it didn’t hurt any less. The cuts in his mouth began leaking blood again, and he pressed himself as tightly to the wall as he could, forcing the man to come closer. The man stepped in, and Bucky let his head hang, then whispered something. With a sneer, the man leaned downwards in an attempt to hear what Bucky had said.
“Big mistake, pal.”
Bucky launched himself upwards, the top of his skull connecting with the man’s chin with a nasty crack. The action pulled painfully at his arms, but he didn’t care - only escape mattered. The man reeled backwards, and Bucky stamped hard on his ankle. He fell to Bucky’s feet, face contorted with pain. Bucky kicked him in the face over and over, stamping on the man’s head until it was a bloody, caved-in mess. He drew deep shuddering breaths, each one pricking his lungs like wildfire. Now came the hard part.
Gripping his flesh hand with his metal one, Bucky braced himself, then squeezed hard. The fine bones of his fingers cracked, and he yelled out in pain, but he persisted. Broken as it was, his hand could now fit through the cuff and allow him to turn around. Bucky pulled it free and placed a foot against the chain’s anchor, grasping the remaining cuff with his metal hand. He yanked at it again and again, the curve of his torso forcing his ribs together painfully, but the eyelet eventually came free. Wrapping the chain around his hand in an improvised weapon, Bucky staggered out the door, eyes half-shut against the light.
The hallway was lit with bare fluorescent bulbs, empty save for the occasional bug that skittered across the floor. Bucky limped down the hall, his flesh hand wrapped around his torso for support. He knew that somebody would’ve heard the commotion, and he wouldn’t be alone for much longer.
As if on cue, two men came running down the hall, both clutching pistols. When they saw Bucky, they froze for a moment, but quickly raised them to begin firing. The shots were painfully loud in the enclosed space, and Bucky gritted his teeth together as his ears rang. Bucky stretched his metal hand outwards to block the bullets, then slung the chain forward. It struck one man on the temple, and he fell to the ground. The other man continued firing, a bullet grazing Bucky’s metal shoulder, but Bucky body-slammed him against the wall, and he crumpled. Breathing heavily, Bucky took a moment to rest, before grabbing the guns and climbing up a stairwell at the end of the hall.
Surprised shouts rang out as Bucky emerged from the stairs, but Bucky dispatched them with ruthless efficiency. His first pistol ran out of bullets, and he quickly drew the second from where he was cradling it against his torso. A few shots were returned, but they all missed their mark, his captors caught unprepared. It wasn’t long before Bucky was the only man standing. He grabbed a body about his size and stripped it, taking the trousers but leaving the bloodstained shirt. He found a jacket hanging in the foyer that was several sizes too large, but concealed his restraints when he put it on. Next, he started rifling through wallets, grabbing cash and examining the driver’s licenses.
Bucky breathed a short sigh of relief - he was still in Romania. Grabbing a man’s phone, he sent a quick text message to his contact in Bucharest, a twinge of panic running through him. An hour later, and his apartment would’ve been ashes. He crushed the phone and looked around, hoping for a first-aid kit, but none appeared. Bucky swallowed, still tasting blood, then grabbed a shirt and tore it into strips. He wound them around his torso, biting back a cry as he forced his ribs back into position. Next, he flattened his flesh hand and bound it as well, the finger bones grating against each other painfully.
Methodically scanning the room, Bucky tried to learn a bit about his captors. However, the gunfight had destroyed the only computer in the room, and a further phone search revealed very little beyond the fact that they were burner phones as well. He popped the hard drive from the computer and stashed it in his pocket, then gathered the bodies and dumped them in the center of the room. Next, he traced his path back down to the bunker, mopping up every blood splatter that looked like it was his. He knew he was leaving hair and skin evidence, but Bucky didn’t have the time to go over the place with a fine tooth comb. Making his way back up to the foyer, Bucky dumped his bloody rags on the pile of bodies, then went back into the kitchenette. Tucked away in the corner was a bottle of vodka. Silently thanking the Soviet Union for its alcoholic tendencies, Bucky doused the pile of bodies with the alcohol, then splashed the remnants on his face. It stung the exposed flesh, but it was better than a faceful of infection. Finally, he popped the batteries out of the phones and snapped them in half, the exposed lithium igniting as it came into contact with the air. Bucky tossed the batteries onto the alcohol-soaked pile of bodies and turned away. The fire would barely destroy the bodies, let alone the building, but he needed to destroy as much evidence of his existence as he could.
Bucky prodded gingerly at his face, sucking in a breath as his fingers brushed over his cuts. He’d had worse, but his face was no doubt a mess. Grabbing a baseball cap, Bucky pulled it low over his face and stepped outside. He was in a large field, a rural area by the looks of it. Spying a dirt trail, Bucky began following it. He walked for a few miles before coming to an paved road, and hid in a ditch, just out of sight. When a pickup truck blasted by, he jumped onto the back and let it carry him away.
Seven weeks later, Bucky was out buying fruit, the incident almost entirely gone from his mind. However, something caught his eye at the newspaper kiosk across from him. With a sinking feeling, Bucky realized his face was currently plastered over the front page of every newspaper the vendor was selling. He immediately bolted for home, the plums rolling discarded at his feet.
The last person he expected to find at his apartment was Captain America.