Chapter Text
Falling. Always falling. Why is he always falling?
He'd never thought he'd survive something like that. And if he never thought so, then why would Steve or Jim or any of the other Commandos think so too? But as he sits up, he can't feel the pain that had paralyzed him before. He can't feel the snow around him, or the hard crunch of ice under his feet as he stands. He can't feel...anything.
Until he turns around...
There's a body, lying broken and mangled. But...but he feels fine, doesn't he? Except...he can't feel anything. And...
Oh god why does that body have my face?
Panic rises inside of him and he can't feel his heart beat. Can't feel his head rush with this new knowledge. That's my body...that's my body and I'm just a ghost now...
It's a startling and harsh realization to come to. The blood is everywhere, and all he can do is stare at his poor meatsack of a body. He slumps down in the snow, lips set into a deep frown, panic gone. At least it's him and not Steve...
Steve...
And then he realizes that he's still here. Why? Why am I still here? I'm dead. My body is mutilated beyond repair...Why hasn't the devil come to drag me to Hell?
But that's the last he remembers of that.
Hell, as it turns out isn't all that hot. He'd thought it would be hot, with flames and screaming. At least he got the screaming part right. Except it's not other peoples screaming...it's his.
But it's so cold. So cold that his skin goes numb and before very long, he can't feel anything at all. Hell isn't supposed to be this cold. Or maybe this was a personal Hell...
He'd always hated the cold...
The cold made Steve cough. The cold made him shiver because there simply wasn't enough fat on his frame to keep him warm...
Steve...
James Buchanan Barnes...Sargent Barnes...Sargent...Sargent...Bar...nes...
After awhile, he stops talking. Stops screaming because they aren't listening to him. And he's so tired. It's all he can do to be upright, it's taking all his strength to even stay alive, with a tube down his throat and an I.V. in his arm. But he doesn't gag, because that will make them angry. That will bring the hose out again and they'll turn that ice cold water on and he won't be numb anymore.
Thank God he's numb right now.
They're looking at him now, watching him carefully, shining a small light in his face, but he's not listening. He is acutely aware of where they are though, how close they are, how fast they can move, but he's not looking at them.
In the corner of the room, there's a man standing, staring at him with large eyes. It's too dark to make out anything more than his too big clothes and his concerned expression. He's always been there, he's always close, standing there, staring at him. He used to talk. He used to speak words, cry and scream, beg for him to fight whatever it was they were doing to him, but he can't even remember his name now.
Speak Soldier.
They're talking to him now. And he pulls his eyes away from the man in the corner, his head lolling as makes to fix a slightly unfocused gaze up at them. "Orders?" he heard himself say, though his voice is raw and scratchy. When did they take the tube out? He couldn't remember them doing that.
Status report.
And that doesn't make sense to him, but his mouth opens and he answers anyway, because he's being ask a question. Because he always answers those who handle him. Because if he doesn't then he'll get the hose of cold water...
"Uninjured. Target eliminated."
They nod and start speaking again, but it isn't to him, and so he goes back to staring at the man in the corner of the room...