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Chapter Text

Part One

Наблюдение - Nablyudeniye

Observation

Location: HYDRA Base – Mountain Range, Russia
Date: 1991

The briefing room is underground. No windows. Harsh lights. Concrete walls. Utmost secrecy.

Colonel Karpov stands at the head of the table, hands behind his back. "The adjustments to the chamber are complete?"

"Yes, Colonel. The new protocol has been implemented. The chamber will now initiate shallow cryostasis rather than full metabolic suspension." The scientist adjusts his lab coat. "During daylight hours, the Asset will remain conscious and trainable. At night, he'll enter a semi-suspended state." It will slow biological function—heart rate, cellular turnover—but allow retention of motor conditioning. It's not traditional cryo, Colonel. Closer to neural hibernation.

A nod from Karpov. Barely perceptible. "And the memory wipes?"

"Scheduled for every ten days. Timeline open to adjustment according to memory retention and operational efficiency data–"

Someone scoffs. "If the Asset remembers anything, we put his brain back in the blender. Keep your science talk."

Karpov looks up, the room goes silent. "The Winter Soldier Project has been HYDRA's greatest success. Our only limitation has been preparing the Asset for deployment. If this experiment is successful, HYDRA will have a weapon ready at any given moment."

For the first time since 1945, HYDRA is running an experiment within the Winter Soldier Project. An eighteen month long trial period.

Project Active Reserve

Protocol: Daily activation, nightly cryo.

Primary Objective: Maintain maximum combat readiness.

Secondary Objective: Assess long-term biological degradation and monitor cognitive drift.

At the end of the eighteen-month trial run The Winter Soldier will be studied. If conditioning remains firm, and biological aging is still slowed, Project Active Reserve will be the new standard procedure.

"Let's go wake the Asset."

Cold.

It clings to him—deep. Cellular. A part of him now.

He knows this feeling. The ice. The in-between. The nothing.

Hands. Gloved. Clinical. Cold. They pull him out.

He doesn't resist. He never does. Not anymore.

They walk him to the Chair.

The Asset sits. Still thawing. Just enough.

The sequence begins.

A voice: "Soldat." Soldier.

Heat stirs beneath his ribs. Fire melts his veins.

"Zhelaniye." Longing. The fog begins to burn away. The cold doesn't matter. Pain is irrelevant. It has to be.

"Rzhavyy." Rusted. His fingers twitch.

One breath in. One out. The rhythm returns. The mind begins to lock.

"Semnadtsat'." Seventeen. A sharp jolt—his muscles seize, then drop. Every limb answers the command.

"Rassvet." Daybreak.

A flicker. Something before this—a name. A memory.

"Pech'." Furnace.

Gone.

Weapons don't have memories. Assets do not have names.

"Devyat'." Nine. Static hums behind his eyes.

"Dobroserdechnyy." Benign.

His limbs relax. The restraints are loosened—unnecessary now.

"Vozvrashcheniye na rodinu." Homecoming.

The mind is still. The system resets.

All quiet.

"Odin." One.

No resistance.

"Gruzovoy vagon." Freight car.

Everything clicks into place.

Obey. Obey.

The Winter Soldier lifts his gaze. Speaks.

"Gotov vypolnit." Ready to comply.

Chapter Text

In her twenty-four years, Natalia Haddad has worked many jobs.

Chemistry tutor, lifeguard, a month-long stint as a barista, and eventually a doctor.

When S.H.I.E.L.D. approached her, it was the last thing she ever imagined. Nothing about her resume suggested she'd make a fitting undercover agent. It wasn't qualifications. It wasn't fate—just the cost of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Fate. Karma. Whatever.

Regarding jobs, the first, and probably her favorite, was working alongside her family friend, Mrs. Hamzeh, and her goats. Natalia and Mrs. Hamzeh would milk them just after sunrise and carry the foamy substance to a small shed by the barn. Then, in a big aluminum pot, they'd heat the milk, stirring carefully with wooden spoons until it could be strained and kneaded. Despite the early mornings, the smell, and the ever-present hay in her hair, Natalia grew to love the job.

It was the only place she could forget, the only place grief did not choke her.

Natalia was nine years old when the Lebanese Civil War began. It was 1975; she hardly knew what the word 'war' meant, but she knew what it looked like. Bombs, rubble, and more loss than she could fathom. An only child, Natalia's house was small but warm. Just her, her mother, and father, and an orange tabby cat named Beso. Natalia's father was an architect. He loved the city. Whenever they'd walk around he'd point to various structures, proud grin beneath his mustache, 'You know, I designed that one,'.

He took it especially hard when the first bombs fell.

It was a Tuesday when the bombs reached Natalia's neighborhood, and by Wednesday, her entire home was rubble. Beso the tabby cat didn't make it out. Neither did Natalia's father. His last act had been pulling Natalia and her mother to safety; his body wasn't even found until several months later. By then, his funeral had been one of many.

Alone, weighed down by loss and a few of their belongings, Natalia and her mother made their way to Broummana. It was relatively untouched by war, and the only place they could go. Mrs. Hamzeh was a distant aunt of her mother's; she and her husband owned a farm and were quick to take Natalia and her mother in. It grew on her, the farm. Natalia was young enough to readjust, the constant fear of crossing the country was not something her young mind knew how to handle. Eventually, her nightmares of bomb sirens and shelters were drowned out by green mountains, orchards, and the goats.

In the early years, Natalia didn't see much of her mother. Grief hollowed her out into half the person she once was and hardened the lines on her face far too early. It was a familiar sight, the war was kind to no one.

When she wasn't with the goats, Natalia attended a French private school and worked hard. She had one goal in mind: medicine.

They'd survived, but countless others hadn't. Death... loss, they were subjects Natalia knew far too well. If she wanted to help one day, the medical field was how she'd do it. She could not save her father, but she'd be able to save someone else's.

The years passed, the farm, school work, odd jobs wherever Natalia could find them. They still mourned, they'd feel that loss forever, but every year they celebrated her father's birthday with misty-eyed, bittersweet memories.

At eighteen, things began to change for the better. It was 1985, and Natalia's dreams were even bigger than her hair. Not only were they big, they were coming true.

Université Paris Descartes had delivered Natalia's acceptance letter in a shiny magenta envelope that her mother still had framed in her home today. It was hard leaving, she'd miss her mom and their new family. Mrs. Hamzeh and the goats, the scent of fresh herbs, but it would be worth it.

Natalia knew it made her sound crazy, but she'd enjoyed med school. Each year, she neatly wrote a singular phrase at the top of her journal; Do no harm.

During these years, Natalia had friends, girls she'd pull all-nighters with before exams; they'd sip wine on tiny balconies, borrow each other's clothes - typical things. And there were the boyfriends, never other students, scrawny artists, a boy named Timothy with a tattoo of an apple on his leg. The boys never lasted long, there was only one thing Natalia really wanted in life, and the harder she worked, the closer it was.

At the age of 22, Natalia had the genius idea of dying blue streaks into her hair, even with the help of a friend, it took hours. Two days later, her mother made her dye it back, she said it would ruin the graduation pictures. Her mother cried happy tears, cheering wildly in the stands, her camera working overtime as Natalia and her friends posed in their caps and gowns. Later, when she looked back at the pictures, Natalia was, in fact, happy that her hair wasn't blue. There was one she especially liked, it captured her squished between two girls, eternally mid-happy scream.

It was one of the two images she had in her wallet. The other was older, a family of three posed in front of a house that no longer existed.

That wallet and those two images followed her all the way to Afghanistan when she was 24. The non-profit medical relief team had assigned her to a small civilian emergency center just outside of Bagram. Like Lebanon, Afghanistan was amid civil unrest following the Soviet withdrawal from the region.

It wasn't her first time working in a conflict zone, but she didn't know it would be her last. By then, Natalia had saved countless fathers, mothers, anyone she could. It wasn't always an easy job, often, it felt like over the years she'd seen more deaths than saves, injuries that ruined lives. But there was a pinboard in her room, overflowing with thank you letters, and drawings from children, she looked at it every morning. Do no harm. Natalia was confident she was following that oath.

On the morning that everything went wrong, Natalia looked at that pinboard, unaware it'd be one of her last times seeing it.

Nothing seemed out of the ordinary because at the time, Natalia didn't know what to look for. Of course, something was very wrong. The man on her operating table was bleeding from too many places all at once, multiple gunshot wounds littering his body, a rough red line around his throat. He kept trying to speak, but none of it made sense. The man said something about an asset, but he'd said it with desperate importance: The Asset. Natalia had no idea what he was talking about, and it didn't matter, not when she was trying to save his life.

As the gunshots exploded outside, Natalia ignored the sound. But her patient grew frantic, as if he knew his death was imminent.

That's when the masked man entered. Dressed in all black, burly, with a shock of red hair as his only defining feature. She'd later learn he was a covert HYDRA assassin and that her patient was his target.

Despite the wounds and the clear delirium, her patient fought, slashing one of the scalpels through the attacker's stomach. Blood splattered, soaking Natalia's front even as she scrambled backward with a sharp scream.

She didn't know what she was looking at—limbs flying, short grunts, fast chaos until it ended.

Two gunshots. One survivor. Not her patient.

Natalia's breath caught, hands still blood-soaked, fear rooting her in place.

And then the masked assassin was looking at her. Just a second, a flash, before he was gone.

The blood on her scrubs is still drying when the questions begin. The local authorities squeeze every drop of information they can out of Natalia.

The police station lights are too bright. Her head reels, words coming out broken and slow. She doesn't understand Urdu, no one speaks French, and the only time they did switch to English was to say again and again, "Tell us exactly what happened."

For the most part, she was no help. Still in shock, no time to process. The whole ordeal had taken less than three minutes, and she'd been too shocked to even absorb anything. "I told you, the man came in and went straight for my patient. He didn't say anything, I did not see his face, but—red! He had red hair."

They return to frantic muttering Natalia cannot understand as a nurse coaxes her to drink water and sit down.

But the moment she's alone another man takes the seat beside her. He's Black, tall, and wearing a long leather coat. Looks about forty, but carries the authority of someone much older.

"Hello, Dr. Haddad? I'm Agent Fury, CIA." He shakes her hand once. "Need you to run me through what you saw. Start from the beginning. Keep it clean—no dramatics."

For what feels like the hundredth time, Natalia explains it. Her patient, the assassin's sudden entrance, and the two gunshots that followed the short fight.

The CIA agent jots everything down quickly. "Anything on his gear? Patches, insignias, something off?"

Natalia frowns, her memory jumbled and messy. "Insignia... no? Sorry."

"You catch a language?" He lifts his gaze from the notebook to her, "Accent?"

She just shakes her head. "He didn't say anything."

The interaction is over quickly. The American stands and takes his leave with no formalities, even though Natalia is sure there is something more he wants to say.

Eventually, she'd realize he never showed her a badge.

A few days later, Natalia is back in France.

The NGO insisted she take a leave of absence after the attack. Natalia wasn't going to argue with that.

While she may have signed up to work in conflict zones, she'd never expected to be that close to gunshots, to her own death.

Claire, ex-roommate and fellow Paris V graduate, sits across from Natalia at a small café. One they often frequented before Natalia got shipped out. Claire works in pediatrics but found time to take the day off the second Natalia called her. She has been wide-eyed the entire time Natalia recounts the past few days to her.

"CIA," Claire whispers in shock. "Like in the American movies?"

Taking another sip of her tea, Natalia is well aware that she needs something stronger, but the sun is still out and societal rules frown upon drinking so early. Luckily, it's France, and no one frowns upon a lunchtime cigarette. The habit had been put on hold while she was away, but it's back now. Natalia lights her third of the hour. "Yes-no. I don't know." The smoke effectively calms her nerves as she waves a hand. "Whatever, it's over now."

"How's your mom doing? I'm surprised she isn't already flying out here from Lebanon." Claire's lips are still parted in shock.

"God, no. I didn't tell her. She'd lock me in the house." Natalia shakes her head firmly. "It's better she doesn't know, besides, I seriously don't want to keep thinking about it."

Good intentions aside, the news of what happened would send Natalia's mother into a panic that nothing could undo. Sure, she feels guilty about lying by omission, but she'd feel a hell of a lot guiltier if she gave her mother a reason to worry. Natalia's line of work is already a constant argument between the two of them, she doesn't need to pile on anything more.

"Okay fine..." Reaching forward, Claire steals a cigarette for herself. "But you call me or come spend the night. Talk to me when you need to."

"Thank you," Natalia says before narrowing her eyes across the table, "I thought you quit."

Claire gasps, already exhaling a puff of smoke. "Natalia! You almost died. That calls for a cigarette!"

Natalia laughs and lets the subject change. They make false promises to quit smoking by the end of the month and discuss Claire's on-again-off-again relationship with a history professor. A group of tourist boys about their age tries to approach, and Natalia shoos them off so violently she's probably fueled another ten years of the rude French stereotype.

By the time she's walking back to her flat, Natalia feels lighter. Unworried. Distracted enough that she doesn't notice the black van following her.

At least not until its doors slide open and she's being dragged inside.

When the burlap sack is pulled off her head, Natalia realizes the man who'd spoken to her in Bagram wasn't CIA after all.

Instantly, his hands fly up in a clear sign of surrender, not attack. "Don't scream! You're not in danger."

The air rushes back into her lungs as she twists to look around. It's no ordinary van. Where the seats should be, there are computers. Screens and mics line the left wall like a mobile surveillance hub. The 'agent' from the other day sits in the chair across from Natalia, his hands still up.

"What the hell?" Her voice is shaky, nervous. There's probably more she should say, or ask, but she's too stunned.

The man offers a half smile. "Remember me? Nick Fury, CIA guy who talked to you back in Bagram?"

"Are you going to kill me?" Natalia finally manages to ask, although, she already knows the answer. His hands are still up in that neutral position. Still... he is currently in the process of kidnapping her.

Nick Fury—not-CIA—blinks once. "No."

Very reassuring. Natalia glares at him, heartbeat still too fast. "Why should I believe you?"

His half-smile morphs into a half-wince. "If we wanted you dead, you'd kinda already be... well, dead."

Oddly enough, that is reassuring. Also, she's not restrained or drugged, and no one is pointing a gun at her head. "We." Natalia echoes, voice flatter now, "Who is we, and if you try saying CIA again, I'd better see a badge this time."

He chuckles, gestures toward her like she's made a good point, then finally drops his hands. "You're right. Not CIA. Stuck-up suits. We're a little more... compartmentalized than that. Name's S.H.I.E.L.D. Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division." Natalia's eyes widen, trying to absorb it, and like he can read her mind, Nick Fury waves his hand. "Don't worry, no one remembers what it stands for. We deal with global threats before they make the evening news. Usually quietly. Usually fast."

For a second, he lets that simmer. Still, none of this is making sense, "I—um... am I a... global threat?" It sounds too ridiculous to voice aloud.

Fury gives her a look. They both know it was a stupid question, but he lets it slide. "You saw something you weren't supposed to."

Right, he doesn't need to specify. Natalia knows exactly what.

"I hardly saw anything." Red hair. A fight. Two gunshots.

He rubs his chin, hitting her with an unwavering stare. "You saw enough to land on the radar of some unsavory people. They've been watching you. And they've been watching your mother."

Natalia stiffens instantly. Her mother? "What?" Just like that, her heart is pounding even faster than before. "Stop sugarcoating and tell me what's going on."

His voice is quieter now, measured. "We're tracking a rogue organization. Not a country. Not a government. Something worse. You weren't supposed to see them in action."

Natalia stares. "Who? Are they trying to kill me?"

"It's possible." Fury's tone is calm, too calm, like he's said this kind of thing before. "You've got two options. One, we move you and your mother to a safe house. Full protection. Pros?" He shrugs like it's simple. "You'd be safe. Very safe. Cons..." He tilts his head, physically weighing the options. "Can't give you a timeline on when you'd be back in the real world. Might be months. Might be years. No way to tell."

Part of her wants to lash out at him for being so emotionless as he delivered news that was changing her life. A smaller part of her can at least appreciate the way he gets straight to the point. Natalia swallows. "And the other option?"

He studies her face before answering. "If you want to even consider the second option, there's something you need to know first."

Fury stares her down, like he's waiting for a freak-out or something. Natalia wants to freak out, but more than that, she wants information. When said panic doesn't come, he shifts slightly in his seat, then reaches over and taps a button on the wall behind him.

One of the monitors flickers to life. The screen displays what appears to be satellite footage—grainy and infrared—of an armed convoy winding its way through a mountain pass. A flash of something exploding. Then another clip: an official being dragged from a car. No sound. Just precision. Ruthlessness.

Eyes wide, throat tight, Natalia takes it in and waits for the explanation.

"They're called HYDRA." He says the name like it tastes wrong. "Started in World War II as a Nazi science division. After the war, they vanished underground and started spreading. Quietly. Efficiently. Their goal's always been the same: control. Not just with tanks and bombs, but with fear. Infiltration. Assassinations. Blackmail. Engineering conflict from behind the scenes." He gestures toward the footage. "They embed themselves where no one looks—intelligence, medicine, private defense contracts, NGOs."

He glances at her, meaningfully. "They like chaos. They profit off it. And they're very, very good at making sure no one ever sees their hand at work."

Natalia stares at the screen. The man being dragged from the car is limp. Executed. Efficient.

"It looks to me like if these people want me dead, I'd be dead."

The common theme of the night, apparently.

Fury just nods in confirmation, but then he says, "Just because they haven't, doesn't mean they won't. HYDRA has a funny way of making things look like an accident. Hence the safe-house."

HYDRA—he says it with familiarity. A group he's been after for a while, a group that even some super secret organization from America can't take down. And now they're looking at her, and her mom. They could go into hiding, they'd be safe, but... then what? Sit wasting away in some bunker with her fingers crossed, hoping Nick Fury pulls through?

Forcing her gaze away from the monitor, Natalia meets his eye. "You still haven't told me my second option."

"We—S.H.I.E.L.D.—have been trying to infiltrate HYDRA for some time now." He says plainly. "They have facilities all over the world, but we've managed to pinpoint what we think is their main base in Russia to about a two-hundred-mile radius."

He taps the screen again, and this time a man's face flickers to life. Fury's age, black hair, and that same no-nonsense expression. "HYDRA knows him as Gregor Hale. Eastern European, former gun-for-hire. Ran security contracts out of Kosovo. Recruited into one of their low-level tactical teams two years ago." A beat, and then, "But that's not who he is." Fury glances at her. "His real name is Julian Marks. Navy intel. Recruited by S.H.I.E.L.D. eight years ago. We placed him in position, built the identity from scratch. He's earned their trust—but just enough to stay invisible. Maintenance. Transport. The kind of role no one questions."

"So that's how you knew," Natalia realizes. "To be in Bagram."

Fury nods solemnly. "But that's all we knew. Marks, under the name Hale, is trying to work his way up through the military division. He's been there three years and has only been promoted once." He sighs, leaning back in his chair before meeting her eyes, "What happened with you offers us a... unique position."

He can't possibly mean... no. There is no way S.H.I.E.L.D. wants Natalia to do anything like that. "You can't be serious." Natalia blurts.

For the first time, Nick Fury looks surprised, "I haven't even–"

"I can read between the lines!" Natalia snaps. Because now she is angry. What does she know about going undercover? Julian Marks is pushing fifty, a Navy seal, and has been preparing for this his whole life. Natalia is a doctor — a relatively new one at that — and utterly unprepared for this kind of thing. "What makes you even think I'd consider saying yes?"

Rubbing his brow, Fury seems to debate it before once again tapping the monitor. Another image appears. This one is clearer.

A missile, already fired, half embedded in what remained of a street. Natalia knows the sight well. Her childhood memories are flooded with it. She knows the sirens that sound, the way the earth shakes on impact. The irreversible damage that weapon causes. She's about to ask why he's showing this to her when he zooms in.

The missile is stamped with an emblem Natalia does not recognize. A skull with six tentacles, all encircled in red.

"One of our agents took this photo in 1979." There's an apologetic look on his face now. "In Lebanon."

The blood drains from her face.

"Look, I'm not saying HYDRA is directly responsible for the war, for your father–"

"My father—" Natalia interrupts him again before forcing herself to stop. The man admitted to surveilling her for the past few days. It should be no surprise that he'd looked into her past. "What are you saying then?"

"I'm saying HYDRA is everywhere. They're powerful, draconian, if they have their way with the world, that's goodbye freedom, autonomy... You name it." Fury looks serious again, firm. "I'm saying, while it may not be personal right now, the problem's only gonna get bigger if no one stops it. S.H.I.E.L.D. is working to stop them."

Fuck him, he just made it personal. Her country, her life, her dad. War is bad enough without clandestine organizations pushing it for their own twisted whims. Chaos. Control. Conflict. Real people died. Real people will continue to die.

Again, in a way that screams years of experience, Nick Fury is reading her mind. "Haddad–Natalia, if you're asking for advice, take the first option. You don't have to be part of this, you really don't. But I can't let any opening go to waste."

Wrong. Place. Wrong. Fucking. Time.

But she can't un-know what she knows now. Even if she tried to forget it, the information would eat her alive. She'd be a sitting duck in whatever safe-house they put her in, and after an hour, she'd be climbing up the walls. It is personal, not just to her but to millions of people like her who don't even know the role HYDRA plays in their lives.

There's not two options. Not really. Only one option makes it possible for Natalia to live with herself. She raises her chin, meets his gaze. "What would I do?"

Chapter Text

Wait. Think about it, sleep on it. Tomorrow, walk to the back entrance of the cafe near your place, with the yellow umbrellas. I'll pick you up there and we'll talk. Noon.

While Nick Fury's firm instructions had been annoying, Natalia understood why he hadn't let her decide right away.

To be an undercover S.H.I.E.L.D. agent or not to be?

Natalia knows nothing about going undercover, less than nothing, really.

Now, the morning after her discussion/abduction with the S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, she's pacing back and forth on her tiny apartment balcony.

There's an untouched pot of coffee on the kitchen counter and equally untouched toast waiting beside it. Anticipation has her all off-kilter. Eating is off the table, no pun intended. So she paces. Smokes—a lot. And watches the clock.

One hour till noon.

One hour until she tells Nick Fury that she's in.

Her mind is already made up. Going into hiding would never work, not for her. She couldn't put her life on hold, her mother's life, with no finish line in sight. Sure, her fate may have culminated in a horribly unfortunate case of wrong-place-wrong-time, with a HYDRA twist, but she can still decide what happens next.

Eyeing the clock again, Natalia is relieved to see it's about time for her to start getting dressed to walk down to that cafe.

Before sending her back home, Nick Fury had told Natalia to act normal. HYDRA would still be watching her, and if they even got a whiff of that meeting, everyone involved was dead. So she pulls on an old sundress, slips on her sandals, and heads out the door like she's going for a morning stroll.

With no sign of the S.H.I.E.L.D. agent in sight, Natalia takes her normalcy act seriously and orders a coffee. Fingers twitching, knee bouncing, she stammers eight times before managing a strained, "Espresso, please."

The girl at the counter takes her order, and then Natalia is trying not to tread a hole in the floor as she waits for both her coffee and Nick Fury.

The coffee comes first. A small paper cup she isn't planning on drinking, and had been planning to completely ignore until her eyes catch on the pen scrawl beneath her name.

Back door.

Finally. Trying to look as inconspicuous as possible, Natalia avoids eye contact with anyone who might be looking and pushes through the back door before she can lose her nerve.

Like last time, she's snatched into the car quickly. She's spared the blindfold, though.

It's the same van, Nick Fury is wearing his same leather jacket. And he's already interrogating her before the doors are even shut. "Did anyone follow you? I had a guy looking out, but did you notice anything?"

Shaking her head, Natalia decides not to tell him she'd been so jittery she probably wouldn't have noticed an elephant in the middle of the road. After a minute, when he finally seems to relax, Natalia asks. "Are you always this paranoid?"

He straightens his jacket before settling into a seat. "I like to keep an eye on things."

"Just one?" Natalia frowns.

"What? Oh. Hah! American saying. I mean, I'm watching everything." With a frown of his own, he adds, "I have both eyes."

The car falls silent. Small talk over.

"You're here, which means you're ready to hear the plan?" Fury says, and Natalia can tell this will be his last time asking her if she's sure.

That missile with the HYDRA stamp, the one buried in a Lebanese street, is not something she can sit back and ignore. Those bombs changed her life, killed her father, and ruined her mother. Natalia is sure.

"My mother will be safe?" She confirms one last time.

Fury nods, and she can tell he means it. "No safe house 'cause that would blow your cover, but there'll be a select team watching her at all times. No one will know they're there. Not even her. She'll be safe."

Natalia exhales, long and slow. "Where do we begin?"

There are screens on, a lot of them, and Natalia isn't sure where she should be looking.

Before she can decide, there's a girl climbing over the partition separating the driver seats from the rest of the van and sitting down beside Fury. She's Russian, jet black hair, and even less friendly than her partner. "Lara." She says, shaking Natalia's hand once before turning to Fury. "I thought we weren't allowed to smoke in here."

Natalia doesn't remember grabbing the cigarette, or even lighting the damn thing, but clearly, she needs it.

"We're not–you're not." Fury's gaze cuts in Natalia's direction, "But I'm letting her because these might be the last few she smokes for a while."

Not that Natalia needed a slap of reality, but her face is burning with it either way.

They move on quickly.

"This is the Russian facility where HYDRA conducts most of its work." Lara points to a screen where a rendering of a large structure, half embedded in a mountain range, looms ominously, even in digital form. "Marks is undercover somewhere in here, working under the guise of Gregor Hale."

Natalia nods, recalling what Fury told her yesterday. "But you guys don't know exactly where it is?"

"No." Fury confirms. "Marks can only get messages out once every two, maybe three weeks–highly encrypted, with whatever intel he manages to gather."

"From what he's told us, we know the facility is deeply isolated, eight floors, maybe nine." Lara points to the screen. "The top three are above ground. Living quarters, offices, that kind of thing."

"Living quarters?" Natalia repeats with a start, trying to ignore all the maybes and the unknowns and focus on what she can.

Lara gives her an impatient look. "Yes. Didn't you hear me? It's isolated. Anyone who is working there lives there. Marks lives on the seventh floor, he says the only time he sees people leave or enter the facility is through a landing strip on the roof."

Fury gives Lara a sharp warning look before taking over. "Underground, starting from the top down, we know the first two floors are medical-related. Marks has only seen them a few times, but lab coats, test tubes, that kind of thing. Below that, the fourth and third floors are mostly where Marks has access. That's where HYDRA discusses strategy, missions, objectives, that kind of thing. We have no fucking clue what goes on on the other floors."

"If everything goes according to plan, you'll be stationed somewhere on the sixth or fifth floors. Medical." Lara continues. "There are rumors about what HYDRA has going on down there, but we don't know anything concrete."

Natalia shifts in her seat. "Rumors like..?"

"Bioengineering, experiments, you name it." Fury fills in the gaps. "You won't be assigned anything important at first. We assume you'll be logging data."

"And then I, what? Deliver it to you guys somehow—in code?" All three occupants in the van hear the doubt in Natalia's voice.

Firmly, like it's a warning, Fury says. "No. No, you don't know how to do that. Everything in HYDRA is logged. The first time you're told to write anything down, you'll sneak in a singular code that Marks will recognize. From then on, he'll know to look for anything with your employee ID and he'll get that information out."

"Like a–" Natalia tries to make it make sense. "Morse code?"

"No, because everyone, including HYDRA, can fucking read Morse code!" Lara snaps.

Natalia frowns at her, and then after a beat, tosses her a cigarette and a light.

"Sorry." Lara mumbles, wasting no time in lighting the cigarette despite the glare Fury is shooting her.

"It's not Morse code." Fury clarifies. "Random, it doesn't mean anything. It's just a tag Marks will recognize. He looks for it within all new employee files just in case we are able to send anyone in. You'll only use it once so he can identify you on paper. If you do it again, HYDRA will notice, they'll get suspicious. You do not want HYDRA getting suspicious."

"Okay." Natalia says. "Okay. So... HYDRA recruits me, for some reason. And then I work there, collecting information. Marks collects that information–but why would they hire me? Am I getting an alias as well?"

Lara looks like she's about to say something rude, but decides against it, opting to take a drag from the cigarette instead.

Natalia already knows the answer to her question. There will be no aliases involved. HYDRA already knows who she is. They've been watching her since she was the unwilling witness to that assassination, so any premise of a secret identity is out the door. "Never mind, no alias. Why would HYDRA want me?"

"HYDRA has... unorthodox methods of recruitment. While they're not entirely opposed to kidnapping, it's not always just that." Fury explains with a wave of his hand. "A few years ago, Interpol arrested this chemist in Manchester who was mailing city officials his own version of anthrax but twice as deadly. A week after his arrest, he disappeared, was last seen in Russia. A S.H.I.E.L.D. team tried tracking him down, but we're highly confident HYDRA reached him first."

The fact that Natalia did pay attention to the news, and hadn't even heard of that, tells her all she needs to know about the organization she's signing herself up to get involved with. They hire terrorists out from under Interpol, they assassinate whoever they want within seconds. She's more than nervous, she's terrified.

But that doesn't change the fact: if she can do anything against them... she has to.

"Well, I'm not a terrorist, nor have I done anything controversial enough for HYDRA to consider me a good recruit." Natalia points out the obvious.

"No, but... we could make it look like you've been looking into them. But Haddad, the second we lay that crumb trail, there's no backing out."

"How?" Natalia asks.

"The blood sample—from your scrubs that day is a myriad of impossibilities. I'm not a science guy, but my science guys told me that one look at that thing under the microscope and it's clear as all hell HYDRA is messing with DNA." Fury looks disturbed himself.

Natalia doesn't bother correcting him on the actual science of it. Or asking when they got hold of her blood-soaked scrubs.

The important part is that HYDRA is running human experiments. "How does this connect to me?"

"You still have access to the research labs at Paris V, all alumni do," Fury explains slowly. "The sign-in sheets aren't digitized until the end of the week, but we know HYDRA will be watching for them. If you agree to this, we can make it look like you've been in there, studying that blood sample."

This route is the exact opposite of the first option Fury gave her. The safe one.

Fury's offer loops in her head, bitter and stark.

Option one: Go into hiding and hope HYDRA forgets your name.

Option two: Investigate a highly dangerous and secret organization on purpose to get its attention.

The plan is clear, Natalia gets it: "They see me looking into the sample, I act interested, I get hired."

"It won't be that simple." Lara has pulled the cigarette out of her mouth to once again snap at Natalia.

"It won't." Fury agrees, but he's less aggressive about it. "The second we lay that paper trail, it starts. But from there, it's up to you to play it right. Sell it."

"Play what?" But like her body already knows the answer, Natalia's heart is pounding.

"You have to want in. That's your only option. HYDRA will approach you. You better convincingly act interested or you're dead." Fury lets the words hang. Lets the silence sit and suffocate her like it's a test.

But she has to get through it. She has to. That's her only way in, and Fury won't even let her get that far if she looks afraid right now.

"Show me the data," Natalia says, "From the blood sample." Science, she can handle; it'll give her a minute to clear her head.

Fury doesn't say a word. Just taps one of the monitors. The screen flickers, then sharpens into a microscope slide scan—high-res, magnified to an almost cellular level. Natalia leans forward.

"This is the sample from Bagram," Fury says. "Off your scrubs. Cleaned it up in the lab."

At first glance, it looks like ordinary blood. Then her eyes narrow.

"The red blood cells are stacked," she murmurs. "Too many. No fragmentation, no clotting. This doesn't make sense."

Fury switches slides. "Keep going."

The next image shows a white blood cell, its nucleus twisted in on itself like a knot. Another slide pulses faintly under fluorescent dye—protein strands glowing with something synthetic.

Natalia stares. "That's not hemoglobin."

"Nope," Fury says. "No one's seen anything like it."

"Study it later!" Lara snaps, crushing her cigarette in a mug. She sighs and runs her hands through her hair. "This begins tonight! The labs at Paris V will update their visitor logs by midnight. If your name is on it, it'll only be a matter of days before they approach you!"

She thinks of her father, the crater where a home once stood. Her mother alone. Natalia got into medicine to fix some of that grief. It all has to mean something.

Somehow, Natalia feels calm. Sure.

It's her only option. She'll get into HYDRA, her mother will be safe.

"Do it," Natalia says. Firm, decisive. "Make HYDRA think I'm looking into them. Let them come to me."

It's well past midnight by the time Natalia is fumbling with the lock to get back into her apartment.

As per Nick Fury's instructions, she'd spent the last few hours at Claire's and continued to behave as though her life were normal. Like everything isn't about to change.

'HYDRA will probably approach you sometime tomorrow morning. Be out, somewhere public. A cafe... a library. Something that fits with your usual routine.'

The words echo in Natalia's head as she pushes through her apartment door. She's not tired enough for sleep, but she couldn't spend another second sitting across from Claire and playing pretend.

Lying isn't something Natalia is particularly bad at—she'd never have agreed to going undercover if she was—but she'd never been good at lying to her friends. Especially not Claire, who is all optimism and bright smiles and has been working with kids ever since they got their placements prior to med school. Their degrees, it seems, are leading them down very different paths.

Kicking the door shut beside her, Natalia drops her purse on the kitchen counter, stumbling through the dark.

And then she screams.

There's a man sitting at her small dining table like he's been waiting a while.

Her hand flies to her chest as the scream cuts short, shock morphing into something sharper.

"I didn't mean to scare you." The man says.

He's older than her, but still younger than she expected a HYDRA official to be. And he's early, by a few hours.

So much for Nick Fury's timeline.

The one solace is that she knows S.H.I.E.L.D has someone tailing her and that they likely, hopefully, know that HYDRA has already come to collect.

Catching her breath, Natalia stares back at him, "Good effort."

I didn't mean to scare you. It's a far cry from Fury's: you're not in danger. Natalia doesn't just hear the difference, she feels it.

The man's head tilts on its side. At first glance, he looks unassuming. Neat brown hair, brown eyes, and a close-trimmed beard. Even his clothing looks normal, button up and a tie. But Natalia knows it's a show, an act.

Okay. Curtains up.

"You've been expecting me." He says simply.

Natalia pushes her hair back and walks into her kitchen. "Yes, but not like... this." Staring at the paper on the table, Natalia already knows what it is. A data sheet from the Paris V research labs boasting the results of the blood sample. Forged to look like she'd run it three days ago and planted in her apartment by a very dedicated S.H.I.E.L.D agent. "You drink coffee?" Natalia asks, giving her hands something to do until the shaking stops.

Like his appearance, the HYDRA man keeps his voice light, unassuming. "It's almost one in the morning."

Natalia exhales sharply, pointedly glancing at the paper on the table in front of him. "I have a feeling I'm gonna need it."

"You might need something stronger." His laugh is practiced as well. Like he's someone HYDRA often sends out in the name of diplomacy. "I'll take a coffee."

A few minutes later, Natalia carries two mugs over and takes the seat across from the man. Both of them taking a slow, bated sip.

He cuts right to the chase. "Did you know you were being followed?"

She coughs, sets her mug down, and lies through her teeth. "Excuse me?"

The man sets his mug down and shrugs. "You're not entirely surprised by my presence here."

Natalia doesn't bother hiding her nerves, it works with the act. A strange man just broke into her home and sat waiting for her in the dark.

"I work in conflict zones." Natalia says, "People die every day, get shot. But it's not every day that all the authorities in Bagram interrogate me for details about a clearly covert assassination. I figured something was going on."

There's a beat of silence, like the man is trying to figure out what to do with her.

"And what did you tell these authorities?" There's an unmissable, mocking edge to his tone that all his fake niceties do little to dull.

HYDRA doesn't care about the world's so-called authorities. Not when they plan to take it all over one day.

"What I saw." Natalia says evenly, pretending she didn't catch it, "Which was nothing. But you already know that, don't you? Mr...?"

"Drexler. Anton Drexler. Yes, I knew." He sips from the mug again. It looks ridiculous in his hands, yellow, patterned, cracked at the edge. "And now, what have you seen?"

Reaching across the table, Natalia slides the blood sample results towards her. Fury said they planted it in her desk. Which means the man went rifling through her things and doesn't care if she knows.

Despite the results already being burned into the back of her eyes, Natalia takes her time studying it again. "I ran this three times, you know?"

Technically, a S.H.I.E.L.D. lab technician ran it three times, but... schematics.

"You're thorough." Drexler says, "Good. What did you see?"

Running her hand over her face, Natalia lets real awe reflect in her tone. She shakes her head. "I saw, I see, something... impossible."

Drexler just nods, gesturing for her to say more. Classic tactic, luckily, Natalia has been prepared and informed on it.

Sell it. Nick Fury is like the devil on her shoulder.

Natalia pretends to be entirely fascinated by the results. "It's a medical miracle. I mean... according to this test, this guy could survive just about anything." She glances up from the paper to meet Drexler's eyes. "Part of me already knew that. During the fight, I mean. He lost a lot of blood, but it's like it didn't even affect him."

Drexler nods. He's almost smiling now. "It's amazing what the human body can do when manipulated correctly."

"Nice euphemism," Natalia says dryly. "I know human experiments when I see them."

This time, when Drexler chuckles, it isn't warm, but it's real. "Dr. Haddad." He sucks his teeth. "You can understand why my organization requires secrecy, yes?"

Natalia answers his question with one of her own. "What organization?"

She already knows, but for the sake of the act, she has to ask.

He ignores it. Baiting her, testing. "Most people would call this kind of thing unethical. What about you? Ground breaking, or immoral?"

"Both," Natalia says easily. She knew the question was coming. "Most medical discoveries came from highly controversial trial runs. Blood transfusions were first tested between humans and animals, and then before we had a real understanding of blood types. But modern medicine wouldn't be where it is today without discoveries like that."

Nick Fury had made her practice delivering that exact line five times until she could do it without stammering.

Anton Drexler may not have introduced himself as one, but she can tell he's a doctor too. His eyes were practically glowing the second the words blood transfusions left her mouth.

He leans back in his chair and drums his fingers on the table before pulling the blood test back towards him.

"We are called HYDRA." He says.

Natalia furrows her brow. "Greek mythology?"

"Russian ideology." Drexler counters smoothly, "Unyielding. Evolved. We don't waste time with hypotheticals. We test. We learn. We advance."

Natalia tilts her head. "Nice words. Is this a sales pitch?"

He lets out a quiet laugh, fingers drumming lightly on the table. "We're always looking for minds unafraid of controversy. You saw something that scared most people. And you leaned in."

Nick Fury: mastermind. He knew precisely what breadcrumbs to lay. Drexler was picking them up without question. And just like that, in the span of twenty-four hours, Natalia has been offered not one, but two of the most unexpected jobs in the world.

Undercover S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. HYDRA initiative doctor. It's the two for one, your life is over special that she never asked for.

Again, Fury's voice is in her head. 'Don't accept the job right away. If you do, it'll arouse suspicion. All that conflict you're feeling now? Channel it into something real.'

Not wanting to seem too eager, Natalia forces a casual shrug. "I already have a job."

Drexler shrugs right back. "Sure. But you know you can do more with us. That's the only reason you didn't run out of here screaming to call the police."

"You're not a very good salesman," Natalia tells him.

He's not offended. "Sacrifices must be made in the name of progress."

"Sacrifices?" She echoes, eyes narrowed.

"The job is... remote," he admits. "But you'll be taken care of. And compensated well."

Natalia folds her arms. "What would I even be doing?"

"Research, mostly. Observation. Reporting. You'll have to prove yourself, of course. Show us that you're worth it." Then, Drexler adds. "People would kill for an opportunity like this. You got lucky, then you got curious. It's a healthy combination."

Right. Because witnessing an assassination that put her on the radar of a terrorist organization is just so lucky. In her imagination, Natalia hurls her mug of steaming hot coffee at his head and goes back to her normal life. Only a truly soulless person could look her in the eye and pitch a position at HYDRA like it's something to be desired.

Obviously, Drexler has a very different take on things than Natalia does.

Luck—it doesn't exist. Not here, not now.

Holding back before replying, Natalia lets him think she's weighing her options. "And if I say no?"

Drexler leans back, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt. "Then this conversation never happened. You'll never hear from us again, it has to be that way."

Translation: they'll kill her. Leave no witnesses. HYDRA isn't going to make the same mistake twice. But Drexler doesn't know she knows that.

"If you agree," he continues, "you'll receive further details on-site."

"Where is that, exactly?"

He stands, slow and deliberate, setting the empty mug down with care. "Is that a yes, Dr. Haddad?"

She hesitates—but only for show. Nick Fury would be so proud. "I think you already know. If I try to forget what I saw... I'll never stop thinking about it."

"Medical miracles," Drexler says with a smile, "are hard to ignore."

He straightens his jacket. "Someone will contact you first thing in the morning. Help you pack. We fly out midday."

He starts toward the door, then pauses, looking back. "Welcome to the future."

He lets himself out like it's the most normal thing in the world—like this isn't the moment her old life ends and something else begins.

Chapter Text

Since last night, Natalia's apartment has been a revolving door of uninvited guests.

It started with Anton Drexler and is ending with a borderline elderly yet somehow very energetic woman named Magda. HYDRA sent her and she appeared bright and early to 'help Natalia pack her bag'. According to Magda, that meant crinkling her nose and tossing aside any article of clothing with a flash of color.

On any other day, Natalia might be more offended by someone insulting her fashion choices.

She has more important problems now.

Between Drexler and Magda, Natalia also had another visitor in the dead of night.

Two, actually. Nick Fury and his ever-present partner in crime, Lara. The pair had snuck in—God knows how—drew the curtains, and got straight to business. Part of Natalia was suddenly concerned about her apartment's lax security, but she had not one, but two, international super secret organizations trying to get hold of her. Like she said, bigger problems.

Fury and Lara had recorded everything about her interaction with Anton Drexler, down to the color of his socks. When Natalia had told them the socks were white, Fury had looked her dead in the eye and asked: "Eggshell, or cream?"

And yes, he was being serious.

After the highly intensive debriefing, the pair had moved on to the preparation aspect of the night. Well, Fury had. Lara was snooping through Natalia's things while offering harsh interjections and reminders.

*"Listen." Fury says. "This is your last time seeing us before you fly out to Russia. Are you paying attention?"

Despite the fact that Lara was in the far corner of Natalia's bedroom and rifling through her jewelry, Natalia's attention was entirely focused on Fury. "Yes. I am."

"Tell me the code. The one you'll use once so Marks can identify your paper trail."

Like she could forget. "I have to end the last sentence of my report with two commas, a semicolon, and the letter 's' scratched out."

"Morse code," Lara mutters with a scoff, apparently still offended by Natalia's question from the day before. "Not your first report, the first thing you write down that'll go in a HYDRA file. It could be anything. A letter, a contract, anything."

Right. Natalia knew that, she did, but Lara's just making sure in her own way.

Both Natalia and Fury ignore her. "Good. What's the name of Mark's alias?"

"Gregor Hale." Before he can ask it, Natalia answers his next question. "I'll only ever call him Hale because if I slip up and say his real name, both our covers are blown and we're either dead or dead."

"Quick learner." Fury looks proud. "Now, when Hale does identify you, he'll approach you first. Do not go looking for him. Even if you see him, do not make contact. He has to come to you. Understand?"

Natalia nods quickly.

"Marks—Hale was given a password before he was sent in." Fury explains, "A way to identify other operatives. When he approaches you, he's going to ask a question, seemingly innocent: Do you listen to Elvis? If you don't answer with the exact phrase: Only the sad songs—Marks won't contact you again. You have to remember that. Do you remember?"

"Yeah. Yes. Only the sad songs. I got it."

Fury drums his hands against her dresser. "You're doing good, kid. Drexler bought the act, you got hired. All that's left to do is stay alive."

"And redecorate if you get back," Lara interjects, tossing aside a throw pillow like it's personally offended her. Upon hearing her own words, she blanches. "When. I mean... when you get back."

"Thanks," Natalia says dryly.

"You'll get back." It's the most sincere Nick Fury has ever sounded, and Natalia didn't even know she needed to hear those words until he said them. "Just... be smart. Keep your head down."

After her slip-up, Lara has abandoned picking apart Natalia's apartment and is attempting her own shot at comfort. "Remember, you're not a spy."

"What she means is your job is simple." Fury cuts in, his hand coming to a rest on Natalia's shoulder. "Don't ask questions, don't go looking for things you're not supposed to. That's Hale's position, one he's been training for practically his whole life. Keep your head down." He says again. "Make a friend, not someone you trust completely because—"

"Trust no one." Natalia finishes for him.

"Trust no one." Fury says anyways, because it's important. "Trust no one but make a friend. For all intents and purposes, treat your time at HYDRA like a nine to five. You're a doctor, that's it. That's your way in. You're good, but don't take risks. The information Hale gets from you to us is enough of a contribution."

Natalia nods. Swallowing. "I won't—I know. Treat it like any job."

With their time coming to an end, Fury rises to his feet, patting her shoulder once more. "See you on the other side, doc."

Her smile is tight, but hopeful. "See you."

Lara hesitates at her door. "Drinks on me when you get back."

Natalia laughs, nods again.

Currently, the words replay on a loop in her mind as Magda tosses Natalia a pair of black slacks she bought for important meetings at the hospital.

With a sigh, Natalia folds them and tucks them into the growing pile of black and white and gray in one of the two HYDRA issue suitcases they'd been filling for the past half hour.

Natalia is trying not to glance around her apartment too much. She knows it'll be a while before she'll be back here in the comforts of her home.

Under Magda's instructions, she'd already packed her toiletries and a few selected jewelry items. It's all a blur, not the kind of thing Natalia has to pay attention to. If she has to look a certain part to fit in at HYDRA, she'll do it. She'll do whatever it takes. Besides, after a ten minute long argument debating the colors of Natalia's only two winter coats, all the fights regarding clothes have gone out of her. Even as Magda packs away yet another blouse Natalia hasn't worn since buying it for a job interview.

Goodbye, fun summer dresses. Hello, gray, industrial winter.

"You packed your glasses?" Magda confirms as she zips the suitcases shut.

To Magda's ever-present dismay, those, like her blue sneakers, are a flash of color Magda has to allow. Natalia needs her glasses to read whether or not Magda likes it. They're red, narrow, and inspired by an October edition of Paris Vogue. Not that it matters. Not now.

Just like that, Natalia's life is packed away, her apartment door is closing for a long time, and she and Magda wheel the bags down to the sleek black car already parked outside.

The driver is silent as he piles her bags into the trunk before opening the back door.

Unsurprisingly, Anton Drexler is already occupying one of the passenger seats. Natalia looks more like someone who would work with him now in her black slacks and smart, Magda approved, blouse. Magda doesn't join them, but she waves once as the car pulls away.

Paris slips by through the car's tinted windows.

An hour later, it disappears behind the clouds as Natalia is flown to HYDRA's secret facility somewhere in the mountains.

It's fucking freezing.

She'd been warned the base was somewhere in Russia, so technically, the cold isn't a surprise. But as the wind tears through her thin sweater, Natalia seriously regrets burying her jacket deep in one of the suitcases.

The walk is short—less than a hundred yards—and still, she's freezing.

The gust from the spinning helicopter blades doesn't help.

A helicopter. First the private jet and now this.

Another thing she should've seen coming. The facility's location is a closely guarded secret, and it's deeply isolated. Drexler walks a few feet ahead, gesturing for her to hurry up and board.

The inside of the helicopter is tight, the space between them even tighter. Natalia fumbles with her straps, fingers still stiff from the cold.

Drexler reaches across and fits a pair of headphones over her ears, then clicks a switch so his voice cuts through the noise. "About two hours to the site. Sorry it's not more comfortable."

"It's fine." She buckles in and turns instinctively to look out the window.

There isn't one. Just blank gray metal.

Great. Weird... very HYDRA.

The ride drags. With no view and nothing to do, time folds in on itself. Natalia alternates between awkward small talk and absolute silence—both equally suffocating.

Eventually, finally, she feels the helicopter begin its descent. The blades slow.

This is it.

Technically, the act began the moment she walked into her kitchen and found Drexler waiting. But that was just the prelude.

Orientation starts now.

Because she's naive, and she has no idea what she's walking into, Natalia Haddad thinks she's ready.

She's not.

Drexler quickly ushers her inside as they step off the helicopter.

Natalia didn't get to see much, just an endless stretch of snowy, unforgiving mountains before they're walking through a heavy metal door and it's sealing shut behind her.

At the end of a long, and very gray hallway, a man is waiting with his arms crossed behind his back and a big smile that does little to ease Natalia's nerves.

"This is where I leave you." Drexler says, "But Robert here is in charge of processing."

Robert is very blonde, very chipper, and very unsettling. Like Drexler, he's putting on a show of corporate formalities but Natalia hasn't forgotten where she is.

Fury made it clear that HYDRA has many methods of recruitment. While she may have technically come here willingly for all intents and purposes, she's not the only one acting.

Drexler indeed leaves and Natalia comes face to face with the blonde. "I'm Robert. I'm in charge of processing. Follow me!"

Jesus. They're following a script. It's good, this actually does feel like a regular job orientation so far, but this is HYDRA. The facility is isolated, the secrets are buried deep.

"Natalia," She says, following him into an elevator where he slides a key card in and hits the button to the eighth floor.

Not sure what to expect, Natalia's shoulders tense as the elevator descends one level before coming to a stop.

Half of her expects to see the barrel of a gun when the door slides open but the sight she's greeted with is... normal?

It's a communal living space. Bookshelves, couches, a television. Floor to ceiling windows look out on the tundra surrounding all sides of the facility and people mill around casually. There's an opening that leads to what looks like a dining hall.

"This is our eighth floor residential center. You'll be staying here." Robert explains as he walks ahead, "I'll give you an official tour once we get you situated."

Shit. Eighth floor. Fury told her that Hale lives on the seventh. Natalia is about to ask if there's other residential floors just to get some confirmation when she remembers Fury's firm advice. Keep your head down.

No unnecessary questions.

Robert leads her to another doorway, and scans his keycard twice before opening the door to an office that looks almost normal. Almost.

Like the area outside, something about this place is off. Natalia knows why, knows that despite all the formalities and the act, everything HYDRA does is dark and twisted. The office is too shiny, technology too sleek. There's a computer like nothing Natalia has ever seen before taking up the center of the desk.

"You can take a seat." He says, sliding into his own chair.

Natalia lowers herself into the leather bound seat, crossing one leg over the other.

The office is warm, not necessarily welcoming but Natalia is trying to act like this is a regular orientation and she won't be essentially trapped here.

Opening his desk drawer, Robert retrieves a single object: a keycard, black and unmarked aside from the barcode and her name.

"Your identification badge," he says brightly, sliding it across the desk, "keep it on you at all times. Without it, you can't go anywhere."

Natalia picks it up and turns it over in her hands. The ones she's used in the past always had a smiling photo of her. This one doesn't. "Where does this get me?"

"This floor—the eighth. Where you'll be staying," Robert smiles. "And the sixth floor."

Natalia attempts smiling back. "What's on the sixth floor?"

"Medical wing." Robert says shortly. "You'll get more details tomorrow."

"Okay." Natalia's smile falters. "So is that—it's underground?"

It's a fair question. She'd been able to see from the roof that despite the building being nine floors tall, only a few were sticking out of the surrounding mountains. This will confirm if S.H.I.E.L.D has accurate information about the structure. Not that she can do anything if they aren't.

"Yes. Only the top three floors are surface level." After a second, he adds, "the view from your room is lovely."

It's probably more mountains and yet another reminder that this place is completely and totally isolated. "Right. Um, are we permitted to go... outside?"

Robert blinks. Amazingly, he's still smiling. "For safety purposes that's not allowed. But there's a lovely gym right here on this floor. You'll have everything you need."

"Perfect." Natalia says, heart jumping up her throat.

No outside access. A lovely gym. What a joke. This place isn't secure. It's a cage.

For the next few minutes, Robert runs through a basic checklist. Meal times, laundry pick-ups, housekeeping days. Her room number, 809. Rules for the communal space: keep work talk to a minimum in off hours, don't keep books in your room for over two weeks. Normal, so normal!

"Oh right." Robert says, "if there happens to be a power outage don't freak out. Just stay put and the back up generators usually come on within a few minutes."

Natalia wants to ask if that happens a lot but reminds herself that nothing really matters except the notes she takes when she actually starts working. "Sounds good."

"One last thing." He arranges a stack of papers. "Considering the confidentiality here, communication with the outside world is initially limited. For now, we ask you to write a letter to be sent to your mother. One copy will go in your file, one will be sent out to her."

"A letter?" Natalia blinks.

Robert nods, still smiling. "Yes. Just tell her that you've been assigned to an emergency hospital for the military that requires secrecy. She'll know the drill, right? You've done this kind of thing before."

"Oh yes, of course." It's true that it wouldn't be the first time her mom received a letter like that. There's been a few times where the locations she'd been assigned could not be disclosed for the sake of military privacy. It'll just be the first time Natalia is lying about it. "Handwritten?" She asks.

"Sure thing." Robert slides a pen and paper in her direction.

The task is seemingly mundane. It's not.

This is it. Other than actually getting hired, this is the first thing she'll do in the name of becoming S.H.I.E.L.D's newest inside man.

End the last sentence of the report with two commas, a semicolon, and the letter 's' scratched out

A contract, a letter, anything.

Robert said the letter would go in her file. This is how Hale will identify her.

Trying not to let her hands shake, Natalia begins to carefully write out the letter. It sounds like ones she's sent before, a few personal details sprinkled in, a casual question her mom could answer in her response.

But the last sentence is the most important one.

She ends it exactly as instructed: two commas, a semicolon, and a word with the 's' scratched out in a clean, deliberate line.

That better work. It has to work. It will work. Hale will know to find her.

If he doesn't...

She doesn't let herself finish that thought.

Once she's finished, Robert takes the paper back and nods. "This will be sent out within the next few days. For now, you just need to get settled in. I'll walk you to your quarters."

Chapter Text

The next morning, the alarm clock beside the bed goes off at exactly seven in the morning.

Its harsh blare is unfamiliar enough that Natalia doesn't even get that split second of waking bliss before she remembers where she is. Not that her sleep was all that relaxing either way. She'd been tossing and turning for hours.

Already, her head is pounding. Overthinking, doubt, and fear had been brewing a storm in her mind for hours.

Natalia sits up and glances around the room again. There's not much to see. It's nice, clean, and borderline sterile. There's a bed with a white comforter, a wooden desk, and a brown leather couch. The closet is built into the wall, and all her colorless clothing is already unpacked. The bathroom is actually bigger than the one she has at home.

Last night, part of her thought she should settle in more, put some things out. The photos in her wallet could be used as minimal decoration, but Natalia isn't sure she wants to see them in this place. Sentiment won't do her any favors.

If she stares at the picture with her mom and dad, she could easily fall into a pit of grief, especially after seeing the proof of that HYDRA seal on the very missiles that ravaged her country.

If she stares at her graduation picture, her friends, she'll mourn the life she could be living, the jobs she'd rather be working.

HYDRA doctors don't mourn their past lives. S.H.I.E.L.D. spies don't get stuck in memory land.

Stepping into the shower, Natalia reaches for her shampoo and takes small comfort in the fact that even though everything is different, she'll at least smell like herself.

There's a pair of gray scrubs sitting on her desk, beside them, a printed schedule.

0700: 8th floor - Wake up alarm - room 809
0800: 8th floor - breakfast - Dining Hall
0845: 6th floor - Report for duty - E-63
1400: Break (optional)
1430: 6th floor - Report for duty - E-63
2100: 8th floor - Restricted access

Reading it again, Natalia tries to piece together as much as she can of what will become her life. Her eyes turn to the window, and she swallows. The sixth floor will be below ground. While she may not be particularly claustrophobic, the thought is still unpleasant. All that matters, Natalia tells herself, is the fact that she'll be the only S.H.I.E.L.D. operative who knows what exactly is on the sixth floor. Hale's never had access, so underground or not, her being assigned down there is a good thing.

Natalia pulls the scrubs on, slips on the same blue sneakers that walked her across countless hospital floors, and faces her reflection.

Her warm tan lingers, but it'll fade, even with her olive complexion, no one can look warm in a facility where people aren't allowed outside. Pushing the thought away, Natalia combs her hair back before corralling the long, dark curls into a neat ponytail.

Pocketing her glasses just as there's a knock at her door, Natalia exhales slowly.

Day one at HYDRA is about to officially begin.

Robert is already outside the door to Natalia's room when she opens it, granola bar in hand.

"I was worried you'd miss breakfast." He hands it over. Even the wrapping is black and unmarked. It sort of looks more like poison than food, but Natalia figures if they were going to kill her, they would have done that by now.

Also, the schedule suggests a long day. The headache is enough, she doesn't need hunger distracting her, too.

"Thanks." She says, swallowing the bar down as the two of them walk through a series of hallways until they are back at the elevator.

Paying closer attention this time, Natalia notes that there are only buttons for floors nine through five, which means that, even with all the keycard security, the remaining three floors must have a different elevator. Natalia wants to ask, but Nick Fury's warnings are ever present in her mind.

Keep your head down. Don't go looking where you're not supposed to.

Right, not her job.

Robert gestures for Natalia to scan her keycard and hit the button for the sixth floor. "Just want to make sure it works."

Offering him a smile and a nod, Natalia chooses to keep her mouth shut. She's worried that if she says anything, it'll be too much. All she wants to do is ask Robert what the hell his actual job is, because seriously, HYDRA masquerading as a corporate entity is throwing her for a loop.

The elevator door slides open smoothly, revealing a stark white hallway with doors equipped with keycard scanners and an even more sterile environment than the one upstairs. As Robert leads her around, again, she takes in as much as she can. It's quiet, someone in a lab coat hurries past, flipping through files. By the time they reach E-63, Natalia is already missing the windows.

At first glance, E-63 almost looks like a normal medical research lab. The smell is familiar, disinfectant, metallic.

The space is huge, divided into four sections from what she can see. The back wall is lined with glass-front freezers and metal cabinets. There's a corner where the large metal tables house several advanced microscopes, the whir of DNA sequencing machines purrs steadily from the other corner.

Even the filing cabinet is key-card restricted.

It's advanced, a far cry from the outposts she'd been sent to for field trauma. She can also tell it's far more advanced than the average medical facility. This is the way of HYDRA, sleek, efficient, cold.

There is one other gray-haired man in the room, hunched over a desk in the left corner. He doesn't look up when they enter, filing something away into a computer that looks like it could have been made on a different planet.

As she and Robert approach the desk, Robert clears his throat. Still, the man does not look up. After a full minute of silence, still not looking up, the man says, "Dr. Haddad, you may take a seat."

His voice is like a slap in the face. He's French, older. He could have been one of her professors. Before Natalia can feel truly homesick, she shoves the feeling away and takes the seat across from him. Without having to be told, Robert leaves.

It is only then that the man looks up from his desk. There's an imperceptible frown on his face as he takes her in. "I read your file," He says, "Impressive work, young but... ambitious."

Ambitious, from him, does not feel like a compliment. Natalia does not want to feel ambitious for HYDRA. But there's a role here she has to play, and it requires a smile and a tight, "Thank you."

"Ambitious," He says again, really looking at her now, "and curious. Anton–ah, Drexler says your job application was... unconventional."

Still smiling, Natalia nods. "I didn't realize I was applying. I just... saw something that didn't make sense. Tried to ignore it but, Jesus, who could?"

He pushes wire-frame glasses up his nose. "Kindred spirits." He says. "I've been here a long time. You wouldn't believe half the things I've seen. The progress we make here is leagues ahead of the rest of the world. You saw a fraction of it. What did you think?"

"Honestly?" Natalia prompts, trying her damn hardest to sell it.

The man's brows rise with a slight chuckle. "Ideally, honesty is preferred."

"I almost didn't take the job." She says, "I mean, if HYDRA is so progressive, so advanced, that's a good thing. Why does it need to be such a well-kept secret?" The man opens his mouth, but Natalia interrupts him. "I'm not an idiot. I know what blurred lines look like, especially in the medical field. Things aren't black and white. Scientific breakthroughs are rarely ethical."

He looks pleased, kindred spirits and all.

That red HYDRA seal might as well be dripping in blood, but Natalia is pretending she can't see it. Pretending the sacrifice is worth it.

"Forgive me for the intrusion, but you worked in military hospitals, yes?" He already knows, but Natalia nods anyway for him to continue. "May I assume that choice of career is a result of your childhood?"

She tries not to flinch. "It felt like the right path to take."

"War is inevitable. You've lived it, worked through it. You know," He says. Like it's simple. Like war isn't the worst thing to happen. There's an old echo of a bomb siren blaring in her head, and the doctor discusses it all so plainly. Inevitable. Her stomach twists. "Think of how different things could be," he says. "HYDRA, the research here... it will make mankind stronger—"

"For wars?" Natalia can't help but interrupt. "This is military research, then?"

Even military is a generous term. According to S.H.I.E.L.D., HYDRA is a terrorist organization, but with shiny rebranding in the name of progress.

He sighs, takes his glasses off, and sets them aside. "This work will cure diseases, extend life. Naturally, military applications will be considered." Again, he says, "It's inevitable. That man you saw, our operative, isn't he better off?"

Personally, Natalia believes everyone would be better off with regular old human blood and a job that did not consist of assassinations and scarring innocent witnesses for life. But the curious and ambitious Dr. Haddad must see things differently, at least to anyone watching.

Immunity. White blood cells. The medical miracle of it all.

Natalia will be let in on the secret, and subsequently, S.H.I.E.L.D. will too. "What exactly is my job here? What I saw was more than just military strategy."

Then, like she's earned it, he introduces himself, "I'm Dr. Aubert, you'll be working with me. You'll be analyzing biological samples, blood, tissue, marrow. You know how it works: run tests, log anomalies, file reports. Sound boring?"

Natalia lets herself look sheepish. "Research is never my first choice, but... I assume this will be different than my usual labs."

"It will be boring at first..." Dr. Aubert raps his knuckles against the table like he's getting excited now. "You'll see, it's amazing, truly, what the human body can do."

Two hours later, Natalia has seen nothing out of the ordinary. Dr. Aubert stationed her at the tables by the freezers.

The samples sit within reach, each labeled meticulously. She grabs sample S-72B-1984-ACT. By now, the steps have become monotonous. Her head pounds as she runs through sample after sample. The hematology analyzer is sleek, fast. Natalia mechanically charts the values, hemoglobin levels, white blood cell count, platelet count, oxygen saturation, and coagulation time.

She walks to the centrifuge, the machine works, also faster than the usual. She charts the state of the plasma, the clotting time. Her head pounds. After fifteen samples, she rubs her temple. So far, there is nothing out of the ordinary.

Another hour passes, she wonders if the doctor is just keeping her busy. Then, as if she'd summoned him with her thoughts, he's right in front of her, sliding over a small plastic container with two yellow pills. "For your headache." He walks away without further explanation.

Natalia does not take the pills, pocketing them to avoid him asking why.

At 1400 hours, the doctor tells her to take a break. There's a small room at the side of the lab, no keycard necessary. It holds a stocked fridge, one table, a couch. Natalia eats another bar, wills the water to soothe her headache. She eyes the pills once but does not take them.

Thirty minutes later, she's analyzing samples again. There is nothing out of the ordinary.

At 2100 hours, the doctor dismisses her. "I'll see you tomorrow." Like it isn't a life sentence.

This better be worth it to S.H.I.E.L.D. If not today, then at least eventually.

It takes her a while to find the elevator she came from. Everything down here looks the same, and she feels more like a rat in a maze than a new employee. Eventually, she finds the elevator and fumbles with her keycard before pressing the button for the eighth floor.

It's late, the Dining Hall mostly empty. Up here, the lights are yellow. Large windows look out on the mountain range. Natalia stares out as she eats, not tasting the food, head still pounding.

Hallway. Keycard. Room 809.

She showers the day away and crawls into bed.

Sleep stays just out of reach. At 0700 hours, the alarm goes off.

Six days have passed.

On day three Natalia grit her teeth and reluctantly swallowed the pills. Her headache was getting debilitating. If she wants to be of any use to S.H.I.E.L.D., she has to prove her worth to HYDRA. She cannot prove her worth if her head is being assaulted with a heavy hammer.

On day four, the samples began to change. Natalia sees a steady increase in the white blood cell count. The samples vary, a few normal ones here and there, but every once in a while, she sees the count spike, impossibly high. Anywhere else, this would be a miracle. She can feel the other doctor watching her, gauging her reaction.

Natalia engages him because she has to.

Factually, this is impressive. The implications of increasing white blood cell count in the human body opens countless doors, endless possibilities. Inwardly, she is, at least clinically, amazed. Despite what HYDRA thinks, the ends do not justify the means. Even so, the reality of it is undeniably horrifying. 

Human experimentation. It's illegal and wrapped in red tape for a reason.

On day five, Natalia sees this. The samples she is given are marked slightly differently from the rest. Natalia is grateful that her hands are steady as she charts them.

S-16A-1991-TER. S-16B-1991-TER. Dozens like it. Terminated. Terminated. Terminated.

The doctor tells her that the terminated subjects are filed in a different section than the active ones. Natalia is unsure who she should pity more.

For all intents and purposes, treat your time at HYDRA like a nine-to-five.

The advice is harder to take than anyone could have predicted.

When Natalia receives a case of samples on her tenth day with HYDRA, the doctor is again watching her intently.

The blood is black, thick. The numbers are impossible. Hematology analysis proves this, as if the sight didn't do enough. The numbers are all wrong, the status is a mixed bag. More terminated than active. She centrifuges. The plasma is all wrong. Everything is wrong. Day after day, the impossibly fast DNA Analyzer whirs ominously. The samples are human—were human. It's the active ones, she decides, that she pities.

Through all the horror, Natalia writes everything down.

Hale will know how to follow the trail to this information. Even before her involvement, S.H.I.E.L.D. told him what information to follow. Them getting their hands on this information will be worth it, Natalia can see that now. Before, they hardly knew what they were up against.

On day fourteen, Natalia is dismissed early from her hours of research. The Dining Hall is more crowded than usual, and she is unable to find an empty table, so she and an elderly woman sit across from each other and do not speak. The woman's hands are steady, precise. Natalia can tell she's a doctor. She wonders if she knows where the black blood comes from, wonders if she has a role in the formation of it. It doesn't matter. The woman ignores Natalia, too.

On day fifteen, Natalia is leaving the lab at the usual time. Dr. Aubert had graduated her from studying blood to spinal fluid samples. It's all the same, impossible numbers, his watchful eye, her careful questions and notes.

Key card in hand, Natalia is about to reach the elevator when a cat hisses, and scurries across the floor. A tall woman in a lab coat chases it with an exasperation like this has happened before. She catches it easily. The cat does not hiss then, it meows, and for a second, it's an orange tabby named Beso. The woman pats the cat's head and disappears down the hall.

That night, the older woman sits down across from Natalia again at dinner. There are empty tables all around them, and yet the woman sat here. Natalia looks between the woman and her half-eaten fish. After several minutes of silence, Natalia asks. "Have you seen the cat?"

The old woman smiles, "Earl."

It's not funny enough to garner a real laugh, and she's not sure anything ever will be here, but Natalia's smile is involuntary. "Clever. Because he's gray?"

The woman nods and offers no other information about the cat. For a while, Natalia is concerned their conversation is over, but then, she says, "Trudy."

"Natalia." She stares at her plate again before choosing her words carefully. She can't handle any more stilted conversations, HYDRA praise. Unconventional methods of recruitment—maybe Trudy doesn't want to be here either. "I had a cat. Loved it to death, would have never left it behind."

There's an immense sadness in Trudy's eyes when she speaks, her voice hoarse and cracking. "Cocker spaniel named Rufus. I felt the same."

Trust no one but make a friend.

They don't need to say anything else. It's been weeks since Natalia has interacted with someone where she didn't have to weigh every word. HYDRA loyalists are her last choice of company. This woman is different. They are not friends, but Trudy is perhaps the only person in the building whom Natalia does not hate.

It's been three weeks of living in the HYDRA facility. Nick Fury's advice curdles and sours in her gut as time passes. This place is anything but a nine-to-five. At the end of a regular work day, home and friends are there to break up the monotony.

Here, there is no escape. Everything is HYDRA and cold and twisted. Natalia misses the outside world. She misses her friends, her apartment, and even her jobs that had her miles away from it all. That was all her choice, sacrifices she wanted to make and knew were worth it. She misses the person she was when a hydra was just a nine-headed monster of Greek mythology.

Yes, this is technically her choice, too. She chose to work with Nick Fury, to learn the truth and get herself sent into the viper den. It had been less of a choice and more than a pull. The second he'd shown her that missile she'd signed herself up. However, the isolation makes it difficult for her to feel so steadfast in her decision.

Trudy eases the pain, sometimes. After dinner, the two of them have taken to sitting in a quiet corner by the windows and reading their books. When they're not reading, Trudy talks about her youth. The moon landing, JFK's assassination, Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca. Eventually, Natalia talks about med-school, her friends, Timothy with the apple tattoo. This makes Trudy laugh, Natalia almost laughs too.

Exactly a month after Natalia's two new jobs began, there's a fire in the kitchen on the seventh floor.

The result is a slightly more crowded eighth floor. Residents from the floor below mill around the eighth-floor dining hall and lounge area.

Also, guards. It's Natalia's first time seeing them and they're the only things that look like they actually belong in this place. Stern faces, black uniforms, weapons both concealed and worn.

She and Trudy are sitting in their usual spot and trying to ignore the noise as they read.

Well, Trudy is ignoring the noise. Natalia is secretly fighting the urge to run through the crowd and locate Hale. She's been searching for his head of black hair the minute a guard explained the fire situation. He lives on the seventh floor, he must have seen the code in her letter. The fire cannot be a coincidence.

Do not go looking for him. Fury's words were loud and clear.

Natalia is fighting the urge so hard she doesn't even hear Trudy the first time she talks, earning her a light tap on the shoulder. "Natalia." She says, "I finished my book, I'm going to try and find another."

"Okay," Natalia says, forcing herself to calm down. "Another Shakespeare?"

Trudy sighs, rising to her feet. "I think I've read all the ones they've got by now. Don't let one of those seventh-floor bastards take my seat."

Natalia huffs out half a laugh, watching Trudy as she leaves.

Seconds after she's gone, a man enters Natalia's peripheral, flipping through a stack of old magazines that HYDRA has for some reason provided as means of entertainment. Natalia eyes the back of his head, close-cropped, dirty blonde hair. She silently sighs and turns back to her book, foot bouncing.

Another man joins him, bald and scoffing. "Lot nicer digs up here than we got."

The blonde snorts in agreement. "You goin' soft?"

"Just saying," The bald man rubs the back of his head, "I wouldn't mind a record player after ours broke. Remember music, Weber?"

Natalia cannot possibly focus on her book now, so she's forced to listen to them.

"I remember the old shit you used to play."

Baldie won't let up. "It's not old, it's classic. Everyone likes him." And then for some reason he's looking at Natalia, they both are, but it's the bald man who waves his hand in her direction. "Hey. You. Do you listen to Elvis?"

Natalia's body freezes.

Hale. S.H.I.E.L.D.

The code, he asked. She knew none of this was a coincidence.

Shifting in her seat, Natalia meets his eyes, her reply memorized and practiced. Seemingly innocent. "Only the sad songs."

Hale, now bald and now aware of her, nods once before turning back to the blonde, the two of them already walking away. "See, told ya. Everyone loves Elvis."

Hands shaking, heart pounding, Natalia fights every instinct to jump up and follow him. She grips her book tighter, letting out a sigh of relief.

Hale found her. S.H.I.E.L.D.'s plan is working. She is not alone.

Chapter Text

The night of the fire, Natalia wakes to a large hand flattening around her mouth.

Her eyes fly open with a sharp scream that is effectively muffled by said hand.

It's Hale.

He brings one finger to his lips, waiting for her to nod so that she won't scream again before stepping back.

Sitting up in her bed, Natalia gives him a bewildered stare. "How are you in here?"

"Power outages are my thing. But I'm only responsible for the ones after eleven pm, so keep that in mind." Hale says, resting his hands on his hips. "We have seven minutes."

While Natalia is relieved that her interaction with the only other S.H.I.E.L.D. operative in here is not just limited to a coded question, she wasn't prepared to be approached while she was asleep in bed.

Pulling the covers back over her, Natalia files the information away. "Power outages, good to know. Um, what happened to your hair?"

My hair–" He scoffs, shaking his head. "Jesus Christ, kid, what happened to you? You look young as shit."

"I'm almost twenty-five," Natalia says for some reason.

He balks. "Where the hell did Fury find you? I've only been gone a few years–how long have you been training for this? How'd you even get in?"

Natalia cringes, tries to mask it by pushing her hair back. The answers to his questions are bad, and she knows it. In terms of training? A two-day rundown on both HYDRA and S.H.I.E.L.D. Her in? Fate laughing and laughing.

"I'm not... I wasn't trained. It was a bad luck situation. Long story. Fury saw an opportunity, and he took it."

"Fucking hell." Hale shakes his head. "Bad luck? Never mind, don't tell me, there's no time." He eyes her again like he still can't believe what he's looking at. "You doing okay? I mean, you're alive, so that means HYDRA believes you."

"I'm fine," Natalia says shortly because any deeper thought into her mental state would probably end in disaster. Hale is already looking at her like she's a freshly hatched egg, if she starts crying now, she'll never forgive herself.

"Good, good." He says, like it doesn't matter if he fully believes her or not, because there's no other option. "You're on the sixth floor. That's good. Your notes are... well, I don't know what the hell I'm looking at, but that's a problem for the guys on the outside."

Natalia's relief is palpable. "So it's getting sent out?"

"Course it is, that's why I'm here. Now listen." He says. "I orchestrated the fire. Only way I could check in, but it won't happen again. So we need a system. Every other time the cafeteria serves apple strudel, I'll be here, sometime after midnight."

Apple strudel, every other time. Wide-eyed, Natalia nods. "That's weird but... okay."

"It's random." He corrects her before moving on. "Typically, HYDRA does about a month-long observation period. If you've made it this far it means they'll probably move you soon. 'Promote' you. That means more clearance, nastier projects. You'll be closer to whatever the hell is really going on in here."

Exhaling once, Natalia asks, "So I passed?"

"You're in," he confirms. "HYDRA's got eyes on you, not necessarily suspicious. They like you. They think you're useful. That's the goal."

Her stomach twists at the word useful—especially coming from a place like this. She freezes.

Because behind Hale's low voice and calm instructions is the full weight of what he's saying without saying it.

He's been here two years. Two years of pretending, collecting, surviving.

Natalia swallows hard. Two years is a long time to be surrounded by monsters.

The thought tightens something in her chest until Hale meets her eyes again. "You're doing good," he says, gentler this time.

And somehow, that helps. Not everything. Not enough to quiet the part of her already fraying—but enough to hold it together.

"I'm fine," she repeats, more certain now.

"Stay that way." Hale's already at the door. "Don't get brave. Play the long game. You're not here to be a hero."

The door clicks shut behind him. Natalia doesn't fall asleep.

She's awake, pondering her reassignment and planning to pay better attention to apple strudels.

A few weeks later, Hale's suspicions prove to be correct. Natalia is reassigned.

Dr. Aubert doesn't even bother telling her. He dismisses her at the end of the day, like everything is normal, but when Natalia returns to her quarters, her desk looks different.

Like that first day here, there are scrubs folded on the table, probably more matching ones in her closet now. The gray ones she'd been wearing are replaced by new black sets. The schedule is nearly identical to the one from before, with a change to the room and floor number.

0700: 8th floor - Wake up alarm - room 809
0800: 8th floor - breakfast - Dining Hall
0845: 5th floor - Report for duty - W-338
1400: Break (optional-times may vary)
1430: 5th floor - Report for duty - W-338
2100: 8th floor - Restricted access

Sleep once again evades her, anticipation is firm and cold and wrapped too tight around her spine.

Reassignment.

If not for Hale's warning, she'd probably be vomiting by now.

Despite the nerves and the lack of sleep, by 0800, Natalia is dressed in the new black scrubs. Her hair is tied back, and she and Trudy eat breakfast before parting ways.

5th floor - Report for duty- W-338.

She doesn't even know where W-338 might be, but she heads down to the fifth floor anyway, walking blindly until it seems like she's headed in the right direction. And there, at the end of the hall, the door looms.

0845 exactly. Natalia steels her nerves and slides the key card in before she can think twice about it. The second she pushes through the door, an old familiar chaos explodes in front of her.

A screaming man on a gurney is run across the floor, her foot nearly trampled. The tall woman is there, the one who chased the cat, screaming at a nurse as she hurriedly tourniquets a man's arm. And there, in the face of HYDRA's emergency center, Natalia feels calmer than she has in months.

Another nurse grabs Natalia in a panic, dragging her away from the door toward one of the cots. "GSW to the chest. Left side. Tension pneumo."

Here, Natalia doesn't have to think; she just has to move.

The words come out automatically, years of practice being put to use again. "Scalpel, tube, forceps. Go!"

The nurse is fast, a scalpel in Natalia's gloved hands seconds after she asks, slicing through the man's skin under his armpit. Blood bubbles up as the air escapes. The forceps are in her hands next, opening the incision wide enough to guide the tube in. It's practiced, easy even. "Tell me when suction is ready."

The machine is quick and more efficient than anything she's ever seen. Seconds after the tube is in, she sees dark blood draining out, the lung slowly inflating.

The chaos is over as quickly as it began. For a second, she lets herself watch the patient breathe before scanning the room again.

Whatever mission these men were sent on, it does not appear to have been successful. Natalia runs through the motions, there are gunshot wounds all around her, the tall woman yelling orders from across the room. Moving to the next bed, Natalia pulls on a pair of gloves and gets to work. She cuts through the man's pants quickly, scanning the gunshot wound on his upper thigh. Exit wound, through the quadriceps, no damage to the femoral artery. Running on muscle memory Natalia packs it, stitches, advises the nurse on infections, and moves on.

Next man. Broken arm. He's unconscious, so she uses the time to quickly splint it. It's bad, the kind of break that's debilitating for months, vaguely, she wonders about HYDRA's stance on this.

A man is screaming behind her, Natalia doesn't think, she turns. New gloves, body scan. His leg is bent awkwardly, he's gripping it as he screams in pain. "Sir! I need you to let go!" The tone is one she hasn't used in a while, pushing the man so he's lying on his cot, still screaming. The patella is completely out of place. Again, she doesn't have to think; she just moves. Her hands grip above and below the knee, thumb applying pressure on the dislocated kneecap. Push. Firm. It pops.

The man gasps, his hand wrapping around her elbow as his body loses its previous tension. "Thank you," He pants, drops her arm. "Thank you."

She blinks at him, and for a second, she forgets where she is.

There's a dart embedded in the next patient's shoulder, black poison coloring his veins. Another nurse quickly points her to an antidote. The second the needle is in the black subsides, the man's eyes fly open, and she remembers. This is HYDRA. Boundaries are pushed, they do not care if the ends justify the means.

Hours later, it's quiet. Patients lay calmly on the cots, the ones with more extensive injuries already carted off to other wings. Nurses clean the aftermath of the earlier mess, chatting idly amongst each other. HYDRA has painkillers like no hospital in the world. Men, who minutes ago were howling in pain, sit up easily, calling out across the beds as if nothing happened.

This isn't an average hospital wing. These men will be back out soon, and likely, back here soon. Natalia discards her bloodied gloves, washes her hands, and splashes her face.

The second she turns around, the tall woman is in front of her. She doesn't speak right away, just stands with her arms crossed, assessing. Judging. Natalia refuses to fidget under the weight of her stare.

Then, after what feels like an eternity, the woman exhales through her nose and mutters, "Not bad."

Her voice is accented—European, but hard to place. Natalia notes the sharp cheekbones, the hair pulled back into a tight bun, and the no-nonsense posture of someone who runs the show.

"Natalia, yes?" The woman doesn't wait for confirmation. "I'm Dr. Annika Vogl. You report to me now."

Vogl. German. Or maybe Austrian? Natalia doesn't know, and frankly, she doesn't care.

Instead, she watches as Vogl pulls off her gloves with precise, practiced movements, then gestures toward the quiet aftermath of the trauma bay.

"I'll be honest with you, Dr. Haddad," she says coolly. "If it were up to me, you'd still be in the research lab."

Natalia blinks. "Oh. I—I mean, I understand this is a big step, but I studied emergency medicine. It's my field."

"You studied it," Vogl says, voice clipped. "Which is not the same as practicing it. You're what, twenty-four?"

"Almost twenty-five," Natalia corrects quietly, before regretting it. "But I'd been working in a conflict zone."

Vogl's expression doesn't shift. "Fresh out. Hardly field-tested. And yet, here you are, fast-tracked to one of the most critical wings in this facility." She pauses, then adds, dryly, "Interesting, isn't it?"

Natalia chooses her words carefully. "I'm grateful for the opportunity. And I plan to earn it. Whatever doubts you might have—I'll work to prove you wrong."

Vogl raises one brow. "You'd better. You weren't selected because you impressed anyone. You were selected because you stuck your nose where it didn't belong, and instead of being disciplined, someone decided to give you a lab coat and see if you'd behave."

Natalia doesn't respond. She's not sure what answer Vogl would even tolerate.

Vogl finally leans against the desk. "You'll do your job. You'll follow orders. And if you can survive this wing, maybe you'll actually learn something."

Shit. Vogl's obvious distaste is not what she expected. Dr. Aubert is practically warm and fuzzy compared to this woman, who is staring at Natalia like she broke in and personally printed her own ID badge. Which, technically, isn't that far from the truth. Both Fury and Hale have been making it clear. To be useful, she needs to be liked. Funnily enough, both HYDRA and S.H.I.E.L.D. are giving her the same advice.

"Yes, ma'am," Natalia says, not bothering to smile. "I'm confident that I'll learn a lot here."

The woman is already bored, dismissive. She waves her hand once. "Have one of the nurses give you a tour until the next patient comes in."

Trying not to panic too much, Natalia nods and turns away.

Despite Vogl's... aversion to Natalia, someone in HYDRA likes her.

After two weeks of working in the trauma ward, Natalia is once again being led to Robert's office after dinner.

Already, she's distracted.

The cafeteria served apple strudels today, which means next time they do, she'll be getting a visit from Hale. Silently, she's trying to guess how often that particular pastry is served and hardly hears Robert's small talk as he leads her down the hall.

Also, her work in the trauma ward is exhausting. Considering her past, Natalia thought she'd be used to it—blood, shattered bone, the pressure of seconds counting down to life or death. But nothing here is normal. The injuries are familiar—gunshots, broken limbs, concussions, shrapnel—but it's the treatment that keeps her up at night.

She's watched a man's femur visibly begin to calcify within the hour of being reset—no cast, no pins, just a sterile injection of something the nurses referred to only as Compound T. She's administered vials of a bright teal serum that drop a patient's heart rate to 30 bpm for controlled internal cooling. She's seen surgical incisions cauterized from the inside out with a clear gel that fizzes like soda against human tissue.

And then there are the painkillers. Whatever HYDRA has in their cabinets numbs pain and wipes trauma faster than anything she's ever seen. Men come in howling with agony, gushing blood from torn muscle and shattered bone. Ten minutes later, they're sitting upright, joking with one another like it was a bar fight. It's not just unnatural, it's inhuman.

The memories of the research lab linger. Black blood. Impossible white cell counts. Terminated samples stacked in quiet little boxes.

And still, Natalia shows up. Early, prepared, clean-shoed, and sharp-eyed, doing everything she can to appear unfazed. Vogl hasn't complimented her, not once. But she hasn't pulled her off rotation either—and that means something. Natalia answers orders quickly, keeps her sutures tight, her observations clinical. She watches every move Vogl makes, mirrors the way she holds her instruments, the way she walks through chaos like it's air.

She won't give Vogl any reason to doubt her again.

Even if the things she's witnessing are tearing holes in her understanding of biology.

Natalia is lost in her thoughts, but once Robert's office door clicks shut, she forces herself to focus. Harmless as he appears, Robert, like Vogl, like Aubert, is HYDRA through and through. Even here, the act must be convincing.

"How have you been settling in?" He asks, still playing his own, normal, corporate role.

Because she's supposed to be thrilled at the opportunity and eager about her voluntary imprisonment, Natalia plasters on a smile. "Good, good. No complaints, it's interesting work. Fascinating, really."

"Yes. Our medical wings are like nothing else in the world. Or so I've heard." He chuckles like this is all good and fun. "I'm not a doctor, I haven't got a clue what goes on down there."

Laughing along with him, the smile not quite reaching her eyes, Natalia asks a question she has to ask. "So um... I know that for security purposes, communication with the outside world is limited, but–"

"Ah!" Robert sits up in his chair, excited. "That is actually why I called you in here today. No pun intended."

And just like that, Natalia is sitting up too. "I get to make a call?"

Looking embarrassed, Robert clears his throat. "That's my fault. Not a call, but you can write a letter. To your mother, I assume? It will be sent from an undisclosed location, and you can't include any details that could expose the work we do here, but yes, we've established a point of contact."

Natalia can read between the lines. HYDRA has its eyes on her mother. Hopefully, S.H.I.E.L.D. is watching too, keeping her safe. So far, Fury has been keeping her promises, so she doesn't let the news affect her too much.

"A letter," Natalia says, unsurprised. A phone call would be ideal, but that also feels like something Natalia has to earn according to HYDRA. After that first letter she wrote, with a coded message for Hale, Natalia has been dying for any real contact with her mom.

It won't be the first time the only contact she's allowed is through written communication, but it'll be the first time she's had to lie to her.

Robert nods and pushes a paper and pen in her direction. "Someone will have to read it over, of course, for security purposes. You understand."

"Yeah," Natalia says, fingers already twitching towards the pen. "I understand."

"I'll just leave you in here. When you're done, you can leave your letter sitting on the desk, and it'll get mailed out within the next few days."

And then she's alone in Robert's office.

Biting the inside of her cheek, Natalia taps her pen against the paper. It's a relief–a huge one–that she's allowed to communicate with her mom. She doesn't know where to begin, what to say. The second the pen hits the paper, Natalia's throat tightens. This letter of lies will travel thousands of miles and find its way to somewhere Natalia would much rather be. Lebanon.

Winter will just be starting, not quite a freezing cold, not like the snow icing the mountains here. Back on her farm, rain would tap on the roof, making the olive leaves shine and drip. Mrs. Hamzeh would put the goats in their wooden shelter and dry them off with one of her hand-woven blankets. The windows to the house would be closed, fire crackling in the corner. The whole place would smell like bread and za'atar and comfort. Even in winter, there'd be warmth. Her dad's old coat still hanging on the door, dinners that stretch late into the night.

Natalia keeps the letter light, vague. She asks about the goats and how Mrs. Hamzeh is doing. Part of her doesn't even want to include those details. The memories are hers alone, and knowing Robert will read through it threatens to make it all go sour. She tells her mom she's doing well and the new job is everything she wants. It's only when Natalia finishes writing that she realizes Robert has left her alone in the office.

The only other time she's ever alone is in her quarters, and there's nothing to see in there but her things. Should she look around? Try to access his computer. But then... she wouldn't even know what to do. And again, Fury's warnings stop her from snooping. Hale is trained and meticulous. Natalia has been firmly told to keep her head down. The importance of her position here is not direct espionage. There's a high possibility that even just opening his desk drawer could get her caught.

Reading over her letter once more, Natalia leaves it on his desk and makes her way out to find Trudy.

The patient had come in just before shift change—a deep abdominal laceration from a training session gone wrong. The injury was messy. Too close to the liver, blood pooling fast. The nurses moved quickly, but it was Natalia who took control of the table despite the late hour.

“Clamp,” she said sharply, her hands already finding the bleeder. The tissue was delicate—one wrong move and they’d be looking at organ failure.

Vogl didn’t interrupt. That, in itself, was notable.

Natalia worked fast but carefully, her eyes flicking once to Vogl’s expression when she placed the final suture. The older doctor gave nothing away, but when Natalia peeled off her gloves, she caught a low murmur under her breath.

“Precise,” Vogl said, not looking at her. “Didn’t expect that.”

Natalia blinked. “Thank you,” she managed.

Vogl was already walking away.

By the time Natalia cleaned up the bay and relogged the meds, it was well past her usual end time. The halls outside were quieter than usual, curiously so.

She tapped her keycard and stepped out alone.

Making her way to the elevator, Natalia turns her head just in time to see an imposing figure turn down the hallway. She hardly catches a flash of him. Tall, muscular, and walking with clear purpose. Most likely one of the guards, he's dressed in all black like the rest of them. Brown hair, maybe. Before she can really take anything in—power outage.

The hallway is pitch black, silent.

Stumbling, the sudden movement makes her reading glasses fall out of her pocket and slide down the floor. It's difficult enough trying to make her way around this place while the lights are on, so Natalia is forced to stay in place. Due to the isolated location, she had been warned that this kind of thing happens. Hale can make it happen. Only after eleven, this isn't him.

Just her luck. Natalia is exhausted, her last patient had drained the final drops of energy out of her, and she wants nothing more than to sit beside Trudy and hear her bizarre stories. Alas, a power outage means the elevator isn't working, so she's stuck here until the lights come back on.

It hits her then, the silence.

She's not alone; just before the lights went out, she'd seen him, the man in the hall. And despite his size, she somehow does not hear him at all.

Natalia calls out through the darkness, half a nervous laugh on her lips. "Hello?"

Either the man is already gone and she is talking to no one, or he's ignoring her. The guards aren't the friendliest bunch, so the second option is highly likely.

But then, like the man had to decide whether or not he was going to answer her, he finally replies. "Yes." Deep voice, rough. Cutting through the silence.

Odd choice of words to respond to hello, but not everyone here speaks perfect English, so it might just be a language barrier thing. Although, his accent sounds distinctly American. Who knows?

"Any idea how long this'll last?" Natalia asks, squinting uselessly through the darkness for any sign of her glasses on the floor.

"Not long." It's all he says, just a voice, he sounds about ten feet away. "A few minutes."

Okay... not a conversationalist then.

Sighing, Natalia leans against the wall behind her and tries not to yawn too loudly. Small issue? She is tired enough that rambling might be the only thing keeping her awake.

The Winter Soldier is rarely on the sixth floor.

A technical malfunction with his arm. The metal one.

Fixed now. He goes to report back to the first floor.

Nightly cryostasis. Different routine. The Soldier does not understand—he does not question.

Then the lights go out. The girl in the hallway speaks. Simple question. One he can answer.

She cannot see him. He can see her. Just an outline. Curly hair—messy. Medical scrubs too large on her small frame. She dropped her glasses.

A doctor—not someone he will remember. Not someone The Soldier interacts with. His handlers do not speak to him. Not like this. Casual. Simple.

It's the darkness. The anonymity. The only reason she is unafraid. She cannot see him, does not know who he is.

The Soldier watches as she leans against the wall. Crosses her arms. Tilts her head. Stares at nothing. He can almost see her face. Delicate. Breakable.

"I am so tired." She says. "I don't even know what time it is. Do you?"

The Soldier is rarely told the time. He says, "No."

He sees her head turn. Trying to locate him in the darkness. It won't work. His eyes have been enhanced. Years ago. He doesn't remember, but he knows.

She's still fully human.

Again, she sighs. "My friend Trudy is probably wondering where I am. Friend." She laughs again. "She's a batty old lady but... she's pretty funny. I don't know why I'm telling you all this. I think it's cause I'm really tired."

The Soldier does not feel tired. When he falters, they put him on the ice. He does not talk to doctors in hallways.

She steps forward blindly. Still talking. Nervous. "Where is the cat when you need him... I can't find my freaking glasses."

Quickly, his eyes scan. There, a few feet ahead of her on the floor. Glasses. If she walks too far, she'll step on them.

He steps forward. Quiet. Close.

She doesn’t see him. Can’t.

But she wants to. Head tilted. Eyes searching the dark like it owes her answers.

She doesn’t know what’s in front of her.

If she did, she’d run.

The Soldier speaks. "Stop."

Stop.

Natalia isn't sure exactly what the HYDRA guard she was rambling to meant by the singular word, but she can assume he probably meant stop talking. The command makes her freeze altogether, all attempts to locate her glasses put on hold.

God. What is wrong with her? A few hours without the usual Trudy reprieve, and she's an idiotic mess. She hadn't realized how much she relied on that human connection until it's postponed a few hours.

Rubbing her eyes, Natalia refocuses and decides against reinitiating any conversation with the man in the hallway. Besides, there is something off about his voice. Like he doesn't use it often, doesn't care to. He'd spoken less than ten words while Natalia had rambled like some kind of idiot who forgot where she is.

It's silent again, still dark. This time, Natalia doesn't attempt to fill the silence.

But then something presses against her hand. Plastic, recognizable. Her glasses.

Sucking in a sharp breath, Natalia turns her hand over to accept them. She can't see him, but she can feel the guard there, handing them to her. She cranes her neck instinctively.

“How did you do that?” Her eyes widen in surprise. It’s dark enough that she cannot even see the glasses in her hand.

There no humor in the man’s voice as he replies. “Night vision.”

Natalia’s laugh is awkward, nervous. “Lucky me…” Her heart pounds as she pockets the frames, voice a near whisper. "Thank you."

The silence is thick and heavy. Natalia isn't sure why.

After a moment, he speaks again. "You're welcome."

A moment passes, and the lights flicker back on harshly. The hallway is empty, like no one was there at all.

Exactly twenty-three days after her first covert meeting with Hale, Natalia is prepared for the next one.

The cafeteria served apple strudels again, hours ago, and now she sits upright in her bed, just waiting. She keeps the lamp beside her bed on so that when Hale's power outage kicks in, Natalia will have warning this time. She also brought one of the communal books into her room and is trying and failing to use it as a distraction. According to Hale, he only controls the power outages after eleven, so it'll still be a while until he comes.

Sleep never comes easily anymore. That part's not new. It's not staying awake that's the issue; it's killing the time.

She braids and unbraids her hair, destroys her cuticles, and chews a hole in her bottom lip. Until finally, the lamp beside her bed flicks off—power outage.

Less than half an hour later, the door to her quarters pushes open, and for the second time in the span of months, Hale is in her room.

He doesn't sit right away. This time, he hovers by the door for a second longer than usual, like he's listening for something. When he finally moves, it's slow. Controlled, but off.

Natalia clocks it instantly.

He doesn't look at her when he speaks. "Have you ever heard anything about the lower levels?"

She shakes her head. "I didn't think we were even allowed to talk about them."

"We're not." He crosses his arms. "But people do anyway. Usually late at night, when they think no one's listening." He pauses then, almost like he doesn't want to say it. With a shake of his head, he continues. "Whispers. Stories. Some kind of—asset. Comes and goes. No name, no record. They say he's not on the roster, doesn't report to anyone directly. He just shows up, does the job, disappears again."

Natalia stills, frowning. "What kind of job?"

Hale finally looks at her. "You know what kind. You know what they do here."

"Right." Natalia says. Assassinations, worse. She'd seen it with her own two eyes before she even landed the job.

He sinks into the armchair like he's suddenly tired. "I thought it was just bullshit. Morbid rumors. Something to keep the rookies scared. You know how this place is—everyone's always trying to out-creep each other."

"And now?"

"I saw something." His voice drops. "A file I wasn't supposed to see. There wasn't much—just coordinates, a body count, no names. But tucked in the corner? One sentence: 'Asset recovered. Sedated and returned to lower level.' That's it."

Natalia's mouth goes dry. Asset... that's what her patient was talking about that day. Before the HYDRA operative came in like a shadow and shot the man in the head.

"I don't know what it means. But I'm telling you because if they ever send you below floor six, I want you to be careful. People don't come back from those assignments the same. If at all."

There's a silence that stretches between them. Not quite fear. Not yet. But the shape of it forming.

Then, softly, Hale adds, "They say he's a ghost. Deadlier than anyone, only works with an elite strike team. That he doesn't speak." Another beat. "I don't know if any of it's true. But I'm starting to think the scary part is that some of it might be."

Natalia says nothing. She's not sure what she can say.

Hale studies her for a moment, then softens just slightly. "You all good, kid?"

"My new boss is uh–" Natalia scratches her brow. "I'm growing on her, I think."

"Good." He stands. "Stay sharp. And if you hear anything... listen close."

The door clicks shut behind him, and Natalia is left in the dark. In more ways than one.

Chapter Text

Natalia falls into a steady routine; she has no choice.

Weeks ago, they let her write a letter home—supposedly proof that she was doing well. The reply came quietly, slipped onto her desk one night. Natalia cries when she reads it. She reads it every night. Her mother wished her well, saying she was proud of her work and hoping she would be home soon. It's better that she doesn't know the truth.

Natalia knows that if she wants to hear from her mother again, HYDRA must think she is cooperating. If she wants to be any use to S.H.I.E.L.D., HYDRA must think she is cooperating. And so she does, faces familiar and new come in and out of that emergency room. She comes face-to-face with some of the test subjects from the research lab. Genetically altered blood, white blood cells, and bones that heal faster than they should.

Hale's ghost story becomes a distant memory. She's still listening for clues, but all Natalia ever hears about is injuries and more injuries.

Just as she saw in the lab, the HYDRA experiments are not all sustainable. She lost track of all the dead bodies she'd seen; many of the deaths would not have happened were it not for HYDRA's testing.

Most nights, she and Trudy eat dinner together, they do not discuss their work. Trudy mentions her grandkids once, and while she doesn't specify, Natalia can tell it's been years since she's seen them. It's highly likely that she will never see them again. Neither of them says this out loud. Natalia wants to tell her everything. Fury and Hale, her accidental recruitment to espionage. But she can't. It isn't just the fact that Fury told her not to trust anyone. The knowledge could put Trudy in danger, so Natalia keeps her mouth shut and talks about France and Lebanon instead. Trudy tells the same stories: the moon landing, JFK, watching Casablanca. The details are different each time. Natalia never knew her grandparents, but she thinks she understands what it might be like.

One night, Trudy is again recounting the day JFK was assassinated. "You know," Trudy says, "I was close enough to hear the gunshot."

For the first time in a while, Natalia laughs, "No, you didn't—you were going to school in Alabama in 1963." This, Natalia only knows because Trudy talks about herself a lot.

Trudy frowns like she's offended. "And what about it?"

Natalia laughs even harder. "JFK was shot in Texas!"

Trudy looks pleased. She hums Ella Fitzgerald songs while they read, Natalia doesn't mind until they get stuck in her head. Natalia's shampoo and conditioner ran out, quickly replaced by unseen hands, the same brand from home. She's not sure how they got it out here, and she's not sure why. But HYDRA is everywhere, they can do anything.

On some days, when the emergency room is empty, she and Vogl conduct research instead. Vogl teaches Natalia about prosthetics, which is apparently a significant focus of the HYDRA medical division. They work with a HYDRA agent who has a highly advanced metal leg prosthetic. It is like nothing she's ever seen before. Natalia's stomach clenches when she thinks of what HYDRA must have done to achieve this level of sophistication. Vogl thinks it's incredible how severed nerves attach to the mechanics. Each time, the agent hisses in pain, and each time he praises HYDRA. Natalia isn't sure whether she should feel bad for him or not.

One day, Natalia has to reattach the prosthetic leg where it took some damage near the connection point. Vogl watches her closely, like it's a test; she takes notes. Natalia has the strangest feeling that the notes are about her and not the patient. She shakes it off. Paranoia gets her nowhere, especially here. She keeps working and hoping her notes and charts are being sent out and used for something helpful.

Natalia officially meets Earl the cat. He belongs to Vogl, she brought him with her when she came to the base. Vogl's initiation to HYDRA was voluntary; it's something she's proud of. It makes it hard to look Vogl in the eye most days. She's a good doctor, a genius, there are so many other things she could be doing. But she shoves her horror down, she is being watched, she wants more letters from her mother. She wants to be helpful to S.H.I.E.L.D.

Some days, when they work in the office rather than the trauma center, Vogl lets Natalia hold Earl. The cat only makes her feel marginally better about having to spend so much time with a loyal HYDRA scientist.

After four months inside, most of them working under Dr. Vogl, something happens.

Like that day, the one that led to all this, Natalia didn't realize anything was wrong.

As usual, she reported for duty at W-338, scanned her keycard, and pushed through the doors. The nurses were gone, Vogl sat near the back, and filed things away. Only one cot was occupied by a man in his late fifties, older than anyone else Natalia had seen in this wing. There was no other patient, no emergency, so Natalia made her way over to him when Vogl called out from her spot in the back of the room, "He's my patient! Find something else to do."

The man looks at Natalia once, his stare is lazy, borderline mocking, and she isn't sure why. Even after she turns away from him, the weight of his stare lingers. Or, more likely, she's thrown off by the eerie and rare stillness of the room.

Shaking it off, Natalia turns away from him and does her best to find something else to do. With the nurses gone, she takes care of the organizing that they usually do. About an hour into it, she turns to Vogl, "Where are the nurses?"

Vogl doesn't look up from her files when she says, "Slow day."

"So why aren't we doing research?" Natalia isn't even sure why she asks. Perhaps there is the tiniest instinct that something is off, different, she just isn't at all sure what.

Vogl snaps, "I said a slow day, not an off day! Focus on your job and stop asking questions."

Natalia feels her frown deepen, but she doesn't push it. Vogl is clearly in a mood, and she hasn't even checked on her precious patient once, despite explicitly stopping Natalia from even taking a step in his direction. She finishes resorting the medicine cabinet and checking inventory when two things happen at once.

First, the man's heart monitor begins to beep rapidly. Vogl is rushing towards him in an instant, reaching his cot the second the door flies open and another patient is rolled in on a gurney. He's unconscious, but his body seizes roughly for reasons Natalia cannot yet discern.

The men drop him quite unceremoniously on the nearest cot before rushing off. Alone, Natalia rushes over to the man, eyes scanning him once to find the source of the issue. Nothing looks out of the ordinary; he's not bleeding, he's not even bruised, and other than the veins protruding out of his arms, it seems almost like a regular seizure.

It's nearly impossible to check him at all with how aggressively he twitches. Glancing across the room once, Natalia sees Vogl is still busy with her patient and realizes she's alone in this.

Shit. She has no idea. Toxin, it must be.

Mentally, Natalia runs through the list of antidotes the room is stocked with, she's studied it extensively, has the contents memorized. But this man displays none of the usual triggers that call for the antidote. No darkening veins, red eyes, nothing. And she can't sedate without knowing what's happening because in the world of HYDRA, it might just make things worse.

Natalia rechecks his breathing, normal, unobstructed, pupils dilated but otherwise normal. Pulse—slow, too slow, considering seconds ago it was racing.

In an instant, the man goes still, and then he opens his eyes, locking on hers. His large arm shoots out, knocking Natalia in her center and sending her flying nearly ten feet back before crashing on the floor. She screams, her head smacking a toppled tray, dizzying her as she scrambles back to her feet. Even in the chaos, her eyes don't leave the patient as she runs towards him, realizing she may just have to sedate him after all.

But before she can reach anything, he's on top of her, his hands wrapping around her throat. For a second, they go loose, the man's eyes squeezing shut in agony. Natalia screams for help again, the usual guard is gone, and where the fuck is Vogl? There's a second of silence, and then the man roars, eyes snapping open once again. This time they are red.

The effects of the poison must not have fully kicked in earlier, but Natalia recognizes it now: Rauwolf-16–seizures, violence, internal hemorrhaging. She doesn't need to run through the whole list, the antidote she needs is Sol-9. There's only a split second of victory before the man's hands are squeezing her throat again, and this time, it's tight enough to kill.

This isn't what she signed up for. Then again, none of it is. But she has a job to do. Stay alive. Get information

It dawns on her that she has two options. One, try to fight the man off, which, considering not only their size difference but the violence-inducing poison coursing through his veins, would result in her imminent death. Or, she can attempt to blindly reach for the correct antidote on the tray behind her. If Natalia hadn't just restocked them herself, she'd probably have no chance at all.

Desperately, her arm strains beside her, stars swimming in her vision. The tray of antidotes is too far back, and her hand lands uselessly on a scalpel. Low on choices, Natalia grabs it anyway, stabbing it through one of the hands wrapped around her throat. The injured hand flies backward on instinct, leaving only one wrapped around her throat, allowing just enough leeway for her to find the antidote she needs, rip open the needle with her teeth, and inject it into her attacker's neck.

And for once, she is thankful for HYDRA's fast-acting medicine. In seconds, the man goes slack, eyelids drooping. He starts to tip forward, about to land on top of Natalia, still pinned to the cot. Right before she would have been crushed, Vogl is there, redirecting the path of his fall in the direction of another cot.

Natalia scrambles to sit up, running a hand over her face. The whole thing happened in less than fifteen seconds, were it not for the mess, the soreness of her throat, she might have believed she imagined it.

"Quick thinking, Hadad," Vogl looks at her almost the same way she looks at the patients: inquisitive, like she's taking a mental note of her behavior. "Most people would not have survived that."

Praise from a monster isn't worth much, but it may mean she's getting closer. S.H.I.E.L.D. needs access. Trust. She's earning both.

After a beat, Vogl helps her to her feet, and the two of them haul the patient into a new cot. Once they step back, Natalia realizes the scalpel is still sticking out of his hand, and she winces, pulling on gloves, finding a fresh medical tray. "Shit." She says, "I'll take care of that, and then I'm taking lunch."

If she'd have looked back, she would have seen Vogl and her mystery patient almost smiling at her.

About an hour later, she and Vogl are alone again. Both Vogl's patient and Natalia's attacker were carted off elsewhere, and Natalia had restored the room to its usual order.

Vogl sits her down on one of the cots and inspects her neck and throat, determining that ice should suffice as no real damage was done. It was about what Natalia had expected, but it would have been reassuring to know that an hour ago. Silently, she reminds herself that Vogl is not the type for reassurances.

Seemingly satisfied, Vogl pulls off the gloves and hands Natalia a small blue tub of ointment. "A soothing balm. Put it on when you sleep to avoid any soreness tomorrow morning."

Other than her one time taking pills for the headache, Natalia is reluctant to go near any HYDRA medication ever again. Not that she can tell Vogl this, so she says, "Thank you." And tucks the bottle in her pocket, planning not to use it.

"Let's go sit in my office." Vogl gestures with her chin, giving Natalia no other choice but to follow after her.

Vogl waits for Natalia to sit before she grabs Earl from under the desk and sets him in Natalia's lap. Instinctively, Natalia starts petting the cat's head, her body calming at the soft purr it lets out. With a slight frown, Natalia realizes it almost feels like Vogl is offering her pet up as some kind of therapy animal after a trauma. Again, Natalia reminds herself that Vogl is not the type.

Her hand stills atop the cat's head for a second before starting again. These moments are rare, she'll take what she can get.

Then Vogl sits at the desk, rearranging the mess while Natalia swallows half a water bottle in one go.

Clearly, she has something to say, and Natalia isn't sure if she is supposed to ask until finally, Vogl speaks. "Tomorrow you won't be coming in." It's casual, seemingly, but things here never are. "You have a meeting with a HYDRA official."

"Robert?" Natalia asks, slightly hopeful but highly aware that the answer is probably no.

"Who? Oh—the processing kid. No." She snorts, clicking a pen absentmindedly. "A higher-up, consider it a performance review." There's a second where Vogl gauges her reaction. "Don't be nervous, you've done good."

The statement is more factual than an attempt at reassurance. Another stamp binding her to the works of HYDRA that Natalia does not want. "What time?" She manages to ask.

"0800. Come down to this floor and wait by the elevator. Someone will find you. Oh and... wear something nice, okay?"

Trying and failing to swallow the sawdust in her throat, her, "Okay." Comes out all choppy and embarrassingly nervous.

On her end, Vogl isn't even looking at her. She types something into her computer, almost like she's waiting for a certain amount of time to pass. Eventually, she spares Natalia a half glance. "You can go now."

Natalia glances down at Earl, and she swears the cat holds eye contact with her. He is nicer than his owner. She allows herself to pet him once more before setting him aside and walking out.

On her way out, Natalia passes a man she's never seen before in the hallway. His black scrubs are identical to the ones she and Vogl wear. He looks lost, the same way she did months ago. Curiosity gets the best of her, she turns and calls out, "Looking for W-338?"

The man looks relieved. "I am, yes."

There's a cold sweat pooling on her lower back, "Down the hall, first left."

"Thank you." He says, hurrying in that direction.

Natalia checks the clock above the elevator, 1530 exactly. She imagines in her mind an amendment to Vogl's schedule for the day.

1515 - 6th floor -Distract Natalia with cat - W-338
1529 - 6th floor - Dismiss Natalia - W-338
1530 - 6th floor - Meet replacement - W-338

In her room, Natalia is a nervous wreck.

Even though it's early and on another day, she might have even appreciated the downtime and an opportunity to sit with Trudy, she doesn't leave.

Why does this keep happening? Every time Natalia gets even slightly used to the macabre routine here, it gets turned upside on its head. First, it was Dr. Aubert, which, fine, Natalia could have seen coming. Hale had told her that the research was a trial run before they cleared her for a real job. Fine—she understood that game, her reassignment made sense when she looked back at it.

This... this is different, Natalia doesn't understand. She isn't delusional enough to believe Vogl actually likes her, she doesn't even want Vogl to like her. But she thought they had a rapport, at least. They'd done research together, research that was far out of Natalia's comfort zone. A fact she thought she'd hidden well, but clearly not. And she'd been good at her job, fast on her feet. Emergency medicine was her specialty, and Natalia knows it's where she'd be most valuable.

None of it makes sense. For months, she'd put up a good act, she'd shown interest. Asked questions and looked into things without Vogl even asking. She thought the letter from her mother was a good sign, the answer to the mantra that had been pushing her since day one. Why the hell is this happening?

Natalia forces herself into the shower, turns the handle to scalding hot, and panics right there on the shower floor. What does HYDRA want from her? What isn't she doing? Closing her eyes, she replays everything Vogl told her. One part sticks out, the not-so-subtle advice to look nice. Marginally, her panic fades. It gives her one variable she can control.

Fine. It doesn't make any sense. But fine. And now that she thinks about it, Vogl always looks immaculate. Hair tidy, clothing neat, manicure. She won't begin to pretend to understand the expectations of HYDRA, but fine, she can mimic their loyal scientist if she has to. Standing up in the shower, Natalia reaches for the HYDRA-issue razor, she shaves, and scrubs her skin raw. Her hands finally stop shaking when she has a task to focus on. Wrapping the towel around her, Natalia steps out of the shower and just then notices her perfume bottle sitting out on the counter. She knows it's been in her closet, unused since she got here. What the fuck? Message clear.

For the first time since she's been here, Natalia opens the box that used to sit beside her bed and reaches into it without looking. She pictures Vogl as she finds the necessary items. Earrings, necklace, watch, tweezers, nail polish. She's clinical as she goes through the motions that once brought her peace. Eyebrows plucked. Manicure. Pedicure. She braids her hair while it's damp; it's the only way to calm the frizz. Again, she pictures Vogl, even Dr. Aubert. Neat, polished, like everything here in HYDRA. While her mind is clear, Natalia forces herself to choose an outfit for tomorrow and sets it out on her desk with the long-unused jewelry.

Her eyes linger on the watch. It's old, vintage, but maintained with great care. Before it was passed down to Natalia, it belonged to her mother, and before that, it was her grandmother's. It's gold, Swiss–Longiness. And despite being made in the 1940s, it continues to tick today. The brown snakeskin band is thin, repaired once so immaculately that the flaw is nearly invisible. Natalia's favorite part was always the hands, deep cobalt ticking beneath the domed crystal. Her grandmother's initials, along with the year the watch was gifted to her, are engraved in dainty letters on the back: RHL — 1942.

Before attempting to sleep, Natalia reads her mother's letter again; I love you, I'm proud of you. She retrieves her wallet and sets the two photographs out on her desk. Closing her eyes, Natalia forces herself to remember the good things. The lie is not worth it if she cannot remember the good things.

She will be perfect. She will not hesitate. She will survive.

Chapter Text

Just as it has for the past one hundred and twenty-three days since Natalia has been 'recruited' by HYDRA, the alarm clock goes off at 0700 hours. Technically, the alarm is useless; Natalia's eyes are always open minutes before they have to be. Rest here is an illusion, even after the most grueling days.

Moving quickly, Natalia does not give herself time to overthink, to panic.

She showers and combs her hair, the braids effective in taming the usual mess. Half of her hair is pinned in a neat knot behind her head, the rest falling behind her back, pulled away from her face. A lifetime ago, she'd worn it like this for a med-school interview. The small gold earrings match the necklace, a graduation gift from another lifetime. She buckles on the watch, another relic. The outfit she chose last night still seems fitting, so she slides it on. Pleated gray skirt, a respectable length, white blouse, button up, small stripes, and a neatly folded collar. Her clothes do not fit the same—she does not eat much here—but it will do. Black flats, the ones she knows are comfortable to walk in. In the bathroom, Natalia forces herself to spray the perfume, she does not stop to consider the implications. The narrow reading glasses fit in her pocket. She knows she looks more professional than she has in a long time. She pictures Vogl and straightens her spine.

Natalia is ready. She is calm. Anything else is not an option.

By the time Natalia makes it down to the sixth floor, waiting by the elevator like Vogl told her to, she is ten minutes early. A HYDRA guard in black fatigues steps out of the elevator, he is five minutes early and for a second, Natalia can tell he is startled to see her.

"Dr. Haddad." He says, quickly moving past any shock. "Follow me."

Keycard. Door. Keycard.

There's a second elevator. From day one, Natalia had wondered where it was. She's getting let in now. One secret at a time. She knows it means one thing. Lower floors, the ones even Hale doesn't have access too.

The guard scans his keycard at the elevator and pushes the button for the fourth floor. The ride down is silent, this elevator is faster than the other one. It opens to a small space before a set of heavy double doors. One man stands in the center.

Older, late fifties, graying hair, dark grey eyes. Vogl's patient from the day of the attack. A piece of the puzzle is revealed, the bigger picture still a mystery.

When Natalia steps out of the elevator, she does not let her surprise show. The door slides shut behind her, and the guard does not join.

Meeting the man's eyes, Natalia waits for him to speak first. "Dr. Natalia Haddad." He extends his hand, "Colonel Vasily Karpov."

Succinct. Simple. Revealing nothing. Shaking his hand, Natalia gathers what she can. His attire is nicer than she's seen on anyone else here. Even that aside, he carries himself like someone who knows he is important. A man who needs no introduction. Colonel, military. Theoretically, Natalia has seen this coming for months. Hale is in on strategic military operations or whatever it is. All her medical work points in that direction.

Now, the Colonel is waiting for her to speak.

He drops her hand, and she holds them behind her back so she cannot fidget. She forces a look of slight intrigue into her eyes. Not afraid, not accusatory, factual. Another piece of the puzzle. "The attack was a test, you were watching me."

God. How did she not see it earlier? The truth is obvious now. The lack of nurses, the absence of the usual guards. Even the timing of the heart rate monitor.

Colonel Vasily Karpov just nods once.

The rules of the game are clearer now. Natalia shows him what he wants to see. She's young, new, curious from day one. Colonel Vasily Karpov believes in the initiative, eventually, Natalia Haddad will too. She is not nervous; she is determined. Like all others in this building, she seeks his approval. "Did I pass?"

In his eyes, she sees it; this is what he expected. Perhaps she'd fooled Vogl better than she thought. She's being observed, but she's not in trouble. "You did. Despite the odds." After a moment, he adds, "Forgive Dr. Vogl for the deceit, she was ordered not to step in under any circumstances. Luckily, you're a quick thinker."

So she passed. Relief evades her. A test implies a goal, an outcome, or a next step. Last time something like this happened, Hale had at least given her some warning that it was coming. Now she's in the dark, only slightly aware that something will change.

What she will graduate to, Natalia is unsure. Hands clasped behind her back, Natalia says another fact, "I'm just thankful the HYDRA antidotes are so fast acting." She considers everything he said and adds. "I never held it against Vogl."

Karpov looks interested but not entirely surprised. "No?"

"No, sir. She is a good teacher." Fact. "The things she's taught me are... incomparable. Impressive." Fact. Although the last one is harder to say out loud. Then, for a second, she panics. She said Sir, not Colonel. But he does not react. Sir is okay. Every word must be calculated, Natalia reminds herself of this.

With each word, Natalia understands exactly how the Colonel earned his title. The man belongs at the head of an army. "Yes." He says plainly, "I heard you were apt in your studies. You adapted to handling the bionic prosthetic faster than most."

So Vogl was taking notes on her. Looking back, Natalia feels half-blind for missing all the signs. "May I ask, sir, what I was being tested for?"

His gray eyes flash with something unreadable. "We will get there." He shifts, conversation over. "Let's begin with a tour."

Turning swiftly, Karpov pushes through the metal doors, expecting her to follow.

Stepping through, Natalia's eyes take in an impossibly large training facility bustling with activity. Endless racks of highly advanced weapons line the open space. There's an expanse of targets for practice, some still, some moving. The sound of gunshots and arrows echoes off the walls. Tactical dummies occupy the space at the far left, some toppled over on their sides.

Following his gaze, Natalia's eyes land on what he clearly considers to be the true prize of it all. Four reinforced glass walls occupy the center of the room. At first, she does not understand what she is seeing.

The inside of the space somehow resembles an average city landscape. Tall buildings, cars on the street. Inside, the men duck and run around the obstacles, shooting guns, tossing grenades. It's... impossible.

Karpov fills in the blanks. "This program can create a thousand different battle scenarios. The human mind adapts fastest under real stress. If you want soldiers to perform well in combat, you must make them bleed in training."

The words wash over her. Make them bleed. Revulsion threatens to twist her expression. Feigning interest, Natalia steps closer to the glass, her position shielding her face from Karpov. As she looks closer, Natalia begins to recognize most of them as frequent visitors of the emergency wing. The injuries, the bloodshed. All of that was just training for them?

Karpov is watching her. Natalia steps back and schools her features. "Many of those agents are back on their feet much faster than expected." He is still watching her, not saying anything. "Impressive," Natalia says. Impressive, she tells herself, does not mean good.

Beside them, a holographic screen lights up, displaying vitals beside each agent's name. "A soldier's body tells us what he cannot," Karpov explains. "We do not rely on honesty; we rely on data. Heart rate, oxygen saturation, lactic acid build-up—all of it tells us when a man will break before he even knows himself."

Karpov takes her on a slow walk around the facility. He does not explain much, but he is clear on one thing: HYDRA is more advanced than its enemies. As the tour ends, dread kicks in. Natalia is acutely aware that the real reason for this meeting is about to be revealed.

Back in the elevator, Karpov hits the button for the second floor. Natalia's ears pop; her stomach sinks. The lower levels, the ones Hale warned her about. It's happening. She's in.

It's colder down here. She feels it instantly.

He leads her to a stark private briefing room. Just a table, two chairs. A thick file waits neatly in the center. Compared to Robert's office, this place feels sterile. Surgical. A different kind of quiet.

Karpov gestures for her to sit, but doesn't follow suit. That alone sets off every internal alarm she has.

Graduation day. Another test.

Without preamble, he hands her the file. No name. No date of birth. Just data.

"Tell me what you see," he says, stepping back.

The insinuation is clear: take your time.

Natalia pulls her glasses from her pocket, her hands steady despite the thrum in her chest. Entirely unsure of what to expect, Natalia begins reading.

Height: 6'2" (188cm)
Weight: 260 lbs
Resting heart rate: 38 BPM

A frown tugs at her brow.

Her mind races. These are not normal stats. These aren't even elite-athlete stats. These are... engineered.

The next page is worse.

White Blood Cell Count: 30,000
Platelet Count: 600,000 μL
Hemoglobin: 20 g/dL
Reaction Time: 4.5 milliseconds

Her jaw tightens. The samples from the research lab, the anomalies... this makes them look quaint.

She flips faster now, unsettled. There are x-rays, dozens of them. Long bone fractures. Ribs. Radius. Tibia. Femur. Labeled by number, not date, but the latest scan shows bones healed too perfectly. No sign of previous trauma. No scar tissue. No calluses.

As if nothing was ever broken at all.

She turns the page. Notes written in messy doctor scrawl:

Subject demonstrates minimal fear response in high-risk scenarios.
Elevated aggression only when triggered. Otherwise compliant.

Karpov stops her before she can go further, placing a hand on the page.

"Tell me what you see," he repeats.

Her eyes flick up. She considers her words. She can't say holy shit. She can't say Hale was right. Can't say what the fuck kind of monster are you building down here?

So instead, she settles on the only word that comes close. "It's... impossible."

Karpov smiles. It's small. And chilling.

He lets her turn the final page.

No name again. Just another scan. A patient declared brain-dead. Unrecoverable. Natalia's medical instincts scream at her. The scan is definitive. No one comes back from this.

Then she sees the stats. Same height. Same body.

Two completely different men—on paper.

"You see, Dr. Haddad, it is not impossible." Karpov steps closer. "It is a breakthrough."

She looks up slowly.

Hale was right. Every rumor. Every whisper. The shadow program buried beneath it all—it's real. It's real and she's being let it on the secret. Hale's been here two years, Natalia a fraction of that. The line between good versus bad luck blurs and contorts.

Karpov continues, basking in the moment. "We took a man. A body. As good as dead. And we fixed it. The Winter Soldier Program is a combination of synthetic cognitive regeneration and enhanced physical augmentation. We built something superior. A soldier not born—but made."

Natalia says nothing. Her pulse beats in her ears.

They built a brain. A mind. From scratch. She is going to be sick. But her face doesn't move, she doesn't let it. The horror settles quietly in her gut as she nods, as if impressed.

"Take your time," Karpov says again.

She doesn't need it. She just needs to survive this moment.

A screen flickers on in front of her.

Karpov clicks a button. "This is the Asset."

The footage plays.

A shadowed corridor. A man steps into frame—shoulder-length hair, mask, metal arm. Every movement is controlled. Lethal.

The first kill is instant. A crushed throat. The second—a clean bullet. The third—a snapped neck.

Natalia doesn't blink. Doesn't turn away despite how badly she wants to.

The target runs. It doesn't matter. The Soldier moves fast. Inhumanly fast. The wall cracks when the man hits it. His body slumps to the floor, blood blooming beneath him.

The Soldier watches. Then finishes it. Clean. Mechanical.

The screen goes dark.

Natalia feels her hands go clammy. Her stomach curls in on itself.

This is real. HYDRA really did this. This is what Hale was warning her about.

Her thoughts come in fragments. Chaos masked as calm.

Across the room, Karpov studies her reaction. She gives him nothing.

The mask. The metal arm. The brutal efficiency. Her brain replays the footage, overlays it with the prosthetics she's studied, the tech she's handled.

They've been training her for this, she realizes. All those hours with Vogl and the prosthetics and those notes she suspected she'd been taking.

Trained to patch up a weapon.

"You were selected for a reason," Karpov says, voice smooth now. "Romero begins his rotation with Dr. Vogl today. He'll be tested like you were. He is the backup. You are not irreplaceable, Dr. Haddad. Not yet."

Natalia swallows the lump in her throat until her voice is level. "Yes, sir."

"The Asset is our most valuable operative. Years of research. Precision. Conditioning. But even our finest weapons require maintenance."

She listens. She nods. She pretends she's honored. She pretends she's excited. Inside, her skin is crawling.

"You'll have access to his records. You'll monitor his vitals. You'll report every deviation. Understand this—he is not a man. He is an instrument. You are responsible for the upkeep."

An instrument.

Not a man.

Natalia breathes through the fear in her chest. "Yes, sir."

Karpov nods once. It's done. The page is turning.

"I believe it's time he meets his new handler."

Chapter Text

Natalia's feet move, guiding her body down the hallway behind Karpov in stiff, mechanical motions. Nerves crackling beneath the surface, mind racing ahead of muscle. She's not walking. She's being delivered. Like a sacrificial lamb. Life or death, in more ways than one.

Failure is not an option. Her reports must be perfect. Not a detail forgotten, no observation spared. She must remember everything Vogl taught her. This isn't just a test. It's everything.

Ironically, failure might not even be the thing that kills her. Death could easily come at the hands of The Soldier. A new assignment, hardly even a patient. A HYDRA-made weapon of flesh and blood. No conscience, no feelings, nothing but brutal, lethal efficiency. Part of her thinks she should ask more questions.

Karpov said they built the brain, but how? The science behind it is beyond her. What is in his head? Wires, more metal? But she can't think about any of it, not when her throat is tightening on itself and survival instinct is fighting to kick in.

That test, that operative attacking her... it proved nothing. If he—The Soldier—were to snap, Natalia knows she wouldn't survive. He could kill her. Patients are a risk, sure. There are dangerous ones. But the Soldier is not something she knows how to handle.

They come to a stop in front of another set of doors. Karpov turns back to her, something like morbid amusement in his eyes.

Natalia breathes.

He opens the door.

The room is dark. It takes a second for her eyes to adjust—until Karpov flicks the light on, and she nearly stumbles backward.

The Winter Soldier is already there.

He stands so perfectly still that, for a second, she thinks he's a statue. Like he's waiting for someone to turn the switch.

Taller than she expected. Broader. His arms are clasped behind his back, his gaze fixed firmly on the floor. It's impossible to tell if he's even breathing.

There is wet blood shining through his shirt from the lower torso. There's a lot, but it refuses to drip, as if even this is controlled. The Soldier seems unconcerned, and so does Karpov; Natalia forces herself not to say anything about it. Yet.

Does a mechanically engineered brain even feel pain? He's part machine, so it could be registered more as a glitch than anything.

Karpov says, "Soldat."

The singular command makes the man lift his head. His eyes are strikingly blue. Natalia's own widen—human.

Then—a sharp crack.

The sound hits her before she fully registers what happened. Karpov's hand flies out, striking the Soldier across the face. The force of it echoes off the walls, like a gunshot. Worse.

The Soldier does nothing. Doesn't flinch, doesn't move, he doesn't even blink.

Natalia does.

For a split second, as she startles—her breath hitching—the Soldier's gaze flicks toward her. Fast. Fleeting.

It's so fast she might have imagined it. But she didn't.

Like a twitch. Like a reflex. Their eyes connect, he registers her coldly, and she wonders how many people saw that same expression right before he took their lives. Her heart lodges in her throat.

She wants to see a flicker of pain, a wince. Anything to prove there's a person left under all that metal.

One second, maybe two. Just like that, it's gone, his eyes trained back to the floor.

She thinks of the reaction time listed in his files. 4.5 milliseconds. He must have known the slap was coming before it even landed, and still, nothing. Her earlier thought—human—collapses in on itself. The invisible hand of dread is tightening around her throat and making it hard to think.

"Sit, Asset," Karpov orders. It's only then that Natalia even remembers the Colonel is there. She's distracted, overwhelmed, and losing her edge.

With inhuman smoothness, the Winter Soldier lowers himself into the medical chair behind him. Still perfect. Still unmoving. Even if she hadn't seen the footage, Natalia would know, he is lethal, deadly. Karpov referred to him as a weapon. HYDRA may be keeping more secrets than any organization in the world, but this is true.

Karpov's hand presses against Natalia's back, guiding her forward.

Forcing her.

"Take a closer look," he says, like it's a spectacle.

Natalia's feet halt inches away from the Winter Soldier's. The metal of the chair arm gleams beneath his hands. His posture is perfect, stillness unsettling. He doesn't even look at her.

She searches his face, his eyes.

Blue. So blue.

Without the mask, she's able to really see him.

He's handsome, it's borderline objective. Sharply, classically so—the kind of face that might have once been striking in photographs, magnetic across a crowded room. She almost sees it, tucked beneath the hollow stillness: the ghost of that person. There's a cleanness to his features that borders on beautiful. Something about the strong lines, the clarity.

She tries to imagine it: a younger version of him, laughing at something, tipping his head back under the sun. A smile that probably turned heads. Maybe it was easy once, charming even.

But now, it's gone.

There's no trace of softness left. No humor in the lines of his mouth, no spark behind the eyes. He's not cold, not really. Just... absent.

A face meant for life that never made it back from whatever they turned him into.

Whoever The Winter Soldier was before HYDRA took his brain out and replaced it with something else is long gone.

There's nothing behind those eyes. Nothing.

Karpov speaks again, his voice like the crack of a whip. "Stand, Soldat."

The Soldier moves at once. Each command is followed quickly, precisely. Talking to him is more like pushing a button than actually communicating. Not human. Not anything.

Natalia shifts back before she can stop herself and is fighting the urge to take another step away.

The heat of him radiates outward—lifelike, tangible, but his stillness is mechanical. Flesh and blood repurposed. Eyes that do not really see.

Again, she is overwhelmed by the size of him; reading it is one thing. Standing inches away from him, she understands why the man in the footage pleaded for his life.

He towers over her. Her head barely reaches the center of his chest. Dark shadow eating the space between them like it could swallow her whole. If she hadn't stepped back, he would've collided with her. His presence is massive, undeniable. For the first time in her life, Natalia feels like prey.

"Give him a command." Karpov's voice is almost pleased. In eight words, he turns her into someone complicit in this. "Try it for yourself."

A command. Natalia doesn't know what to think. The Soldier may not be human, that much she can see. But the treatment of him, the slaps, the commands... it is new territory and not the kind she wants to explore.

A shaky breath, a beat of silence. Her split second of hesitation.

And then—

He looks at her.

The Winter Soldier stands in the dark room. He waits for orders.

The door opens.

Boots on the floor. One set, then another.

Karpov. He knows that presence, the weight of command in his steps. He does not look up. He is not told to.

There is another set of footsteps. Lighter. Not Karpov.

A handler, then. Or a doctor. A new one.

He waits.

"Soldat."

At the command, he lifts his gaze. Then—a slap. Sharp. Sudden. Expected.

He does not react. He has been trained not to.

Someone flinches. His eyes follow the sound. One second. Two. For evaluation.

A girl. Young. Not a soldier.

He has seen her before. In the hallway, the dark. She spoke to him. Dropped her glasses. Thanked him. There had been anonymity in the darkness. But now she knows. Now she is afraid.

She should not be here. His handlers do not flinch.

He looks away.

Karpovs voice. "Sit. Asset."

The Asset sits. The girl is forced before him by Karpov's hand. Too close. He can sense her fear.

The next command is directed at her. "Take a closer look."

Some ask questions. Others touch. She does neither.

Karpov. "Stand, Soldat."

The body moves. He stands. Obeying. Always obeying.

The girl steps back. Good. If she didn't, she'd be on the floor. Too small. His handlers are not small.

Karpov says to the girl. "Give him a command. Try it yourself."

The Winter Soldier waits for an order. It does not come. Quick eyes locate the anomaly. It's not curiosity. It's a scan. The girl. Hesitation.

Karpov does not notice. The Asset does. He notices everything. He is trained to.

She is wrong. Not meant for this. His handlers do not hesitate.

She straightens. "Sit down."

Her voice is different now. Informal in the hall. Not anymore.

The Asset sits. The restraints click in place. As always. Standard procedure.

Karpov stands beside him, speaking. Commanding. Orders to be followed.

"The doctor will assess your condition after each mission. She will monitor your vitals, record data, treat injuries. This will be routine."

The Soldier stares ahead. Listening. A doctor. Not a soldier. He could tell—unwilling, afraid. Of him.

"The arrangement is long-term," Karpov continues. "She will report to me. You will comply."

The girl nods. Hands clasped. Shaking but hidden.

Karpov leaves.

The door clicks shut.

The Soldier is alone with the handler. His eyes flick to her again. Assessing.

She is not a target. He knows what to do with targets.

She is not a threat. But she is dangerous.

She is something else.

He does not like something else.

She gives orders, but they are not like Karpov's. Not like any handler before her. She hesitates. It is different. Different is wrong.

Orders are clear. Orders are absolute. Orders do not hesitate. The Asset was made to obey orders.

This is not that.

She does not belong here.

But HYDRA says she does.

And HYDRA controls him.

Now alone, the girl turns the rest of the lights on.

Behind him she gathers supplies. He sits. He waits. Her hair is tied back now. Glasses on.

The restraints are unnecessary. They told him to sit. He would sit.

The metal tray rattles. He smells antiseptic. Latex gloves snap. All familiar.

She should be looking at his injury. She looks at his face. "Can I lift your shirt?"

Not a command. A question. Unfamiliar.

The Soldier blinks. "Proceed."

Scissors. His shirt is cut. "You're going to need stitches."

The Soldier registers. He does not reply. He does not need to know. He needs to be functional. She needs to make him functional. This is what he was made for.

The metal tray rattles. "I'm just going to clean the area first."

She works. Silence.

Again. Her voice. "This is going to sting."

The Soldier does not reply.

Pain. Familiar. The scent of antiseptic. Familiar.

She leans closer. Another smell invades his senses. Floral. Unfamiliar.

The Soldier tenses. She misunderstands. "Sorry."

Sorry. Unfamiliar.

Behind him, the girl searches through the shelves. Returns empty-handed. "There's no anesthetic. Nothing for the pain."

He does not register right away. She is talking to him. Another question. The pain. She does not understand—she will. Eventually. He is not human. Not really. "Unnecessary."

She frowns. Opens her mouth. Closes it.

Hesitation. Like earlier. He is not like other patients. "So it doesn't hurt?"

The Soldier knows what to say. "Pain is irrelevant."

When she frowns, he looks away.

She sits. Curved needle. Sutures. Familiar. Pain. Faint. Familiar.

Her touch is light. Not cold. He does not move, but something misfires.

She shifts. That smell. Still there. Unfamiliar.

It is not Natalia's first time meeting The Winter Soldier. The second she heard his voice, she knew she'd heard it before. That day in the hallway, the man whom she'd thought was a guard was actually HYDRA's biggest secret. They met, they met, and at the time, she did not know who she was. It was bad enough when Natalia thought she was rambling to the guard, and now... God. This is worse. She'd been rambling to someone who isn't even human.

It makes sense now, how he could move so silently in the pitch black. Enhanced, inhuman, changed. And yet... he'd found her glasses, replied when she spoke. Not much, she supposes, but still.

Natalia finishes stitching the wound on his side, thankful it's done. Oddly, she thinks she is the only one to feel relief from it being over.

The Winter Soldier looks the exact same throughout the whole thing. Fourteen stitches and he didn't flinch once. Even before the stitches he'd been stoic. The wound was freely bleeding, and he'd stood, obeyed, like it wasn't even there. Natalia pulls her gloves off, there is a dark red stain of his blood on the hem of her skirt.

"The cut isn't deep. I used non-absorbable sutures so they'll have to be removed in a few days or—" She recalls his files, the serum that had been injected into his veins in the name of HYDRA experimentation. "Maybe sooner."

Probably sooner. His body is nothing like anything she's seen before.

Like he had to everything else she'd said, the Soldier does not even reply. Natalia will continue to explain regardless. Years of experience have taught her that people appreciate to be told what's going to happen to them. Not that anything about him is normal, it was clear that when she'd asked permission to lift his shirt, it was unexpected. She recalls his reply when she mentioned the lack of anesthetic: unnecessary.

The chill his answer summoned lingers even now.

Does he feel pain? The answer is a clear no. Pain receptors are in the brain, and his has been replaced by something robotic. Even if she did not know this. It does not look like he feels pain.

She takes his vitals and continues announcing each step before she does it. For the next thirty minutes Natalia is the only one who speaks.

Focusing on her work, her notes are meticulous, neat, detailed, and precise. She does not want to give Karpov a reason to replace her.

The silence unsettles her greatly. Even Vogl spoke—his metal arm catches the light—Natalia does not want to think about Vogl. Vogl, who had a large role in... this.

Pressing the button on the back of the chair, Natalia watches as the restraints on his arms and legs retract. He doesn't get up, he doesn't even move. Every so often, she glances in his direction while she cleans the room up. He won't leave, and he doesn't move or talk or hardly blinks, and she's not sure what to do. Maybe it's up to her to dismiss him, a responsibility Natalia neither wants nor knows how to navigate. Does he get bored?

Unsurprisingly, it's Natalia who breaks the silence once again. "Was that you in the hallway?"

The Soldier looks up at her again. It could be a trick of the light, but Natalia swears she sees a flash of confusion in his eyes. "It was."

She nods slowly. "I used to work down there." Hopefully, she didn't completely lose her job on floor six, it's not like she'll need to treat The Soldier every day. At least she thinks—prays. "Thanks again. For the glasses."

He doesn't reply. He is not even looking at her anymore.

Once the room is finished, Natalia hovers at his side. "Um..." She says eloquently, not sure what to call him. The Soldier, The Asset, these are not names. She isn't sure she could bring herself to call him any of them, and even if she did, they'd sound choppy and awkward on her lips. "You're... dismissed?" It felt wrong—clunky. But she had to say something.

It's not like how it was when Karpov issued commands. No push of a button, he does not instantly rise to his feet. It's not hesitation either, but at the very least, Natalia is clearly not good at giving orders and this is not something he is used to. Either way, he stands up and leaves without a single glance back.

Natalia will continue treating him like a person. Bio-engineered brain aside, he's flesh and blood. At one point, he was a person.

Besides, she is a doctor, not a mechanic.

During her time here, Natalia has discovered she is a better liar than she'd thought. There are many things she can fake, but cruelty, coldness, it's not an act she wants to begin.

Before she is dismissed for the day, Natalia is led to once again meet with Karpov. The second she enters the briefing room with him, his eyes flick down to the blood splattered on her skirt. She shifts, "I'll wear the scrubs next time."

All Karpov says is, "No."

No explanation is offered, no reasoning behind it. He does not need to elaborate, she needs to listen. If he could have it his way, Natalia is sure Karpov would surround himself with a hundred variants of the Winter Soldier. People hardwired to obey.

Karpov reviews Natalia's notes. He seems satisfied. And for one more day, she is spared.

That night, Natalia's first instinct is to shut herself alone in her room. The day she had demanded reflection.

A HYDRA-made weapon, a husk of a man. The limits of their power appears endless.

Her thoughts are distracted by the new addition to her desk. Occupying the spot where her daily schedule usually sits is some kind of electronic tablet. After today, after the past few months, impossibly advanced technology does not phase Natalia. Knowing a HYDRA personnel was in her room does not phase her. They have been in here before, and they will enter again.

More importantly, she understands what the tablet means. Her schedule will often change. Curious, she taps the screen. Tomorrow's schedule shines in bright green electronic letters. The words are familiar.

0700: 8th floor - Wake up alarm - room 809
0800: 8th floor - breakfast - Dining Hall
0845: 5th floor - Report for duty - W-338
1400: Break (optional-times may vary)
1430: 5th floor - Report for duty - W-338
2100: 8th floor- Restricted access

Tomorrow, she will not be the Winter Soldier's newest handler. Tomorrow, she will be back in the infirmary, in scrubs, the men she treats will reply when she talks. The waters she navigates will still be treacherous, but they will not be entirely frozen over. In her mind, she sees his eyes. The icy blue.

Hale—she'll be able to tell him. That kind of intel is exactly what S.H.I.E.L.D. needs. This is why they sent her in. When she tells Hale, he'll know what to do. Based on the past times, it'll be a while before he comes to see her again.

Until then, all she has to do is survive.

In the shower, Natalia decides she does not want to think about it. About him. Her brain is pure organic matter, there is only so much it can handle. So she enters the Dining Hall for dinner and finds Trudy. At the beginning of the meal, the fork trembles faintly in Natalia's hands. Without the need for clinical steadiness she is not as composed as she thought. But as she and Trudy discuss the books they've been reading, the shaking ebbs and fades.

Today, Trudy claims she actually went on a date with Frank Sinatra. When Natalia blinks blindly at her, she insists. "Frankie had a thing for redheads, you know. Oh, don't look at me like that! My hair wasn't always white."

Natalia doesn't laugh, but she grins. Because she wants to, because she has to. Otherwise, she will drown, and no one will come to save her. Not even Hale.

But in the back of her mind, the thought of him clings, it lingers. Even when Natalia chases sleep desperately.

Chapter Text

Date: Saturday, June 28, 1941
Location: Brooklyn, New York

Bucky Barnes is happy.

It's a quintessential summer night. Warm breeze, clear night sky. He can already hear the music seeping out of The Starlight Room as he and Steve walk down their old, familiar Brooklyn street. It's the exact way they end every work week, and it never gets old.

Bucky's got his arm thrown around Steve as they make their way towards the dance hall, laughing easily. "Stevie, cmon, you know I'm right." He says as they sidestep a puddle on the sidewalk, "You need a haircut cut pal, you need it bad."

About a month ago, Steve stopped begging Bucky to stop calling him Stevie. Ever since then, Buckys used the nickname as often as he can. He would have stopped if he didn't think Steve didn't secretly like it.

"Right." Steve says sarcastically. "And I suppose I should get your exact cut. What are they calling it these days? The pretty boy special?"

Bucky claps him on the back, careful not to hit too hard. "Now you're cookin' with gas, my friend."

Beside him, Steve rolls his eyes and shoves him back. "You should know, your hair's a complete mess right now."

"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up." He runs his hand through his hair. He'd styled it this morning the but the city heat undid his work by midday. Not that it matters, he's caught enough stares from girls to know it only makes him look better. Bucky Barnes knows the ladies, and the ladies, they know Bucky.

The two of them walk through the crowd of The Starlight Room where their usual group is already gathered around a corner booth. Buckys muscles are more sore than usual—he's been covering for Steve at the Navy Yard. The manual labor comes easy to Bucky but Steve's struggling, refusing to quit. He ain't weak, just stubborn.

Several drinks later, the tension is long forgotten. More drinks pour, jokes fly across the table. Bucky knows how to make people laugh.

He's halfway through a cigarette when a flash of red across the bar catches his eye. Not thinking twice Bucky ashes the thing and watches her. Rosalie Callahan.

Gorgeous. Red hair, big green eyes. Soft looking lips and a sharp tongue.

God, Bucky's had his eye on her for months now. Ever since he saw her break a guys nose for slipping his hand too far down her skirt, he's been a goner. In a perfect world he'd have asked her out right then and there but he bided his time, saving up money when he could. He intends to take her out to dinner, more than once. In a second he's up on his feet, smoothing down his trousers and adjusting his suspenders as he makes his way across the floor.

She's got her back to him when he reaches her. When he taps her shoulder she turns clumsily, spilling half her drink on the ground. "Well." Bucky drawls, "Guess the floor was thirsty too."

Rosie Callahan narrows those pretty green eyes up at him. "Do not flirt with me." It'd been a year since Rosie moved here from Texas with her family and she still talks with a southern twang that makes Bucky weak in the knees.

His grin is crooked and focused entirely on her, "Why not?" Even as he signals for the bartender to get her a fresh drink, his eyes are on her.

Amazingly, her eyes narrow further. "Do y'know who my daddy is?" Jesus. His knees don't stand a chance.

Everyone boy in a ten block radius knows who Rosie's father is. Detective James Callahan, NYPD. Hard nosed, no-nonsense Irish. He is likely the only reason Rosie is still single and silently, Bucky thanks him for that.

"I know who he is." Bucky ducks his head lower to reach her, "But doll, a lion with a machete couldn't stop me from askin' you out."

And then, she laughs. "A lion with a—oh now that's just ridiculous."

There's a stupid grin on his face. "Dance with me."

Rosie laughs again, she sips her drink. "No!"

Hard to get is a game Bucky rarely gets to play, he likes it. He likes her. "Why not? You a bad dancer or something?"

"Don't you dare..." Rosie waves a warning finger in his direction.

Leaning against the bar, he raises his brows at her, "Prove me wrong." He says. "Dance with me. One dance. If I step on your toes I'll buy ya dinner."

Bucky Barnes knows how to move. Knows how to guide a partner across the floor so easy, she'll think she's floating. But he'll do whatever it takes to get her to say yes.

Rosie purses her lips, waits. Makes him sweat, and really, he doesn't mind the heat. Finally, she sets her drink down and holds out her hand.

Two and a half songs later, Rosie agrees to dinner.

The next night, Rosie holds his arm as they walk to Carmines Diner. Bucky can tell she's already pleased because he grinned and shook her father's hand with an ease no other boy managed to accomplish.

In her light green dress she looks pretty as ever and Bucky's told her ten times already on the walk alone. He likes the way her cheeks turn pink when he does it.

Like a perfect gentleman, he holds the door open as they walk into Bucky's favorite restaurant. The owner, Mr. Moretti calls out happily when he see's him, "Figlio mio, my son! I have the private table you requested."

Over dinner, there's not a moment Rosie isn't laughing. He's obsessed with the sound.

As Bucky tries and fails to catch a cube of cheese in his mouth three times she's got her hand over hers, trying not to laugh. On the fourth try, he finally succeeds and makes a big show of his victory. Rosie snorts, rolls her eyes. "You're impossible."

And there's the real victory. "I know. But you're still sittin' here, ain'tcha?"

Dinner goes on and Bucky says all the right things, asks all the right questions. There is much to know about Rosie Callahan and damnit does he want to know it all.

On a number of occasions, Bucky's been told he's dangerously charming. It doesn't hurt to hear. But Rosie calls him an idiot and he likes that even better.

After dinner, Bucky walks her home and she's pressed even closer to him than she was on the way there. She smells like vanilla, he's close enough to see her freckles. When Bucky opens his mouth, he knows she's going to melt, "I can't lie to you Rosie. I have a very serious confession to make."

"Mhm and what might that be?" Rosie's tone is lazy, flirty. A contrast to her usual barbs and rejections.

Before she talks again, he makes sure his eyes are on his. Things like this are why people call him charming. "I stepped on your toe on purpose. I couldn't help myself."

"Did you now?" Rosie's eyes flick from his own to his lips. "You think I'm a stupid or something. I've seen you dance, Slick."

"Oh really." Bucky nods slowly, shaking his head playfully at the nickname. He keeps his eyes on hers. He see's her cheeks go pink. "So you've been watching me too? Not more than I've been watching you, I can promise you that."

"Oh please. You ain't been watchin' me any more than you been watchin' all the other girls." Her laugh is slightly nervous, almost shy.

"No." Bucky laughs too. "Only you. I like it when you tie your hair back, little red bow. I remember." She'd worn it like that three weeks ago and he'd nearly walked straight into the wall when he saw her.

Her cheeks go pink again, smile widening even as she challenges him. "What else d'you remember?"

They're getting too close to her house so Bucky changes the path of their walk slightly, walking backwards so Rosie has to follow him around a corner. He's not ready for the night to be over. "Black dress." He says with a grin, "Green buttons. Same color as your eyes."

When he realizes he's got her hooked, he leans against the wall. They both know it's not in the direction of her house and neither of them point it out. "Fine." She says, coming to a stop in front of him.

Bucky tilts his chin. "What's fine mean?"

"Fine means fine." Rosie mimics the movement.

She stares down at his lips, he stares at hers. In a rare display of nerves, Bucky talks before he can really think about it, his eyes trained on her lips. He's never been nervous around a girl before and for some reason what comes out is, "Gimmie some sugar."

"Ah!" Her hand swats his chest lightly. "James Buchanan Barnes you did not just say that!"

Despite it all, Bucky can't even be embarrassed. He's too caught up in the way she said it: nawt. It's official. He's a sucker.

And then, before he can even defend himself, she's kissing him. James Buchanan Barnes is as good a kisser as he is a dancer. Rosie melts into him as he holds her waist, nudges her closer gently. He can't get enough.

They kiss for a while, Bucky could have stayed there for hours but Rosie pulls back first, smirking. In all his life, that's never happened to him before. He takes a half-step forward—instinct, like maybe he can pull her back—but she's already gone, already hurrying ahead."Cmon Barnes, get me home before my daddy shoots you."

Once he's recovered enough from the kiss to actually get her home Bucky waits outside until Rosie pulls back the curtain on her upstairs window and blows him a kiss goodnight.

About a week later, they're back in The Starlight Room. Bucky leans against the bar, a lazy grin on his face. This day is better than the others. He's got Rosie tucked against his side. It's what he's been waiting for for months.

She's teasing him about something—his lousy card skills, his tendency to talk with his hands—but he only half-hears it. His attention keeps drifting.

Across the room, Steve is talking to a guy who looks just friendly enough to be trouble.

Bucky knows the pattern before it happens. He sees it in the set of the man's shoulders, the way he leans in a little too close, the smirk creeping up his face as Steve clenches his jaw. He can't hear the conversation, but he doesn't need to.

He sighs, setting his drink down.

Rosie follows his gaze, exhaling through her nose. "I knew I should've bet on how long it'd take him to start a fight."

Bucky presses a kiss to her temple. "Be right back, doll."

He's moving before she can argue, cutting across the bar with that easy, unhurried confidence that makes men underestimate him right until it's too late.

Steve's already squaring up, fists tight at his sides, that sharp, reckless light in his eyes.

"Alright, pal," Bucky drawls, stepping between them, clapping a hand on Steve's shoulder before things get ugly. "This is the part where you walk away."

The guy scoffs, sizing Bucky up. "And who the hell are you?"

Bucky grins, slow and easy. "The guy you really don't wanna piss off."

He doesn't want to fight. But when the guy shoves Steve—when Steve immediately swings, and misses—Bucky moves without thinking.

One punch to the gut. One to the jaw. The guy drops like a sack of bricks.

Bucky flexes his fingers, shaking out his hand. "Ah, hell, Steve," he sighs. "You really gotta learn how to pick your battles."

Steve wipes at his nose, tense. "I can fight my own battles, Buck."

"Yeah," Bucky says, offering his hand. "I know."

Steve doesn't take it, but he lets Bucky steer him toward the door.

Before he can make it out, Rosie grabs his wrist.

"Here." She plucks an ice cube from his abandoned drink, presses it into his knuckles. The cold bites his skin, numbs the sting.

She squeezes his fingers once before letting go.

Bucky grins. "You like me, Callahan."

She rolls her eyes and says, "shut up and go home, Barnes." But then she kisses him. Twice.

He laughs, pulling himself away, slinging an arm around Steve, and guides them both toward the door.

It's a perfect Brooklyn night. The city is alive, warm, full.

Bucky breathes it in.

Date: March 10, 1954
Location: HYDRA Facility, Ural Mountains, USSR

Cold. Concrete. Disinfectant sharp in the air.

The memories—Brooklyn, Rosie, Steve—are gone so quickly it feels like they were never real to begin with. Maybe they weren't. Maybe the past is just another thing they've burned out of him.

Bucky—no. The Asset blinks up at the ceiling, breath rattling in his chest, body sluggish, heavy. Something is wrong with his head.

Something is always wrong with his head.

The room is sterile, dimly lit. Machines hum, wires snake from his skin. He recognizes this. It's happened before. It will happen again.

A shadow looms over him. A voice follows.

"Good morning, Soldat."

Dr. Arnim Zola.

He does not respond.

Zola does not expect him to.

The doctor adjusts his glasses, flipping through the clipboard in his hands. "Vitals are stable. Muscle mass increased. The last procedure was effective, yes?"

There is no correct answer.

Another voice, colder, accented Russian. Karpov. "He will be effective when we tell him to be."

A hand grips his jaw, forcing his head to the side. Fingers dig into his pulse point, measuring. Evaluating. "Tell me, does the Asset still dream?"

Silence.

His heart rate spikes. The machine beeps in protest.

Zola hums. "Ah. So he does."

He barely hears Karpov mutter something in Russian. Then, fingers snap. Boots scrape the floor.

A metal mouthpiece is shoved between his teeth. Straps tighten against his limbs.

The machine next to him comes to life, buttons lighting up. A current hums through the wires. The cold sting of electrodes against his temples.

No.

No.

The Asset does not fear.

But Bucky Barnes?

Bucky Barnes screams.

The machine whirs. Electricity surges. His back arches. His hands curl into fists. The world goes white.

Heat behind his eyes. Fire through his skull. A thousand knives carving his mind apart piece by piece, slicing through the sinew of memory, identity, self.

He forgets.

He forgets the scent of Rosie's vanilla perfume. He forgets the ice cube pressed into his bruised knuckles. He forgets the swing of Steve's fists, the lopsided grin, the unwavering voice.

He forgets the name Steve.

He forgets his own.

Somewhere, through the static, through the burning, Zola leans in, speaking softly, clinical.

"Again."

The world disappears.

March 4, 1955

Cold metal. Sharp voices. The crackle of electricity.

He doesn't know how long he's been here. Time doesn't mean anything in the dark.

Hands grip his shoulders. He flinches.

"Again."

His skull feels split open, raw and exposed, something missing but something new being carved in its place. A voice drones, distant but absolute.

"Longing."

Pain. Searing. Bright.

He gasps through clenched teeth, his body arching against the restraints.

"Longing."

The word repeats, over and over, until it means something—until his body remembers the burn. Longing is pain. Longing is surrender.

They let the word settle. He sags in the chair, blinking against the spots in his vision.

"Rusted."

Pain. Again. This time his hands spasm open, fingers twitching. His body reacts before he understands why.

"Rusted."

The pain keeps coming, keeps drilling the word into him until it sticks, until he knows what it means even if he doesn't understand it. Rusted is tension. Rusted is holding, grasping, preparing.

The next word falls like a hammer.

"Seventeen."

His breath shudders. The shock rips through his spine, but he doesn't move. Not his hands, not his shoulders, not even his eyes. The world goes white-hot, and his body locks up. Seventeen means stillness. Seventeen means waiting.

It goes on like this. Daybreak. Furnace. Nine. Each word another lash across his skin, another lesson drilled into his brain.

By the time they say the last one, he is barely breathing.

"Freight car."

Silence. His pulse slows, his body numb. He feels light, empty. There's no fight left.

He is still. Listening. Ready.

The voice speaks again.

"Ready to comply?"

His throat is raw, his chest tight. His lips move before his mind does.

"Ready to comply."

The pain stops. His body slumps, but he does not fall. He waits.

A hand grips his jaw, tilts his head up.

"You learn quickly, Soldat."

A pause. Then the voice hums in approval.

"Again."

The electricity crackles. The words start over.

And this time, he does not fight at all.

Chapter Text

Natalia moves quickly. 0700 wake-up, 0800 breakfast, 0845 report to W-338.

She has long since stopped getting lost in the labyrinth of the facility. Turn left. Keycard. Right. Scan. Another door. The trauma ward greets her with the sharp tang of antiseptic and blood. There's an odd sense of relief in wearing the black scrubs again. Today, she is not the Winter Soldier's handler, she is just a doctor. No Karpov. No loaded conversations. No frigid blue eyes.

It's a busy day: a shrapnel wound, a dislocated knee, a knife through the thigh. Some men groan, some bite down on leather to keep from making a sound, some joke like they aren't sitting in pools of their own blood.

Natalia listens. She finds herself talking with patients more. Yesterday was suffocating. There is no breath of fresh air in HYDRA, but it's nice to at least treat people who are human. They appreciate her talking them through the treatments, they calm visibly at her reassurances.

The man with the knife wound is one of the talkative ones.

"Easy there, doc," he says as she stitches his thigh. His tone is light, easygoing. When Natalia remembers where they are—it's impossible to forget—she thinks it is too light, too easygoing. "You keep looking that serious, you'll give yourself wrinkles."

She doesn't look up from where she is working. "You should worry about your leg." It's not her first time treating him in this area. She recognizes the pattern by now, she's seen the combat simulator. His leg is clearly a weak spot for him, one he needs to learn to protect.

He hisses when she presses gauze against the wound, but keeps talking.

"You know I saw you the other day, Colonel Karpov was showing you around."

"Yes, he was." Natalia says carefully. The last thing she wants to think about is Karpov and the things she saw yesterday.

"You distracted me," he adds. "Took a punch to the ribs."

For a second, she thinks he's blaming her. Then she catches his expression. Oh... He's flirting.

It's not that she's surprised—she's spent years in hospitals, men flirt with their nurses and doctors all the time. It's just that—

Here? In HYDRA?

Of all places, of all circumstances, he chose here?

She doesn't acknowledge it. Just ties off the last stitch and says, "Try not to get stabbed again."

The agent grins. "No promises, sweetheart."

Natalia moves on.

At the back of the ward, Dr. Aleksander Romero is hunched over a worktable, reviewing Vogl's research.

She knows exactly what he's looking at. Prosthetics. Arm attachments. Neurological interface integration. It's the same things she would study in her dead time.

He probably thinks it's all theoretical.

It's not.

For a second, she watches him work. Does he have any idea what he's getting into? Does he know he's studying something real? That this research isn't for some distant future but for something—someone—alive, right now?

She considers saying something. Warning him.

She doesn't, she knows she can't.

Later, Natalia doesn't feel so bad about her decision not to warn him. One of the men sighs as the pain medication she injected spreads through his veins. "You're an angel. I'm glad you're back." His gaze shoots in Dr. Romero's direction. "That fucker is even stingier with pain relief than Vogl. Real fucking asshole."

Natalia frowns, her gaze flying in his direction. "Oh. Then I'm glad I'm back too."

The man grins before the meds take over and he's out like a light.

Vogl passes through the ward at some point, scanning a clipboard. She doesn't acknowledge Natalia's presence at all—no questions about the new assignment, no shift in behavior.

Natalia doesn't know why she expected anything else.

By the time she's back in her room, she's exhausted. The normalcy of the trauma ward has given her the false sensation of being a real doctor again. Of being herself.

Then she checks her tablet for her schedule tomorrow.

1200 – 2nd floor— Report to S-100.

Her stomach twists, instantly recognizing the room number, the chill of the second floor. A medical chair with restraints. It hadn't dawned on her that working in the trauma ward brought her a sense of relief until it's taken from her.

Tomorrow, she will be back with him, the Winter Soldier.

Even before HYDRA, Natalia was never good with dead time, with being alone.

In the past, her days off were always spent with either her mother or a friend. Before HYDRA, Natalia was just a girl plagued with a shopping addiction. Her life wasn't just medical schools and non-profits. Whenever she had a spare moment she was out and about, appreciating life in France more than she ever did in primary school. Natalia occupied her free time the way all girls did, with her friends. Window shopping days that almost always ended up inside the boutiques of Le Marais. Nights out at the bars, free drinks when they flirted with bartenders.

After Timothy with the apple tattoo there was Adam with the motorbike. All her friends loved Adam, he was attentive and funny, a little on the shy side until he warmed up. She'd sit in his lap and watch the sunset from his small balcony whenever she had the chance. Adam used to call her 'Nat', and he was constantly surprising her. On rare weekends off he'd drive them up the coast and they'd spend hours soaking up the sun, swimming beside each other in cool blue water.

Natalia was always busy, always moving, always surrounded by people.

The one solace of her HYDRA schedule was that it left no room for thought. There were no moments to dwell, no time to allow herself to drown in her thoughts, at least not completely. Not until now.

By 0800, Natalia already feels like climbing the walls. The eighth floor is mostly empty after breakfast, HYDRA personnel running off to begin their busy schedules. Natalia is pretty sure she is the only one with a one-lined, damning schedule.

Part of her contemplates setting a fire of her own so she can get an opportunity to talk to Hale but she knows that is just mania talking. The apple strudels will come, Hale will come and then she can tell him all about the Winter Soldier. The very real, very well kept secret that has now become her life.

Tending to the Winter Soldier is all she has to do today and that task is hours away. Out of curiosity she'd tried scanning her keycard at the elevator but it blinked red. Access denied. The cage may be large but she is a prisoner after all. And within these walls, there is no such thing as rest. She knows the minimal schedule is not a break, it is a reminder. Natalia serves whatever purpose HYDRA deems she does. And now, that purpose is him.

The clock ticks. 0830. It feels like much more time than that has passed. Too wired and paranoid to sleep anymore, Natalia attempts reading in her and Trudy's usual spot. Surely, hours have passed. She checks the clock. 0853. Great.

If she continues like this, she'll be a mess by the time it's 1200 and that cannot happen. By then she has to be perfect again. Karpov may not have said it out loud but she knows her treatment of the Soldier is a job that she survives one appointment at a time. Downstairs, Dr. Romero is probably again reviewing the same files she'd been studying for months.

It dawns at her that perhaps HYDRA wants her to panic. To them, it won't be a loss. If she messes up, another will replace her. And it's not like she'll just be demoted, she'd be—. No. She will not let them win. She will survive. As always, the image Fury showed her is flashing in her mind. The missile in Lebanon, the HYDRA seal. Her fathers gravestone among countless others. She cannot let them win.

Left with no other choice, Natalia slips into her running clothes for the first time in ages. Months ago, Magda had the good sense to pack some.

Natalia has never even considered using the eighth-floor gym but she needs to move. Needs to burn off the panic before it eats her alive. At the door, she slips her keycard in, unsurprised by the green light of approval as she steps inside and ignores the machines she does not recognize.

The room is empty, silent, a poor rendition of a gym in the real world. Natalia steps on to the treadmill facing the window and cranks the speed.

As she runs she stares out at the expanse of mountains before her and realizes she has been here long enough that some of the ice is starting to melt. In the same instant, a less pleasant thought hits. Natalia has not been outside in months. There hasn't been a single breath of fresh air, the feeling of sun on her skin. Her feet stumble, panic threatens to overwhelm her. That panic is always there, simmering below the surface and jumping out at each new discovery.

Survival, she reminds herself, does not happen if she is weak.

Natalia cranks the speed even higher, until her lungs burn and sweat drips down her back. She runs and pretends she is running somewhere very far from here.

The Winter Soldier stands in the center of the room.

He waits.

Behind the reinforced glass, a technician records data. He does not acknowledge them. He does not need to.

Their voice crackles through the overhead speaker. One command. "Begin."

The lights flicker. The room shifts.

Targets drop from the ceiling. Silhouettes of men. Some stationary, some moving. Threats.

The Winter Soldier moves.

A knife in his hand, weightless. A pistol holstered at his thigh. He does not hesitate. He calculates, moves, executes.

First target—down. Neck snapped, body crumpling.

Second target—down. Blade buried in the chest, pulled back with efficiency.

Third, fourth, fifth—Gunfire, quick, precise. Knees first, then the head.

His body is a machine. His heartbeat steady. Breathing controlled. He does not stop.

He is an asset. He is The Asset.

More targets drop. He moves faster. Eliminate. Advance. Eliminate. Advance.

A knife swings for him. The blade grazes his side. Blood.

No reaction.

It barely registers. Irrelevant. His body continues moving. Adjusting to the next target.

Again. Again. Again.

An hour passes. Then another.

"Stop."

He halts immediately. Knuckles bruised. A faint warmth from the cut at his ribs. Neither relevant.

The speaker clicks again.

"Come forward."

The Soldier steps forward.

The door slides open. The technician enters. No announcement, no explanation. There never is.

"Stand still."

He obeys.

The man steps closer. Lifts a metal tool.

The Soldier does not move.

The blade presses against the base of his left shoulder. Metal on metal.

Then— impact.

A precise, calculated strike. Not deep. Not disabling. Deliberate.

Something shifts beneath the metal arm. Wrong. Different. There is pain. The kind the Asset notices.

It's not like the wound at his ribs.

His jaw tightens. Tension in his frame that wasn't there before. Reflex. Involuntary.

The weight of the arm sits wrong now. Not the first time. The arm is not his. The joint pulls. A phantom of electricity in the shoulder. The arm was not always like this. The body knows.

It means nothing.

The observer watches. Notes something down.

Then. "Report to S-100. Dismissed."

The Soldier turns. Walks.

He does not linger. He does not question.

But as he moves, the shift remains. The weight of the arm, the misalignment at his shoulder—wrong.

The sensation lingers. A fragment.

The body remembers. It remembers the arm. It remembers the pain.

For the second time, Natalia enters room S-100. She flicks on the lights and prepares the medical tray to remove the stitches and awaits his arrival. Again, it's cold and Natalia misses the black scrubs. Karpov's insistence on this is strange but she knows she has to listen. She wore pants today, black trousers. Another neat blouse, light brown, button up, short sleeves. When she'd bought it in France she'd never imagined wearing it here. Same with her jewelry, but she wore it anyways. Gold earrings, the necklace, vintage watch circa 1942.

As she waits for the Winter Soldier her foot bounces. Her black flats look strange in the room, the small bow doesn't fit here.

She almost doesn't notice it when he walks in but something is off. The Winter Soldier is tense. It's not something she thought he was capable of. Last time he wasn't tense. Not as he stood there free bleeding with the injury, not as she stitched him fourteen times without anesthetic.

Maybe she's imagining things.

Without having to be told he sits in the chair and rests his hands on the metal arms as the restraints automatically slide in place. Today he isn't even wearing a shirt and the exposure of it allows Natalia to confirm her suspicions. It's slight, hardly noticeable but it's there, he's wound tight.

"What's wrong?" The words come naturally, she is a doctor. She always asks, always checks.

Unsurprisingly he doesn't answer. He doesn't even look, his gaze trained straight ahead. Snapping on her gloves, she searches for the answer herself, her eyes scanning over every inch of him. If he is not designed to tell her what's wrong, she can find out.

The Winter Soldier is pure muscle. His torso is all hard planes and sharp lines, a body carved into brutal efficiency. Broad shoulders, defined chest, the kind of thing that does not just come from training but from survival, from being reformed into something lethal.

He is lean, but not slight. Obvious strength coiled beneath his skin like something waiting to strike. He's fair, not pale, even under the fluorescent lights she can see a slightly warm undertone. In the sun, she imagines he'd tan splendidly.

Her eyes flick over the stitches, they look fine, no signs of infection or irritation... so why is something different today? There's a shallow cut at his side, it can't be that, he's been less effected by worse. Focusing, she looks him over again. HYDRA says he is a machine so, what is malfunctioning now? Something is wrong, wrong enough to make him react in a way he has not before.

And then she see's it. His shoulder, the one connected to the metal arm. It's slightly off, almost like a regular dislocation but the mechanics are different, she knows this from her research with Vogl.

"Your shoulder." She says, the answer to her earlier question. Instinctively, Natalia's hands reach out to feel the area. But the second she makes contact he jerks in place, the entire chair shifting with force as she stumbles back, tripping over her own feet in fear.

And then The Soldier is looking at her—glaring. Natalia's heart pounds, chest rising and falling at the sudden movement. Her eyes fly down to the restraints but she has a bad feeling that if he really wanted to break through them, he could. A big part of her wants to just up and leave, forget him, forget The Soldier and tell Karpov to find someone else. But that's just fear talking, and there is no room to be afraid.

So instead, Natalia meets his eyes. "I won't do anything that hurts." She says evenly. Robotic brain aside, his unease with this is clear. He does not reply, she does not expect him to. But considering his discomfort, she explains anyways. "Can I take a look?"

Without having to be told, Natalia is sure that somewhere in The Winter Soldier rule book, she isn't supposed to ask him questions. She is supposed to act, he is supposed to obey. Any one of his other handlers would probably force him down, treat the shoulder quickly and efficiently. She won't. It's not just that she can't, it's that she does not want to. Not like that.

Her last question still hangs unanswered in the air. She asks again, firmer this time. "Can I?" Not just because he could easily kill her, but because this is the closest he has ever looked to pained.

Eventually, he meets her eyes. Nods, just once.

As she steps closer to see exactly what's wrong she notices that his jaw is tight, clamped hard enough that the muscle tics. Why this? Why now?

Before HYDRA, Natalia had seen the effects of PTSD surrounding amputations and prosthetics. Karpov told her 'The Asset' does not have memories but maybe that pain is the kind of thing that lingers. Maybe the body remembers what the mind cannot.

She doesn't rush but she tries to establish the problem quickly. It's all confusing and new. Everything she'd been unknowingly researching about him clamoring for attention. There's a dent in his prosthetic arm, the metal pulled back slightly to reveal the joint connecting it to flesh is misaligned.

"I can fix it." This, she says more to herself than anything. It's an issue she knows how to deal with, simple enough.

Natalia heads over to the shelves in the back room in search of a metal tool that she recognizes from her hours of studying metal prosthetics.

"This might hurt. Just for a second." She warns once before moving to brace one gloved hand on his shoulder. Just before she makes contact, Natalia looks at him, his face, his eyes.

Only when he nods, does she actually touch his shoulder. It's warm, a sharp contrast to that cold, dark metal. Her other hand pries the tool down until it reaches the joint and clamps down. She twists, waits... nothing. She wracks her brain and twists again, harder, hard enough that she shakes with the effort of it. The metal is strong and unforgiving, her feet nearly slip on the floor in the stupid flats she has to wear. Her body leans against the chair, pressing sharply into her. The mechanics of the arm are unforgiving, strong. And then finally... a faint pop.

The change is subtle but automatic. His posture stays perfect, unyielding, but the tension that had been coiled tight in his shoulders, his jaw, finally releases.

She did it. Natalia almost smiles.

Stepping back, she rubs her brow on her shoulder, pushing back a strand of hair that came loose. The Soldiers expression is blank. He does not look relieved, he does not look thankful. It's not like the men in the trauma ward, he is still impossible to read.

With the shoulder repaired, Natalia grabs her stool and sits beside him, begins the task of tending to the shallow cut on his side. Like before, he doesn't flinch, doesn't react. "It won't need stitches," she says, lifting her head to reach for the tray, "I'll just put some gauze—"

The words die on her lips. He's watching her. He's never watched her before. Not just a quick glance, no aversion of the eyes seconds later. The Winter Soldier is looking at her and he's not looking away.

His gaze is steady, assessing. Calculating. She wonders if this is how he looks at his targets before taking them out but knows it is not. Knows it's not because she isn't afraid. He's not looking at her like he wants to hurt her. He looks at her like he is trying to figure her out.

Sharp blue eyes continue to track her movements as she begins to remove the stitches. Even the way he watches her is different from the men she treats in the trauma ward and she does not know what to do with it. She will probably never get used to the fact that he doesn't so much as breathe different when she begins removing his stitches. The healing rate is impossible. She focuses, brows drawn, intent on her work. Above her, he moves too, just slightly, his head moving the smallest fraction, tilting to the side.

He is different now.

Now he is watching, staring, always. He still doesn't talk, not when she asks questions or says what she is going to do. And perhaps some part of her should be unsettled by the weight of his stare but it's better than the vacant gaze when he looks blankly at the wall.

She does not look like HYDRA. The doctor is different. Unfamiliar.

He watches. Not a threat. Not a target. Not really a handler. She is even dressed like a civilian. Like last time.

A skirt that day. Pants today. Thin top. Small shoes. They sound different on the floor than the usual boots.

Long hair. Dark. Loose. Floral scent. It is familiar now but he does not know the name. Dark eyes. Dark skin. He assesses. Middle eastern decent. Slight accent. French?

The doctor is finished with him. The click of a button. The restraints release.

The Asset rises. She does not give orders. He dismisses himself. Then, her voice. "Wait—don't go yet, please."

Please. Not quite a command. The Asset stills. Waits. She steps in front of him. His gaze lower to her face. The glasses are gone. Brown eyes. Searching.

She hesitates—no. She assesses. "Your shoulder... I just need to make sure. Can you roll it out for me please?"

Again, not an order. A question. Either way, The Asset obeys. He lifts the metal arm. Rolls the shoulder. Metal grinds. It pops.

Pain. The ghost of electricity. His teeth clamp down.

"Shit." Her eyes on him. She steps closer. "I need to look at it again—I'm sorry."

The Soldier does not move. His muscles are tight. He cannot stop it. Pain.

Her hand is there, on his skin. No gloves. Warm hands. The metal tool is back. Twist. Twist. Nothing. Her brow creases, she twists again. Nothing. "I can't..."

Too small. Too weak. Not made for this. He almost hurt her, earlier. An instinct to keep the arm away from others. One that should be gone. One he cannot shake. He moved before he could stop it. A glitch in programming. Instinct, not command. She touched the shoulder and his body remembered pain.

They usually strap him down when they work on the arm. He always lashes out. Until now. Her.

She steps back. "I'm going to teach you a movement that I think will allow you to snap it back in place yourself if this happens again."

She talks more than the others. He listens. He watches. His jaw is tight. Pain. The kind he cannot ignore.

"Pull your arm back behind you... like this and then swing it forward in a circle over your head." Before him, she mimics the motion. Her arm turns in a circle at the side of her body. "You can try. It'll work... I think." She steps back.

His hand twitches. Teeth clamp. He looks at her. Pulls the metal arm back. Swings it forward.

It clicks smoothly. Gears shifting. He flexes his hand.

The pain is gone.

The doctor watches. Her head tilted. "Better?"

A faint memory. A man's voice. Round glasses. I'm going to make you better Sergeant... It's different, the way she says it. He can fix the arm now. Without others.

She is small. She is weak. But she knows what she is doing. Her questions are necessary.

The Winter Soldier nods. "Better."

Karpov is pleased as he reviews her notes. They are detailed, precise, perfect. Everything that HYDRA expects, the kind of thing that keeps her alive another day.

He didn't invite her to sit so she stands before his desk in silence as he reads over everything, trying not to squirm because she's keeping a secret and is worried her body language will betray her.

There is one detail missing from her report. A detail regarding the damage on his shoulder. It is a safe lie, one she knows she can get away with. He was uncomfortable about the metal arm and for some reason she does not want to draw HYDRA's attention to that fact. It's a lie she knows she can get away with because no one else would notice. She wouldn't have even noticed if she hadn't been looking so closely.

"My Soldier is impressive, yes?" He looks up at her like he actually expects an answer.

My Soldier, he said. A possession, a thing. Natalia remembers the tension in his body, his clenched jaw. The Asset does feel pain, she saw it, she knows. In her head, she can hear his voice: better.

She didn't have to show him how to fix the arm himself. That wasn't her role. But something about it felt necessary—like giving him the smallest scrap of control in a life that had none.

"Yes sir. His body is unlike anything I've ever worked on before." The words taste like ash in her mouth, her stomach churns with unease. "A truly impressive scientific feat."

"The body is a weapon like no other." He says and Natalia feels her face pale. The body. The. Not his, she said his. Shit. Karpov leaves the chair and her pulse spikes. She likes it better when he isn't so close. He moves on, like he wasn't just correcting her. "Tomorrow you'll watch him train, third floor. The details will be on your schedule."

Natalia swallows and nods, hands clammy. Third floor, more unexplored areas. "Yes, sir."

He stands in front of her, inspects her. His hand reaches out and reaches for a strand of her hair, holding it between to fingers. "Wear something nice again, like the skirt from the other day. Or a dress." He drops her hair and steps back.

"Yes, sir." She says, her throat is tight, eyes burning. Natalia knows everything is a test, Karpov doesn't just want obedience, expects loyalty. "It's nice to get out of the scrubs for once."

His mouth lifts but it's not quite a smile. Sometimes, the thinks, he is even more inhuman than The Soldier. "You can go now, Natalia."

She hates it when he says her name.

The Soldier stands in the chamber. Still as stone, waiting for the inevitable. The whir of machinery hums. The frost will creep in soon. It always does.

Before the cold takes him. Before the darkness swallows him whole. There is something he must know.

A detail. A fragment. Her.

He is efficient. Methodical. He knows how to isolate a variable, how to extract what he needs.

He starts at the beginning.

Scent.

Gunpowder. Smoke. Blood. Oil. Metal. The sharp sting of antiseptic.

Familiar. Expected.

Not that.

Again. He forces his mind to sift through the details. Faster. Sharper.

Floral.

Not chemical. Not sterile. Organic. Warm. Hers.

The Asset runs through past missions, cycling through every place he's been, every target he's taken down.

South America. Jungle heat. Rich earth. No.

Eastern Europe. Rotting wood. Diesel fuel. No.

Somewhere humid. Dense air. He was on a rooftop. A stakeout. Rifle in his hands, waiting.

He was there for hours. The city below moved. His focus singular. A vine on the wall behind him. Cracking through the concrete. A flower. White petals. Delicate. Strong scent.

Jasmine.

The knowledge clicks into place. Smooth. Precise. Like a round sliding into a chamber.

That is what she smells like.

The cold floods in.

The Soldier exhales. His breath a slow curl of vapor. His body locks down, piece by piece. The ice settles into his bones.

Tomorrow, they will wake him. They will say the words. They will tell him what to do, where to go.

But now, in this fleeting second before nothingness, he knows.

Jasmine.

Chapter Text

After a restless night, the alarm clock goes off.

Today, she'll have to watch The Asset train, whatever that means.

Everything Natalia does to ready herself for the day is reluctant. Done with gritted teeth, clenched fists, a tightness in her throat she cannot shake. If Karpov wants her to wear a dress, she will wear a dress. The suggestion is layered, controlling in more ways than one, and implies things she does not want to consider.

The suggestion is the kind that is not really a suggestion, it is a command of the worst kind. With her, HYDRA's method of control may not be violent, but she feels the cold barrel of a gun against her head nonetheless. She feels it every day.

Swallowing back nausea, Natalia digs through her closet for something suitable. If she panics, if she hyperventilates, she will not survive another day. Natalia presses her nails into her palms, grounding herself.

Deep breaths, posture firm, she pulls a dress out. Gray, knee-length, long sleeves, and a high neck. Looking at it now, she's not even sure why she bought it.

In another life, Natalia enjoyed wearing dresses. She liked the freedom of it, loose fabric swaying as she walked, bare legs in the sun. An outfit that was easy to pull on when she was running late to see her friends.

She takes no joy in it now, the thick fabric rough on her skin. Like all her other clothes, it does not fit the same. Tightening a thin belt around her waist, Natalia slips on her shoes. The motions have become mechanic. Hair half fastened away from her face, perfume, jewelry, watch, glasses, keycard.

Once more, she glances at her schedule.

0800 - 3rd floor - T-3i

The Winter Soldier cannot see. There is a blindfold around his eyes. He cannot hear. Reinforced glass.

He knows where he is.

Combat simulator. It will begin soon. He is still. Awaits orders.

The door opens. An unseen voice. "Asset, we will begin with you blindfolded, a test of your abilities without sight."

The Asset nods. "Ready."

He stills. A scent. Floral. Familiar. Jasmine.

Her.

The doctor. She is here. He knows this before she speaks. He does not need confirmation.

Irrelevant.

His focus is singular. It has to be.

The Asset does not fail.

Natalia sits behind the reinforced glass, and she hates everything about this.

The room is sterile. Cold. The fluorescent lights hum too loud, the single bulb casting harsh white light over the empty training floor.

She doesn't know what she was expecting. Some kind of opponent? A group of men with weapons? But no—it's just him. The combat simulator, she knows, vaguely, just how real these simulations are. The patients in the trauma ward are evidence enough. This one is private, likely even worse. Her skin crawls.

The man overseeing the training is named Orlov and he is not happy about Natalia's presence here either. He'd introduced himself shortly. Ex-Russian military but he'd sworn loyalty to HYDRA two years ago. His gaze had lingered on Natalia with clear distaste and although he didn't outright sneer, it was all in his tone. "You are the girl Karpov chose to oversee HYDRA's greatest asset?"

Neutrally, Natalia moves to beat him at his own game. "I don't question the Colonel's orders." At her words, Orlov blinks once, taken aback. "He told me he wants me to observe, take notes. I'm sure I won't get in your way."

Orlov stiffens, Natalia's lips twitch in victory. It's not just that he does not like Natalia's involvement here, her association with Karpov, he actually envies it. The man takes pride in his role in this project. But even he takes orders from Karpov. She knows this, because if he didn't, Natalia would not even be here. He does not want her to be here but orders are orders. This, the training, it is his only authority. She knows, before it even begins, that he will abuse this power.

Turning her mind back to the present, Natalia looks again through the glass.

The Winter Soldier stands perfectly still in the center of the room, blindfolded. His hands rest at his sides, loose, unconcerned. Like a gun that hasn't been fired yet.

Orlov leans forward and presses his finger to a button on the wall. "Asset, we will begin." The excitement in his voice is unmistakable.

The Winter Soldier doesn't hesitate. "Ready."

A mechanical whir clicks through the walls. The lights flicker.

Then—gunfire.

Natalia stiffens.

The shot aims straight for his head.

For a split second, her pulse spikes—too fast, too close—

But like he already knew it was coming, his metal arm snaps up. The bullet deflects with a sharp clang, ricocheting into the training room walls. He blindfolded and he's deflecting bullets. Natalia doesn't know what to think, to feel. Fear, mostly. The kind of training he must have endured to learn that... the trial and error she knows it must have taken.

Natalia exhales, forces herself to breathe—until she hears it.
The ping of metal. The faint echo as the bullet bounces, embeds itself into the wall. Real bullets.

The knowledge lodges in her throat. She should have known. She should not be surprised. The men in the trauma ward leave with bruises. The Soldier is not allowed bruises. His mistakes are payed in blood.

Then, another shot, snapping her out of her thoughts. Another. The Soldier moves like it's nothing, like he isn't blindfolded, like he can still see. His body twists, his stance shifts, calculating each second before the next round fires. He is fast—too fast.

Technically she knew, Karpov had shown her the footage of his mission that day and she thought she'd be prepared. But what she'd seen was flattened, sanitized. The Soldier is more dangerous than she thought. He's making it look easy.

This is more than just training, it's pure, deadly instinct.

The next target drops from the ceiling, human like, swinging toward him. Natalia barely registers the movement before he's already reacting. He pivots, hearing it before she does. His boot connects with the target mid-air, sending it crashing to the floor.

The combat simulator can produce anything, any enemy, any threat. The figures in the glass move faster than humans and yet, he is even faster. None of them stand a chance. He's not fighting, not really. He's eliminating them one by one.

Orlov pushes the button and leans forward again, his voice in the speaker. "Faster."

Just as she'd predicted, he clings to his power over The Soldier. The power he is not granted in the ranks of HYDRA. His orders are cruel, endless. The training stretches on and on.

More shots. More targets. The Soldier doesn't even sweat, he doesn't flinch.

But Natalia wants to.

She doesn't, though. She's trained herself not to. She can't afford to.

Orlov watches her just as much as he watches the Soldier. His head tilts slightly, eyes flickering to hers.

Waiting. Testing.

For months, Natalia has been forced to learn the art of the poker face. Reaction is a luxury she can no longer afford. She doesn't move. Doesn't blink.

Beside her, Orlov looks away like she passed a test. Again, she feels a sliver of relief, of victory but the moment is fleeing.

Orlov pushes the button and speaks again. "Simulation paused. Hold, Asset."

Over Orlov's shoulder, Natalia see's The Soldier go perfectly still, waiting as the room around him fades to dark.

"Eleven kills." Orlov says with morbid pride, "Thirteen direct shots, four deflected, nine dodged. I trust you wrote that down."

She hadn't. Natalia had been too busy trying not to pass out, trying to maintain the image that she hadn't counted the exact numbers, hadn't even thought to. Quickly, she scribbles them down in the notebook in her lap. She swallows. Eleven kills. She knows it's fake, this time. But she remembers the footage. Orlov is watching closely so she says, "The Colonel will be pleased."

"You know," Orlov's gaze does not leave her face as he continues, "The Soldier isn't just adept in combat to kill. Killing is one thing, extractions are another. Delivering a subject from one point to another requires a different kind of precision."

Natalia isn't sure where he's going with this but she nods carefully. "I'm aware that The Soldier is trained in many abilities."

"I suppose your presence offers a... unique opportunity." There it is again, his desperate grab at authority. It's sinister, threatening.

The poker face fails her. Natalia is confused enough that she frowns. "I'm not sure what you mean?" But icy dread crawls up her spine, part of her already knows. She should have seen it coming.

"What better training is there than a real subject?" Orlov says coldly, "It has been a while since The Soldier has been assigned an extraction mission but... it could happen at any time. My job is to make sure he remains proficient in all skills."

A real subject. No. No, no, no, no, no. He wouldn't do that. Would he? "You don't mean—"

"Of course I do." He says simply, daring her to disagree. "You know just as well as the rest of us that The Asset does not fail. Are you worried, Dr. Haddad?"

It is not lost on Natalia that it is his first time referring to her as anything other than 'the girl'. It is not lost on her that he's mocking her title. Panic creeps in, her nails pierce her skin. Breathe in, breathe out. In, out, in, out. Do not panic. Do not panic. She already knew she is expendable. Even to HYDRA it would be a waste to kill her off in a simulation. Dr. Romero, her potential replacement has not been researching long enough, he won't understand the prosthetics yet. In the long term she's expendable, right now, she is still valuable. They've taught her to think like this. How long she might live. What makes her worth sparing

Mercifully, her tone is steady, she meets Orlov's gaze. "I'm just surprised. This is unexpected."

Orlov shrugs, "Expectations are a weakness." When it appears he's given up on waiting for her to react, he steps to the side and gestures to the clear door that leads to the interior of the simulation chamber.

Natalia doesn't bother coming up with a response. Her heart is pounding too hard, too loud in her ears. Willing her hands not to shake she opens the door and steps inside.

Just ahead, The Winter Soldier tilts his head, posture shifting slightly in her direction. It's subtle, but Natalia notices, she's always watching him closely enough to notice everything.

Orlov's voice crackles over the speakers. "Soldat. Remove the blindfold."

His hands immediately reach behind his head, deft fingers untying the knot holding the blindfold in place so it falls to the floor.

Clear blue eyes find her instantly. They do not widen, they do not react. Part of her envies him for this.

The speaker crackles again, "Both of you, go to the back border of the chamber."

The Soldier moves first, walking swiftly to where the simulation chamber begins. Behind him, Natalia follows until they stand side by side at one end of the chamber. From here, she can see the true size of it. Easily 150 yards long, about 30 wide. One way glass, she cannot see Orlov on the other side but she knows he is there.

"Soldat. The mission objective is extraction. Deliver the subject to a specified location by any means necessary. Subject must be alive at time of delivery."

Beside her, The Asset nods.

The subject–her. Natalia has seen what he can do, she understands now why he is restrained in the medical room. A flash, a blink of movement and he could kill her. Supposedly, he is trained to obey, to listen. But if they were entirely confident of that, he wouldn't be restrained. Now, he is not.

Now, she is trapped in a room with him and despite whatever simulation might begin, The Winter Soldier could be the biggest threat to her life. What if he snaps? Nothing Orlov does could stop him–

Natalias thoughts are interrupted by the simulator humming to life.

The image isn't perfect, like a half rendered, blurry film. She may not understand the technology but she knows the obstacles are real enough to do physical damage. As it forms before her, her breath hitches.

A war zone. No. No, no, no, no, no. Panic is useless, Natalia knows this. But the thought does not stop the fear from closing around her throat like a vice. It's old, her history, the kind of fear you never forget.

It's fake and she knows it but real memories are forced to the surface. She see's Lebanon, her home, or at least what's left of it. Ten people are cramped in the living room of one of the last houses standing on her block. Her father is already gone, his last act was getting Natalia her mother out of the debris as bombs fell from the sky. For two days, they waited in that house. They didn't eat, they didn't sleep.

Around her, the simulation sharpens. Not real, not real, not real. The ruins are not Lebanon. That war is over. This one, fake or not, has just begun.

"Stay behind me."

His voice cuts through the static. Deep. Low. Unshaken. A voice not made for words, one that's nearly rusted from disuse—but he's using it now.

She doesn't register it right away. The words shouldn't exist. He doesn't talk. He doesn't talk.

Her mind lags, stuck between past and present, between war and simulation, between Lebanon and now. The command brushes past her, but it doesn't land.

Her breath catches. Did he just—

"What?"

He speaks again, and only then does it click—he's not repeating an order. He's repeating it because she didn't listen the first time. Because he's watching.

"Behind me." The tone doesn't change. Not urgent. Not forceful. Just steady. Certain. "And stay there."

This time, she hears it. The weight of it. That hoarse edge, worn from silence, like his voice had been collecting dust. But he's choosing to speak now.

And she moves—or maybe he moves her.

A firm nudge at her side. She doesn't fight it, doesn't think to. The shift is instant, a single step, and suddenly—he's in front of her.

A wall of muscle. A human shield. The jagged ruins, the fires, the twisted steel—all of it disappears behind broad shoulders, a solid frame, the dark gleam of metal. He's not going to hurt her. At least not on purpose. He's not just extracting her. He's shielding her, and she doesn't know what to do with that

Natalia turns. Technically she knows the glass wall is inches away but her eyes deceive her. It appears as if miles of ruins and rubble stretch out in either direction. Tentatively, she reaches her hand out and touches. Smooth, solid. Not real. It's not real. None of this is real.

The Winter Soldier keeps his back to her, his head turning slightly to carefully scan the area. It even sounds real, distant bombs, gunshots, screaming. But the bomb siren is different than the ones she used to hear. Natalia exhales, it's not real. The terrain materializes around her—and at the far edge, blurred by heat and smoke, she sees it. A military base. The endpoint. Her extraction. She swallows.

He turns his head once in her direction, one hand ready to reach out, dark metal glinting in the false sunlight. The other holds a gun, finger already on the trigger, pointed forward at potential threats. He looks at her and says, "When I move, you move." He doesn't face forward again until she nods.

There's a beat of quiet, the distant sound of war. Slowly, carefully, The Soldier steps forward, his heavy combat boots somehow light on the ground. Natalia follows his footsteps and tries not to focus on the sights around her.

This looks real. It feels real. And it has only just begun.

He leads. She follows. Her footsteps falter.

The terrain is unsteady—simulated debris, loose rubble. The ground shifts. He does not.

Gunfire. Close.

She gasps, too sharp. A sound between panic and pain.

Then—a blast.

Heat behind them. The tremor shakes the ground. The explosion is simulated, but her body reacts as if it isn't.

She stumbles again.

His hand is there before she falls.

Fingers close around her arm. Too tight.

He registers. She is small. He knew this, but now he feels it. Delicate wrist, warm. Breakable bone.

His fingers shift. Loosen. Adjust.

Not a grip. A guide. He does not know how to be gentle, but he tries.

Her hair has come loose. Strands fall over her face. She lifts a shaking hand, pushing at them blindly.

For a second—a fraction of a second—his own hand twitches.

A flicker of an impulse. Fix it. Push the hair away. So she can see.

The instinct is automatic. Fix the obstruction. Restore her line of sight.
But his hands are not made for gentleness. Only for compliance. Violence. For force.

He clenches his fist. Redirect.

She is breathing too fast. Her pupils are wide, unfocused. Not locked onto a target, not scanning the perimeter.

She is not here.

He recognizes this.

It is familiar. A human response. A memory of fear.

"Move," he orders.

She does not. Not efficient. The floral scent. The stutter in her breathing.

He knows her now. Not well. But enough.

He finds her arm again—lighter this time. Not a grip. A pull. She follows.

A target drops from above. Silent. Efficient. A threat.

He pivots—a calculated shift. Places himself between her and the target. Gun raised. One shot. Kill confirmed.

His stance adjusts. Not just forward. Covering.

They keep moving.

A collapsed steel structure. Stable enough for cover. He leads her inside. Gunfire rages. Bombs fall.

She sits. Shoulders drawn in.

She is shaking.

His head tilts. Just slightly. He watches.

Not the simulation. Not the enemy.

Her.

Her fingers—white-knuckled, gripping the fabric of her dress.

Her eyes—wide, staring, seeing something else.

Not here. Not now. Somewhere else.

A memory. Not his. Hers.

He does not recognize the sensation that coils in his chest.

It does not belong there.

"Doctor." She flinches. Her eyes snap to him. Two sharp blinks. Inhale. Exhale. He sees the moment she returns.

Her breath shudders.

"You need to move," he tells her.

Her throat bobs. She swallows. Still shaking.

"I don't fail," he says. "You are the mission. I complete missions."

The words feels off. Too blunt. Not precise enough for what this is.

He does not know how to comfort. It should be unnecessary.

But–

Her eyes meet his. They squeeze shut. She nods.

He turns first. Back into position.

The simulation keeps running.

His jaw locks. His focus steadies.

"Stay behind me."

It's not just protocol now. It's reflex.

"Mission successful." The voice crackles over the speakers.

The image fades.

His hand releases her arm. He steps back.

Beside him, the doctor stiffens. The fear lingers. He can tell.

The door opens. Orlov. He speaks to the doctor.

She doesn't move from behind him. The Soldier does not move either. Still covering. He doesn't know why. The simulation is over.

"The Asset will leave tonight on an assignment. Report to S-100 and get his vitals. That is all."

The Soldier waits until she moves. He walks closely behind. She does not look at Orlov.

Elevator.

Her hand shakes. The key card hits the wall twice before sliding in. Quiet, her heavy breathing.

The doors close.

She turns. Presses her head against the wall.

She shakes.

Second floor.

The doors slide open. He does not walk until she does, following her into the familiar room.

She heads straight for the sink. Washes her hands.

When he moves toward the medical chair, her voice cuts in. "You don't have to sit. I'm just taking your vitals. It'll be fast."

He stills. Remains standing. Watching.

Her knuckles go white against porcelain.

A full minute passes. Then, she turns. The medical tray rattles as she walks. Steps in front of him.

She takes his vitals.

For the first time, she does not speak.

Her gloved hands shake. She's rushing.

She should not have been in there.

The Asset's brow almost lowers. Almost. The simulation is over. Her fear lingers.

His mouth opens. He does not know why. The sentence forms without command. Without purpose.

"It wasn't real."

Her hand stops.

Her breath catches.

She stares at him. Eyes shining.

For the first time, he registers the tears.

The Winter Soldier is not trained in this. He watches. Assesses.

She should not have been in there.

Her fingers curl. Something crumbles in her face. But then—a quiet, shaking breath.

"Say that again."

Not an order. Not a command.

His hand twitches. "It wasn't real."

A sharp inhale. She blinks, staring down at her hands. "Lebanon. The Civil War. I was nine."

She should not have been in there.

Another minute passes. She resumes her work. Steps back when she's finished.

"My name is Natalia."

Natalia.

Lebanon, nine years old. She was afraid. Then and now.

Natalia—

His training takes hold. Electricity. It cuts through irrelevance. The thought is severed.

She was— No.

Irrelevant.

Natalia stands in Karpov's office as he reviews her notes. After... everything, she tied her hair back in a knot at the base of her neck. The bun serves two purposes. One, her hair was a tangled mess and HYDRA expects perfection. Two, perhaps more importantly, she does not want him to touch her hair again.

In her head, Natalia hears his voice, clings to it: It wasn't real.

Karpov barely looks up from her notes as he turns the page. His expression is unreadable, but she knows better than to mistake his silence for indifference. He is studying her as much as the report.

"You were in the simulation today," he finally says.

It's not a question.

Natalia straightens. "Yes, sir."

A beat of silence. Then—Karpov exhales through his nose, amused. "How fortunate, then, that the Soldier does not fail his missions."

A shiver creeps down her spine, but she nods, keeping her voice level. "Yes, sir."

He leans back, watching her now. His gaze lingers too long, like he's searching for something. Amusement? Interest? She doesn't know, and she doesn't want to.

"I know your history." His fingers tap against the desk. Since day one Natalia knew her life, her past, was no longer private. "I'm sure that brought up unpleasant memories."

The words settle heavy in her chest. The way he says them, slow, deliberate—like a cat pawing at a trapped bird just to see how it flutters.

Lying won't work now. She is too shaken, the fear was too real. Only half of her is here, in his office. The other half of her is nine years old and curled up in a bomb shelter. HYDRA does not accept weakness but she is not a soldier. She was not made for this. That is not her purpose here. "It did, sir. I trust The Soldiers abilities but... that is not an experience I'd like to relive."

Karpov hums. He sets her notes aside. "Understood. I hope your work will be unaffected tomorrow."

"Nothing a night of sleep can't fix." Technically, it's not a lie, she's hoping this is true. "Besides, it wasn't real."

Again, she hears his voice. Deep, steady, calm. Factual but... reassuring, in his own way. He was trying, she realizes, to help her. To offer comfort. It is not something a machine could do.

Karpov's teeth shine. The man doesn't know how to smile. Maybe he never did, maybe he forgot how over the years. "My Soldier is lucky, no? To not be plagued by such things. Memories, trauma they are... a burden, inefficient."

Natalia thinks of him, The Soldier. How he ran through it all like it was nothing. For hours he was attacked, simulator or not, the injuries would have been real. For hours he did not flinch. He did not even sweat. Maybe he is lucky. "I never thought about it that way."

Karpov looks pleased, satisfied.

She doesn't let out a breath until she's dismissed. Just before she reaches the door he speaks again, "Natalia." He says.

God, she hates it when he says her name. "Yes, sir?"

"You won't have to go in there again. I don't want anything to tarnish your... focus."

Her hand stills on the door handle. He is watching her closely but he isn't testing her, not this time. He's just starting. It's worse. "Thank you, sir."

After that, Natalia leaves as quickly as she can.

Even after the shower, Natalia cannot eat.

Trudy notices but she doesn't ask for details. Her hand comes to a rest atop Natalia's. "At least drink some water."

Numbly, Natalia swallows down a bottle but it does nothing for her.

He—The Soldier, HYDRA's asset. That is his life, gunshots, bombs, simulated war zones that feel too real. Missions, assignments. She cannot fathom.

It wasn't real.

It was the closest to reassuring he'd ever sounded. A fact, black and white, but like he knew she needed it. It wasn't real.

And yet, she cannot eat. The only reason she isn't shaking is pure exhaustion. Her body is too drained to produce even a tremor but she knows, without even trying, that sleep won't come. Not now, not like this.

If she sleeps, she'll dream. Old nightmares, the kind that wake her up screaming and sweating. Trudy's hand squeezes her. "Let's go to the couch, read, take your mind off it." She doesn't have to ask what it is. They've both seen things, they will both continue to see things.

Natalia must have nodded because Trudy is walking beside her as they find their usual spot near the windows. Her graying hair in Natalia's peripheral while she stares blankly at her book. The ghost of simulated bombs echo in her head. The longer she sits, the louder they become. She hears the warning sirens, not the one from the simulation, the real ones, from years ago.

She doesn't see her book. She see's rubble, she see's bodies. Her mother screaming. She remembers the hunger, the fear.

"I need to go—" Natalia attempts to rise to her feet but her knees buckle and she's back on the couch.

Trudy is holding her hand again, "Honey—just sit down for a second. Breathe..."

"No. I can't—I need to be in my room." She stands again, stumbles, but Trudy is there.

"Okay, okay." Her voice is soft, concerned but firm. "I'll get you to your room."

Trudy ushers her quickly down the hall, her hand on her back. She slides Natalia's key card in for her and doesn't leave her side as the door clicks shut, the two of them making their way to the bed. Natalia collapses onto it, blindly crawling toward the pillows. She hears the screaming still, her mother's. She hears the bombs. She can almost feel them.

Even now, she does not shake. The fear and exhaustion paralyses her. Somehow, Natalia is under the covers. The lights are off.

She is vaguely aware of the mattress tilting, Trudy climbing in beside her despite the bed barely fitting them both. Despite the risk. She is old but strong, strong enough to pull Natalia's head against her chest.

The sob cracks out of her, it would be violent if her body weren't so limp. She cries freely, loudly, her tears soaking Trudy's top.

"Shhh..." Trudy pulls her closer. Natalia feels a tightness in her chest. "Whatever happened, it's over."

But it's not, it's never over. She cannot stop crying. For the first time, in a long time, she does not have to. Here, with Trudy, there is no test to fail, no brave face to maintain.

Trudy stokes her hair, tells her over and over again that it's okay. It's warm, not fully safe, but Trudy's presence is comforting and Natalia had almost forgotten what that felt like.

Even when Natalia's tears run out, Trudy's hands don't stop. She hums Billie Holiday until Natalia falls asleep.

Chapter Text

In the trauma ward, Natalia lets herself forget.

Back in the scrubs she treats patients, talks to them, forces yesterday in the back of her mind. She doesn't let her self think about any of it. Trudy was still there in the morning, asleep with her arms wrapped around Natalia. If there are rules on allowing other people into your room she'll find out soon enough but she needed someone to be there last night. She'll face the consequences. Trudy lingered for a while, she didn't ask but she watched Natalia carefully like she might shatter at any moment. Before she left for the day, she braided Natalia's hair, squeezed her hand reassuringly.

The tight braid hangs down the center of her back as she treats patient after patient. It reminds Natalia of home.

Hours of the usual routine pass and Vogl remains stationed in the back of the ward, reading files, doing her research. For the most part, Natalia handles all the patients that come in. It's a peace-offering of sorts, Natalia thinks. Like Vogl knows that this is the only time Natalia has any semblance of normalcy. It is not done out of kindness, to HYDRA, it is necessary. And Vogl is a HYDRA loyalist through and through.

The Winter Soldier needs a proficient handler. She cannot do her job if she's trapped inside her own head and reliving ugly memories.

One of the men grins as she settles into a stool beside his cot. Redhead, freckles, he's older than her but he still looks young. Trauma ward frequent flier. "Angel. We missed you around here."

"Concussion, again?" Natalia asks him, even though she already knows.

"No nothing like that, I come for the crackers and juice the nurses pass out." Natalia just shakes her head but he continues, "What? A guy can't enjoy a little hospitality?" He pauses, "Alright, maybe you're half the reason,"

She doesn't laugh, and she can't smile but she does not want to be cruel. "Funny." She steps back and removes her gloves. "You should invest in a helmet."

He guffaws, looks almost sheepish. Natalia pats his arm once before moving on.

After finishing her rounds, she frowns. Vogl is researching alone. The question is harmless so she dares to ask it. "Where is Dr. Romero?"

Vogl sighs, "Reassigned. He didn't have the stomach for this."

Reassigned. Natalia has been reassigned twice now, maybe it's true, maybe he's dead. Either way, Natalia no longer has a replacement. The excuse about Romero not having the stomach for it is a lie. Natalia knows that because she still remembers how one of the patients told her Romero didn't administer pain medication even when it was necessary and available. Another HYDRA loyal, she doesn't ponder his fate.

Besides, it was him or her. It would always have been him or her. It means two things. One, her position is more secure than it was before. Two, she's even more trapped now.

Accepting the excuse, she just nods at Vogl.

"I think Karpov likes you." Vogl says, matter of fact. "That's good. He is specific when it comes to his... assets."

Assets. The Asset. Vogl is asking without asking. Natalia doesn't want to answer. She wants to answer the part about Karpov liking her even less. Nausea rolls in her stomach at the mere mention of him. She should think of something to say, but she can't. Natalia just nods again.

Trudy sits beside her on the couch. Today, she hums Nat King Cole. The song gets stuck in Natalia's head but she does not mind. It's better than the other things that get stuck in her head.

The next day is more of the same. Natalia asks Trudy to braid her hair at breakfast. She could never reach all the way back herself and after yesterday, appreciates the familiarity.

Vogl holds back and lets Natalia work. The patients warm up to her even more. The nickname the redhead gave her sticks. Angel. It sounds wrong in a place like this.

Stitches. Tourniquets. Gunshot wounds.

Natalia thinks of The Winter Soldier often.

At the end of the day Volg grabs Natalia's hand and inspects it. The pink polish on two of her fingers is chipped. She doesn't say anything but she frowns and Natalia hears the message loud and clear. Fix it. Everything is controlled in HYDRA, even that.

Freedom is an illusion. The way she looks is no longer up to her.

That night she and Trudy embrace the privacy of Natalia's room. Natalia sits on the desk and paints her nails pale blue, she paints Trudy's too. The cafeteria served the strudles today, which means next time they do Hale will be back. Soon, she will not be the only S.H.I.E.L.D Agent who knows the secret of the Winter Soldier. It makes things slightly easier.

With no one else around, Trudy's humming has graduated to quiet singing. Nat King Cole, the same tune as always but it's Natalia's first time actually hearing the words.

Unforgettable
That's what you are
Unforgettable
Though near or far
Like a song of love that clings to me
How the thoughts of you does things to me
Never before has someone been more
Unforgettable
In every way
And forevermore
That's how you'll stay

Natalia is humming it in the trauma ward the next day even when she tries to stop herself. But no one comments, not even Vogl, so she allows herself the small comfort.

There's more familiar faces, they keeping calling her Angel.

One of the men is not so receptive. Natalia recognizes the effects of the poison coursing through his veins and locates the antidote quickly. But before she can inject it his elbow flies out, knocking her head sideways and hitting her hard on the cheekbone. Vogl is there, holding him down so Natalia can administer the antidote without further incident.

Her face pulses in pain all day, she knows it's going to bruise. But she cannot blame the man. He was afraid, she's seen a fraction of the things they have seen. She understands.

After dinner that night, Natalia see's her schedule change.

0300 - 2nd floor - S-100

He's back.

She doesn't need to check the schedule twice. She already knows what 0300 means. The timing is strange. Something is wrong. Or maybe it isn't. Maybe this is just what his life is—one mission, one injury, one repair after the next. She exhales through her nose. Either way, she'll be there. She has to be.

MISSION PARAMETERS:
Location: East Berlin, Germany
Target: Former STASI officer, defector turned informant
Objective: Eliminate the target, recover intel stored at his safehouse, and leave no trace.

The Winter Soldier moves through the narrow alleyways of Berlin's industrial sector. The mission is simple. The mission is routine.

He has been awake longer than usual. No cryo. No cold. This is known. Logged. Irrelevant.

The rooftop vantage point provides a clear view of the apartment window. Inside, the target paces, arguing over the phone. He does not know that his life is measured in seconds.

The Soldier raises the rifle, adjusts for wind, for elevation.

He pulls the trigger.

Elimination confirmed.

The bullet casing hits the rooftop. A quiet sound. A final one.

There is no need to watch the body fall. The Winter Soldier is already moving, dropping down to street level. The target is irrelevant now. The second part of the mission begins.

Intel retrieval.

The safehouse is three blocks away. He doesn't run, but he moves quickly. Methodical. Purposeful. The shadows are his to command. The target's blood hasn't dried yet, and he is already a ghost.

The safehouse door is unlocked. No signs of forced entry.

Wrong.

The Winter Soldier halts. Listens.

There. The faintest shift of weight against wood.

An ambush.

He's already moving when the first shot fires.

Two, maybe three men inside. Weapons drawn. Poor positioning. No time to correct.

He deflects the first bullet with a sharp twist of his metal arm. Sparks fly. The bullet ricochets into the ceiling.

Another shot. Too close.

Pain rips through his right arm. Better than the left. He'd rather the right. He does not like the pain near the metal arm. His training kicks in. Irrelevant.

The Winter Soldier does not make a sound.

His body shifts. Reacts. The gun is still in the enemy's hands when the Soldier closes the distance.

A third shot.

This one hits his side.

His hand moves on instinct, clamping over the wound. Warm. Wet. It seeps into the fabric of his gear.

The man dies for it.

The room is silent again.

The Winter Soldier moves. The mission is not complete.

He finds the documents, photographs, proof of the target's betrayal. A black dossier labeled in bold Cyrillic. Classified.

Everything he came for.

Blood drips onto the floor as he turns. Irrelevant.

He exits through the back. The streets are empty. Extraction is waiting.

The pain worsens when he moves. Just enough to slow him down, enough that his body catalogs the damage. Enough that his hand presses against the wound when he reaches the rendezvous point, blood seeping between his fingers.

A black SUV is waiting. Not the usual unmarked sedan. A direct route to the airfield. The mission required urgency—so will his departure. He is late. For this, he will be punished.

As the vehicle moves through the dark roads, he registers the weight of his injuries.

Standard procedure. Report. Decontaminate. Medical evaluation.

His jaw tightens. A thought. Fast. Fleeting.

His doctor—No. The doctor.

A scent lingers at the edges of his thoughts.

Jasmine.

His grip flexes against the wound. Blood slick against his glove. Brown eyes.

The thought is discarded. Buried under static.

He does not think.

He does not feel.

The SUV pulls onto the airstrip. A dark, unmarked helicopter waits, rotors already spinning. The base is too far for ground transport. The Asset is expected back immediately.

He steps out of the vehicle. Blood drips onto the tarmac. The Soldier does not falter.

The mission is complete.

He boards the helicopter.

Despite it being the middle of the night, Natalia prepares for the day like it's normal.

She combs her hair and ties it half back like usual. Black skirt, brown blouse, a different pair of flats. She's still trying to find a pair that doesn't slip on the floors. In S-100, she is not allowed to wear sneakers. Natalia doesn't know why and she's not allowed to question it but she knows that for some reason, in S-100 she is meant to look like this.

Without a minute to spare she makes it down to S-100 and waits.

Fifteen minutes pass, and a long buried, nervous tick reappears. Her teeth find the end of her nail, until she remembers Vogl's disapproving glance at her ruined manicure. She drops her hand before she can chip her fresh blue polish.

Another fifteen minutes pass and Natalia's involuntary routine repeats three times. But each time, just before she can nervously chew her nail she stops herself. Clenches her hand into a tight fist.

Where is he?

Seven minutes later she hears him at the door. His footsteps, black boots heavy and familiar. There's a faint moment of relief, he's late but he's here.

Her head snaps up in his direction and the relief fades. Instantly, she can tell, something is wrong.

The Winter Soldier is always composed, always precise, but right now, he isn't moving quite right. His steps are steady, but there's a slight drag to them, a stiffness in his frame that betrays the blood loss. His breathing is controlled, measured—but she can tell it's not effortless.

Natalia's stomach twists.

Then, the smell of blood hits her.

It's smeared along his side, stark against pale skin, dark against black tactical gear. More streaks along his arm. A lot of it. Too much.

"You can sit." Her voice comes out softer than she expected. Still, even now, she cannot bring herself to give him commands.

He does. The chair is familiar, routine, but he doesn't settle as smoothly as usual. His movements are a fraction slower. That's when she notices it—his shoulder is stiff, not from pain but because of the way he's holding himself, careful, rigid. His hand is pressed just a little too tightly against his side. Not a gesture of fear, but control

And then she sees why.

The dressing at his side is a mess. Blood has seeped through completely, dark and wet. The fabric is bunched and twisted where someone tried—carelessly—to pack it. A quick glance tells her enough. His arm wound is the same. Someone touched him like he was disposable. Like it didn't matter if they got it right

Her jaw clenches.

"Who patched you up?"

The Soldier doesn't answer. Just watches her.

She exhales through her nose and grabs her tray. "Never mind." She crouches at his side, fingers already reaching. For a second, she thinks he feels warmer than usual, like some of the usual ice beneath his skin has thawed.

As soon as she peels the gauze back, she knows—this is worse than she thought. The wound is deep. And the bullet, it's still in there, lodged deep in his flesh. It's still in there and he was late. He's hurt more than he usually is. He's hurt enough that it's affected his usual Winter Soldier precision.

A slow breath. Calm. She doesn't let her hands shake. On the inside, she's a mess. Her stomach drops. How long has he been walking around like this?

"They left the bullet in."

Nothing.

She lifts her gaze, meets his eyes. They're as unreadable as ever, but there's something else beneath them. A weight. Once more, she thinks of thawing ice but she's not sure why.

He's been awake for days. He's losing blood. He's in pain, even if he won't admit it.

Natalia swallows. "I need to extract it."

Natalia moves quickly, her hands steady as she reaches for what she needs. Surgical scissors. Forceps. Irrigation solution. Gauze.

The bullet has to come out first.

"I need you to stay still," she tells him, voice calm, even as she feels the tension in the room. "I'm sorry, this won't be pleasant."

He doesn't reply. Just watches. Always watching.

She doesn't hesitate. With one hand, she braces against his side, the other reaching for the forceps. Carefully, she angles the metal tips into the wound, feeling for the bullet.

It's lodged deeper than she thought. The trajectory must have been at an angle, the bullet tumbling inside. Not clean. Not simple. His skin shines with sweat making everything look harder, sharper.

The moment the forceps make contact, his muscles twitch.

Not a flinch. Not a reaction. But she sees the way his jaw clenches, the slight tightening of his fingers against the armrest.

"Sorry," she says quietly, gripping the bullet firmly. It doesn't budge.

A second attempt, more pressure this time and her shoes almost slip. God. Fucking. Damnit.

Years of practice have taught Natalia to stay calm, even in situations like this, especially in situations like this. Natalia ref adjusts her stance, tightens her grip and pulls sharply.

Blood wells instantly. The forceps shift, grasping the slick, jagged metal, and finally, finally, there's movement.

She twists the forceps, feeling the jagged edge scrape against bone. Too deep. Too far in. She clenches her teeth, adjusts, pulls harder. The bullet finally gives, sliding free with a sickening pop. The force sends her stumbling back a step, heart pounding

The bullet clinks as she drops it into the metal tray beside her. His breathing is still even. Unshaken. But she sees it—the fraction of tension that leaves his shoulders, the barest sign of relief.

The Winter Soldiers eyes travel up from her hands to her face and stick there. His brow ticks. "What happened?"

The question is unexpected but she can't focus on it. "What?" She glances up, meets his eyes once but his eyes linger lower, on the bruise, she realizes. "Oh—nothing. Hold still."

It's odd, the fact that he asked. But maybe he's so used to cataloging injuries that it's second nature. Not that she can dwell on it. There's no time to waste, Natalia grabs the irrigation syringe, presses it against the open wound. "This is going to sting."

She flushes the cavity with antiseptic solution. The wound bleeds more, but that's good. Cleansing. Okay, okay, the worst part is over.

She watches carefully, ensuring no debris remains. Her heart rate slows and she takes a second to change out her blood soaked gloves and push her glasses back up her nose.

And just like that, The Winter Soldier speaks again. "Your glasses don't fit."

Something that's almost a laugh huffs out of her and she tilts her head on its side in surprise. "Blood loss makes you funny." He doesn't react but she talks again anyways. "I'm just going to close these up now, just a few stitches, okay?"

His eyes roam over her face and she wonders what he's looking for. Then, to her unending shock, he replies. "Okay."

Natalia can't help it, she smiles. "Okay." She repeats.

He doesn't say it again but the silence feels different now. Her hand cramps, she shakes it out once before refocusing.

Without even meaning to, Natalia hums while she works. It's that same song Trudy's always getting stuck in her head. Nat King Cole.

Her gaze is focused on stichting his wounds shut so she doesn't see it, but Natalia hears the sound of the Winter Soldier resting his head back on the chair. Another first, his posture is usually always rigid, upright. She doesn't acknowledge it, afraid any shift will shatter the moment.

Over her humming, she thinks she hears him sigh but she can't be sure.

The Asset sits still.

The doctor's hands move with steady precision, threading the needle through his skin. He does not flinch. He does not react.

Pain is irrelevant.

And then...

A sound.

Low, quiet, barely above a breath.

Not a machine. Not the hum of the lights. Something else.

A melody.

His eyes flick toward her hands, then up to her face. She is focused, dark brows drawn slightly in concentration. A strand of hair has fallen from its place, brushing against her cheek. Her mouth does not move, but the sound remains.

A hum.

The muscles in his shoulders loosen before he realizes it. The tension that sits, ever-present, begins to wane. His body does not recognize rest, does not seek it. And yet.

His head rests back against the chair.

He does not understand why.

The melody lingers.

Familiar.

He catalogs the pattern, the rhythm, the pull of something just out of reach.

And then his eyes lower to her face.

The bruise.

Dark against her skin, high on her cheekbone.

She should not be injured.

His mouth opens before he fully registers the thought.

"Na—"

No. Not that.

"Doctor." His voice is even, precise. "Who did that?"

She stills.

Not entirely—just for a second. A fraction too long.

He notes it. Files it.

Then, a short breath. She lifts her gaze. She does not just look at him—she meets his eyes. Holds them.

No one does that.

No one expects anything from him except answers. But she listens.

Her lips part, hesitation flickering in her expression. She doesn't brush aside his words, doesn't ignore the question entirely. But she does not answer it either.

"It's nothing," she says finally.

She does not look away.

The gloves come off. She organizes the tray. Movements precise, controlled.

He watches. Waits.

Her shoulders straighten. "I'm done... You can go now."

Not an order. Not quite.

But final.

The Asset rises. Steps back. Leaves.

The thought follows him. Unshaken. Unwanted.

She doesn't belong here.

The Winter Soldier approaches the cryogenic chamber. He was ordered to, so he does.

He knows the cold that will come. The blankness. When the doors open again he will hear the ten words. The cold will fade and it will come again.

Five days, no cryo, but he remembers. He remembers the cold. He does not want to go in—No. His training kicks in. Want is irrelevant.

He goes in and out more now. The chamber is different. He knows this. He does not know why. He does not question.

Karpov is angry. The mission was successful but it was not perfect. He was late. There is a tension in The Assets shoulders. He knows, when he wakes, there will be pain. There will be punishment.

"In, Asset." Karpov says firmly. He juts his chin in the direction of the cryo chamber. It is not sleep. It is not rest.

The Soldier does not want—No. Irrelevant. The ghost of electricity. He is trained, he obeys.

A hint of the cold to come. The door shuts. Two things linger. Jasmine. A melody that does not fade.

Cold. Cold. Cold. Cold. Cold.

The world goes dark.

The apple strudel had arrived at dinner.

That was how she knew, why she's been sitting and waiting for the telltale power outage and eventually for Hale to enter. And she had to tell Trudy to sleep in her own room for the night. Trudy looked hurt, confused, even if she hid it. Natalia likes Trudy, cares about her but... trust. It's rare, especially here. Nick Fury has beat the mantra into her mind.

Trust no one.

Even if she wants to tell Trudy about it all, the undercover work, Hale... she can't. It's not just a trust issue, it is dangerous.

Her lamp is on, her glasses rest on the bridge of her nose, and her latest book is spread open in front of her—but she hasn't turned a page in ten minutes, longer.

Her mind is somewhere else. On blood. On metal. On the way his shoulders sagged, just slightly, when she stitched him up.

She thinks about the bullet still lodged inside him when he arrived. How someone, somewhere, had slapped gauze on the wound like it was a leaky pipe and not a living body. Like he wasn't even worth the effort of proper care.

The Winter Soldier had bled all over her tray table. And still, he hadn't complained. Not a word. Not a sound. Not even a flinch. Only the faintest tilt of his head when she hummed. Like—maybe—some part of him recognized it.

Her eyes drift to the door, she won't have to wait much longer. The lamp beside her flickers off.

There it is, the power outage. Twenty minutes later, the door creaks open.

Hale enters like a shadow—quiet, quick, eyes sweeping the room before he speaks. But Natalia's already sitting on the edge of her bed, waiting.

He doesn't even sit before he asks: "You got my signal? Because, you know. I've been checking your file... some days are just blank, like you're not even working. What's with that? Everything good with you, kid?"

"It's um... yes. Yeah. Everything is good." The word falls flat and stale. Half baked, there's more to say, Natalia just isn't sure where to start.

"I might be sent out with a team for a few days so it could be a while before I see you. Keep taking your notes though." Hale paces while he speaks, he almost always does. Natalia is tracking him across the room and trying to gather herself. "Anyway, what's with the off days? Don't tell me HYDRA's giving you PTO."

Natalia stands, walks slowly across the room.

And then she says it. Calm. Final. The words bubbling up after weeks and weeks of waiting for this moment. The long awaited instance she can get the words off her chest. "He's real. The rumor. Your ghost in the lower levels."

Hale stares at her like she just told him the sky cracked open. "What are you talking about?"

"The uh–the Soldier, the Asset. I saw him.. He's real." Very real.

Now Hale looks skeptical. "You sure, kid?"

Natalia huffs out a breath and takes her place back on the edge of the bed. "He's real. I'm his doctor."

Hale sits down hard in the chair. "Holy shit." He runs a hand down his face, trying to process it, eyes darting to the door like the walls might be listening. "Wait—wait. The guy—the one they said doesn't speak? Metal arm?" He leans forward. "That's real?"

"It's called The Winter Soldier Program." As she speaks, Hale's face pales. His ghost story come to life. "Um–serums and..." She struggles to relay all the information Karpov gave. "Synthetic cognitive regeneration."

"Kid, I don't know what the hell that means." Hale shakes his head.

"There was this guy he died—braindead. A HYDRA operative," Natalia runs her hands over her face, shaking slightly. "So they rebuilt it, his brain, half machine, half human. And enhanced the body. The arm and some kinda super soldier serum."

"Jesus Christ." He swears under his breath, then again louder. "What's he like? Does he look human?"

Painfully so, but Natalia doesn't tell Hale that. She doesn't know how. The blue eyes, the warmth that has been long frozen over. The image of him flashes in her mind. Long hair, clean shaven. Flesh and blood and real.

Hale is still rambling. "Is he—what? Wait, did you say super soldier serum?"

Nodding, Natalia meets his eyes. "Yeah, why?"

He scoffs, shrugging it off. "It's a uh, a rumor. World War Two thing. HYDRA, the United States, they were racing to make some serum. It worked, on this other guy." He waves his hands, trying to remember. "Rogers–Steve. You never heard of Captain America?"

Natalia frowns, Steve Rogers, Captain America. Neither names ring a bell although both of them are a lot nicer than all the things they call the Asset. "No I'm Lebanese and also don't know much about the Second World War."

"It could be like that, the serum. Rogers died back in '45. So did the guy who made the original formula and we never heard of HYDRA making any advancements." Hale sighs. "You think it's that?"

"No, I mean, he only looks like twenty-eight... twenty-nine." Young and a ghost and someone whose life was full of potential before he went brain dead and HYDRA turned him into something else. He was probably born in the mid-sixties. It's not like HYDRA has the ability to keep people young for years on end.

"Jesus Christ." Hale swears under his breath. He sits back and swears louder. "What's he like?"

Natalia crosses her arms, exhaling sharply. "He's... silent. Precise. Bleeds like a man. Moves like a weapon."

Hale shakes his head. "But he talks? They said he doesn't speak."

"He didn't. At first." Her voice drops slightly. "Then he did."

Most of the rumors may be true, the silence isn't. The Winter Soldier does talk. Maybe not when he wants to—the concept of want seems foreign to him—but when he decides it's important.

That seems to knock the breath out of Hale. He blinks, trying to absorb it. "Who gave you this assignment? Who let you near him?"

Natalia shrugs, distracted by the memory of his voice. "Karpov."

Hale freezes. "You met Karpov?"

She sits up, "Yeah. We met when he assigned me to The Soldier and then we um... meet every time after I work on him."

"Right. Jesus fucking Christ." He says again. "Cause you're his doctor. And you're meeting with Karpov, often." Hale laughs, humorlessly, laced with concern. "I've been here three years, I've only seen Karpov twice. You're in, kid."

"I thought I was already in." Natalia says, feeling suddenly short of breath. She understands what Hale is saying. In. Trusted, to a certain extent. Enough to be told secrets Hale does not even know, allowed on highly restricted floors and secret elevators.

It doesn't feel like an accomplishment. It feels more like a tightening noose, the walls of the cage shrinking.

"No, now you're really in. I just gotta find a way to access your files. What you're telling me is good but I have to report as much as I can back to S.H.I.E.L.D."

"Is there anything I can do?"

"No." Hale shakes his head, but then he regards her once like he's actually considering it. A few seconds later, he's shaking his head again. "No, don't worry about it. You're doing enough. Focus on surviving."

Natalia wants to be the person who says she can handle it. Who offers to do more but frankly, she knows she cannot take it. Juggling the trauma ward and the one on one time with the Winter Soldier is already going to drown her. Survival. Day by day. That is all she has to offer, so she says, "okay."

Hale nods, not angry. Not asking for more. "I'll see you in a few weeks. Make it four apple strudles instead of two this time."

"Okay." She says again, thinking of Trudy.

For a second, Hale stands like he's going to leave but sits back down. Natalia understands the sentiment, the shock of it all. "I know I'm not a doctor or anything but... computer brain?"

"I know." Natalia says flatly. There are many mysteries in this facility, few of them Natalia can understand. Impossibilities. Medical advancements two decades ahead of the rest of the world.

If they wanted to build a brain, a super soldier, they would.

"No, I mean—" Hale leans forward, meeting her eyes. "What happened to the man he was before. Who was he?"

The words taste like ash in her mouth. They make breathing even harder. "As good as dead. Whoever The Winter Soldier was before, is long gone."

April, 1943, Brooklyn, New York

The glass in Bucky's hand is half-full, but he's not drinking for anything other than the taste. A slight burn, a quiet warmth curling low in his stomach. Enough to make him sink deeper into the leather of his couch, stretching his legs out in front of him, feeling the weight of the day settle over him like a thick, comfortable blanket.

The apartment is small, tucked above a tailor shop, but it's his. A space that smells like cologne and starch. Rosie is long gone, shipped out to another state with her father. Bucky still thinks of her, the memories bittersweet. There's another girl now, Sharon. It's early but it's nice, the faint smell of her perfume lingers in his apartment. She left her gloves here a few nights ago. Bucky knows she did it on purpose.

The open window brings in a cool breeze. The faint sounds of a typical Brooklyn night in the background.

His uniform is still draped across the chair near his mirror, pressed to perfection, the fresh shine of the buttons catching the dim glow of the lamp beside him.

His uniform.

Bucky finishes his drink, sets the glass down, and stands. It's still new enough that when he puts it on, the fabric feels stiff, the fit just a little too pristine. He rolls his shoulders, adjusting to the weight of it.

Then, he turns to the mirror.

The man looking back at him is proud. Determined. Certain of his furture.

He's going. He's going to serve, to fight. The choice to enlist wasn't a hard one. It's his choice, his call to make, and he's making it with both feet forward, no hesitation. He'll serve his country, do his part, win, and then he'll be back.

Bucky exhales through his nose, satisfied. His fingers run down the front of the jacket, brushing over the buttons, before he carefully undoes them, stripping down to his undershirt and trousers. Something easier, something comfortable.

He moves to his record player, fingers flicking through his small but well-loved collection. He slides his favorite record into place. Nat King Cole.

The needle drops with a crackle of static. It's a song he's listened to over and over again. By now, he's got the words memorized, knows the tune before it even plays.

Unforgettable, that's what you are...

Bucky lets out a breath and smiles.

He likes slow songs. He always has. There's something about them, something romantic, something easy and simple and good. Something to sway to, something to close your eyes and feel.

And so, he does.

Bucky walks the length of his apartment, rolling his shoulders, loosening the tension of the day, and lets himself sway—his head tilting back slightly, the ghost of a grin still playing at the corner of his mouth.

He'll be back.

He knows it, deep in his bones. He'll fight, he'll serve, he'll do his part—and then he'll come home. To Steve. To nights like this, the hum of a record player filling his apartment, a drink in his hand, his life stretched out ahead of him.

The music carries on, wrapping around him like something safe.

Like a song of love that clings to me
How the thoughts of you does things to me
Never before has someone been more
Unforgettable

The record spins, Bucky Barnes sways.

Chapter Text

October, 1943 - Azzano, Italy

As the Germans force Bucky Barnes and the rest of the 107th Infantry Regiment into the tight car of a cargo train, he realizes they're, to put it nicely? Fucked.

Even back when he'd enlisted, Bucky had never been naive about what war would be. In the early days, a lot of the other guys were. Everyone was there to fight the good fight, but back then, the ads made it look different: strength, glory, American victory. Reality is different. Exhaustion. Hunger. Loss.

Not that it changes anything. Even knowing what he knows now, Bucky Barnes would still have enlisted that day. No doubt about it. The training had been grueling, his body pushed to limits he never thought possible. It's hard work, but it's good work. He's strong and he's a good shot. Anything he can do to end this war is worth it.

Bucky clings to that thought as he and about ten other guys are forcibly squeezed into the train car that is too small for the group of them. They file in and collapse, backs pressed against the cold walls. Behind him, the thick metal door slams shut, and he hears the train begin to move.

The 107th regiment had been defending an allied stronghold somewhere in Italy. It hadn't been easy. For days, the Germans attacked at full force, but Bucky didn't quit. Bucky Barnes never quits; it's not in his DNA. But they were outnumbered. Outgunned. When his regiment surrendered, it was either that or death. It didn't matter that he was strong. Two days of straight combat with no sleep had turned his body to dead weight. It didn't matter that he was a good shot, his rifle had clicked empty hours ago.

And the wound—Jesus. Shrapnel from a bomb had torn through his thigh. The pain is dull now, but the heat of infection burns deep. Another day like this and the damn cut would kill him before the Nazis had the chance.

The silence in the freight car is heavy, broken only by the screech of the tracks. A few cracks near the top filter in daylight, but there's no clue to where they're being taken. Despite the car being cramped with the bodies of ten all-American soldiers, the air is freezing. Thick. Fear grips every single one of them, and Bucky knows it. He also knows it could be worse. They could be dead. Sure, prisoner of war isn't a position anyone wants to be in, but it's a lot better than six feet under.

After hours of suffocating silence, Bucky can't take it anymore. Someone has to break the tension, and he knows he's the right man for the job. Easing nerves? That's something Bucky's been good at for his whole life.

Wrapping his uniform jacket tighter around himself, Bucky glances at the man sitting across from him. Gabe Jones is gifted with enough facial hair to make a sweater. In this cold, his thick beard probably feels more like a scarf than anything.

"Hey, Jones." Bucky calls out, the first voice in hours. "Mind sharing that beard with the rest of us? Some of us are freezing our asses off here."

For a second, it's silent. Then, beside Bucky, one of the guys snorts. And just like that, the whole train erupts into loud, disbelieving laughter. The joke isn't even that funny. Bucky knows it, the guys know it. Hell, even as Jones wipes amused tears from his eyes, he knows it. He'll take it, at least if they're laughing, they're not pissing their pants in fear.

Dugan shakes his head, but he's grinning. "Jesus fucking Christ, Barnes. You really are something."

"Can it Dum Dum." Bucky shoots back with newfound appreciation for the nickname. "Or else I'm telling everyone here what a good kisser your sister is."

Another fit of laughter takes over, it bounces off the metal walls, especially when Dugan whips off his hat and chucks it across the train car. It smacks Bucky straight in the chest. He's never even met Dugan's sister, but the conversation's easier when they pretend they don't know where they are.

The train rolls on, long enough for Bucky to know that Italy is far behind him.

Austria, HYDRA Base

Right away, it's obvious. Something about this place is different.

By the time the 107th Infantry is hauled off the train, Bucky's barely upright. His leg is a dead weight from infection and blood loss, his body running on the last fumes of adrenaline. But even in a fever haze, he knows—

This isn't a normal POW camp.

The uniforms are wrong. Jet black, pristine, not the grunge-stained fatigues of the usual Nazis. The soldiers move with precision; no nervous shifting, no hesitation. The fancy rifles strapped to their backs glow with streaks of blue light. That's not standard issue. Bucky's a gun guy. He knows.

His gut twists. This isn't normal. And normal POW camps are already bad enough.

There are more train cars, more prisoners, the groups of them being filed into a series of circular cages spanning a dark hangar.

Ahead of him, Dugan unsurprisingly says something that pisses a guard off. The German's baton snaps out, it smacks Dugan's head, and knocks his hat to the floor. Dugan loves that stupid hat.

Without thinking twice, Bucky steps forward to grab it for him when a German soldier shoves him hard. The sudden movement sends a shot of searing pain up his injured leg, but it doesn't stop him. With a burst of adrenaline, Bucky swings back. The punch lands, his knuckles cracking against the guy's face. There's a split second feeling of victory before he realizes it's the last hit he gets. The Germans baton is on him this time, right on the cut on his leg. The impact of it has his vision blurring at the edges, knees buckling. A pair of hands wrenches his arms behind his back.

Somewhere nearby, a voice cuts through the scuffle. "Wait! Let me see."

The figure of the man spins and doubles in front of him. Short, nearly bald, with thick, round glasses and a red bow tie. There's something clinical and assessing about his tone. Bucky doesn't know any scientists, but this guy's looking at him like he's something in a test tube.

"He's strong," The man says, voice accented but precise, "Take him."

Dugan protests, lashing out at the guards. Bucky appreciates the sentiment, even if it does him no good. 

Bucky's legs are done. He's dragged away before he can understand what's happening.

He blacks out.

When Bucky comes to, he's strapped to a metal table. Leather restraints bite his wrists, ankles, even his forehead.

Above him, the short German works. The same one from earlier. Bucky recognizes the motions vaguely, he's taking his vitals, muttering to himself like he's impressed. Bucky's body jerks, still groggy but functional enough to fight. The table groans as it scrapes against the floor.

"Ah." His face appears above Bucky, "You are awake. Good. I prefer my subjects conscious—so much more data to collect."

He tries to move again, straining hard enough that the restraints cut into his skin.

"Fascinating." He studies Bucky through his thick glasses. "Still strong. Even in this state. Elevated heart rate, high fever, infection. And yet, you persist."

"What the hell is this?" Bucky grits out. His voice is gravel but it shakes with anger. Nothing good ever happened to a guy strapped down to a table. "What do you want from me?"

"Sergeant Barnes, I am going to make you better."

Better. The word curdles in his gut, it sounds all wrong. Bucky feels more like a specimen under glass than a patient. Instinctively, he knows that the man isn't talking about his injured leg.

Bucky glares, his muscles push even harder against the restraints until his skin bleeds. "Fuck you—"

"Zola." Another voice interrupts him, coming from behind. "This one didn't make it either. Twelve minutes, eleven seconds post-injection. Subject terminated."

Bucky twists his neck as much as he can. The head strap firm, his vision swimming.

Another man lies strapped to the table beside him, body eerily still. Not just unconscious—

His chest isn't moving. His face is slack, mouth slightly open. Eyes glazed. Empty.

Dead.

The air punches from Bucky's lungs. He jerks against the restraints hard enough to tear skin.

Not an interrogation. Not a POW camp.

A fucking lab.

His ears ring. Just white noise and the beating of his own heart.

He barely hears anything until Zola's voice cuts through the haze, appearing above him again. The sight making his ears snap back to focus. He only catches the tail end of whatever Zola was saying, "...this one will work."

Through the panic, Bucky notices the syringe in Zola's hand. Thick needle, green liquid.

No, Bucky thinks, this isn't happening.

He does not want that in his body. The restraints cut even deeper into his skin, but it's useless. The worst part? Zola isn't even torturing him. Bucky heard the guy earlier, he's a subject, some test. No, no way. Blood trickles down his wrist, he's fighting with all he's got and he's still stuck in place.

Carefully, Zola guides the needle towards Bucky's neck. Fight or flight is screaming at him to get away, but he can't; he can't do anything but spit out the first thing that comes to mind. "Go to hell." Bucky snarls.

Zola closes his eyes once. "Oh, I will, Sergeant Barnes. But not today."

The needle sinks into his neck. Bucky's entire body goes tense. Cold liquid floods his veins. The room is silent, waiting but... nothing.

Then—fire.

A sudden, searing heat explodes in his bloodstream. Pains not the right word—it's annihilation. His veins split open from the inside. His bones shriek. His muscles seize.

Bucky thought the broken arm was bad? The shrapnel in his leg? That's nothing, he'd trade either of those and more in exchange for what he's feeling right now.

A fresh wave of fire hits, and his spine arches involuntarily, a ragged, choking gasp ripped from his throat. His veins burn. His bones feel like they're cracking, reforming.

His pulse explodes. It deafens him. Thunder in his chest.

"Subject's heart rate has increased to 180 bpm. Higher than the others," someone says. Zola? Maybe. "Fascinating."

Bucky doesn't realize he's screaming until his throat gives out. His lungs seize, his throat locks up. He can't breathe.

Another voice, more curious than concerned, "Should we sedate him?"

"No," Zola says, transfixed. "Let him feel it."

He does.

He feels all of it.

Bucky gasps, choking on his own breath, his muscles seizing, twitching, burning. It feels like his nerves are being stripped raw. Like his heart is pumping molten metal instead of blood.

Eventually, it becomes too much. The pain takes over, the blackness rushes in.

Something's wrong.

The pain in his leg is gone. The burn of infection, the sharp stab of torn flesh... just gone. There's no relief in it. It's unnatural.

His heart feels too steady. His chest expands too easily. The exhaustion is still there, but beneath it, something lurks.

More.

He shouldn't be alive. Not after that. Not after the fire in his veins. And yet, his body doesn't shake, doesn't stutter. It's waiting. Like a machine on standby.

A voice, distant but clear:

"Yes. He will be very useful to us."

Bucky's world tilts.

Then: darkness.

Bucky is dreaming.

At least, he thinks he is.

His body is slow, heavy, limbs weighed down by something thicker than exhaustion. His head lolls to the side, vision blurred, breath too shallow. Everything hurts—but not the way it should.

He should be dead.

The bite of the restraints is still there, cold leather against his wrists and ankles. But the blood...where's the blood? There was blood, wasn't there?

There were people.

He doesn't remember when they left. Barely remembers anything.

Pain, maybe. His name, his number. Stamped on his dog-tags.

"Three-two-five-five-seven." It slips from his lips, hoarse and automatic. A tether. Something to hold onto.

He's been saying it for hours. Maybe days. Over and over again.

He doesn't know who made him start, or if it was just instinct, but he knows one thing.

If he keeps saying it, then he's still here.

He still exists.

It's coming back to him. The burn of something unnatural in his veins. A voice—German, clinical, pleased. He will be very useful to us.

Then darkness.

Now this.

There's noise in the distance. Muffled at first, then louder. Gunfire. Explosions. Screams.

Something's wrong.

Bucky blinks hard, trying to focus, but the world doesn't feel right. His chest is tight, head pounding. His body—his body feels different. It's an ache deep in his bones, not quite pain, but not natural either. He's not sure how long he's been here, but he knows enough to recognize when he's been changed. His fingers twitch too fast. His lungs pull in too much air. His skin feels tight over something new.

Another explosion rocks the building, rattling the walls.

The door slams open.

Bucky barely has time to register the figure before hands grab him, strong hands, too strong, ripping through the restraints like it's nothing. "Bucky... oh my God."

That voice. He knows that voice.

It punches through the fog, straight to his chest.

His head jerks up so fast the world goes sideways. Vision spins, but then...

Blue eyes. Blonde hair.

"Is... is that?" A face he's known his entire damn life. A face that should be smaller, thinner, scrappier—

He stares, breath stalling in his throat. His brain is glitching, short-circuiting, refusing to catch up.

"It's me. It's Steve."

His lips part. And Bucky's smiling before he even realizes it.

"Steve." He breathes it more than says it. Once. Twice. Just to make sure he isn't dreaming. "Steve." If he says it enough times, maybe Steve stays.

Steve hauls him up and pats the side of his head, scanning him like he's the hallucination."I thought you were dead."

Bucky blinks hard, still trying to catch up. His body feels wrong, heavy, slow—but then he looks at Steve, really looks at him. And his brain short-circuits.

"...I thought you were smaller."

Steve actually huffs out a laugh, half-disbelieving, shaking his head. "Come on, I gotta get you outta here."

Bucky barely processes being pulled to his feet, barely registers Steve half-dragging him toward the door. His head is swimming, his breath sharp.

Steve Rogers should not be able to carry him like this.

Bucky grunts through the pain. "The hell happened to you?"

Steve's already scanning for an exit. "I joined the army."

Bucky exhales sharply. That's not a goddamn answer.

His eyes flick over Steve again, like if he looks long enough, he'll find the scrawny kid he knew underneath it all. But he can already feel the difference. Last time he saw him, Steve would break under Bucky's weight. Now he's dragging him like it's nothing.

When Bucky finally pulls it together enough to walk on his own, he's limping a foot behind Steve, staring at the back of his head like he's never seen him before.

Still stunned, he asks. "Did it hurt?"

Steve shrugs like it's nothing, "A little."

He doesn't realize what he's asking until the next words slip out, unsteady. "Is it permanent?"

Steve grins, that stupid grin, the one Bucky's seen before every fight, after every fight, right before doing something really fucking stupid. "So far."

This is one of those really stupid things. Even though, just before shipping out, Bucky had warned him.

Don't do anything stupid until I get back.

How can I? You're taking all the stupid with you.

The scrawniest kid in Brooklyn didn't just somehow successfully enlist, he's more than tripled in size. Is it stupid, or is it just pure Steve Rogers behavior?

Bucky shoots him a bewildered look. Steve just keeps grinning. "Long story." A bullet whizzes past them. "I'll tell you when we're not actively getting shot at."

And just like that, they're running.

In the chaos, Bucky doesn't even realize—

His leg doesn't hurt.

March, 1944 - Northern France

"The Nazis are losing ground, but HYDRA isn't. They're not just a science division anymore. They've split off. Their weapons are more advanced, their tech is years ahead of anything the rest of us have."

Bucky glances at the map, rubbing his jaw. "So they're not taking orders from Berlin anymore?"

Steve shakes his head. "No. If anything, Berlin's taking orders from them. Hitler's already losing, but HYDRA is just getting started. Their endgame isn't just this war, it's whatever comes after."

The tent goes quiet for a second.

"So, we cut the head off the snake." Morita says, cracking his knuckles.

"No," Steve says, serious. "We burn the whole thing down."

Steve points to a pinned location on the large map occupying the center of the room. "HYDRA Base, weapons facility. They took over an old medieval fort. The location makes it difficult to breach, and it's too close to a nearby town to bomb without civilian casualties."

Rain pounds down on the canvas tent above them, drowning out the rest of the camp. Bucky and seven other guys are gathered around the large table as they discuss the mission parameters.

The Howling Commandos. A newly formed elite strike team with one specific goal: dismantle HYDRA. One base at a time, one soldier at a time, it doesn't matter.

And leading them? Captain freakin' America. Steve Rogers, Bucky's friend—once the smallest guy in Brooklyn—is now someone else. A legend and a symbol, and more. Steve's an honest-to-goodness leader.

It was the result of an injection. Not like the one Bucky got.

Whatever the Germans pumped into him back in that hellhole burned like fire, twisted through his veins like acid—then amounted to a whole lot of nothing. Or so it seemed.

But Steve? Steve was different. His serum worked. It didn't just make him stronger, it made him more—faster, sharper, able to heal before wounds even settled. The skinny kid from Brooklyn who used to wheeze going up the stairs could now charge headfirst into enemy fire and win.

And Bucky's proud, of course he is. But sometimes, late at night, he wonders: What the hell did they put in me? Because if HYDRA's injection did nothing, why does he feel... off?

Whatever Steve got, it worked. It made him Captain America. The real deal. Poster boy for fighting the good fight. And somehow, he's still Steve—earnest, awkward, stubborn as hell—but he carries himself differently now. Walks taller.

Some days, Bucky sees it: Steve doesn't need protecting anymore. Doesn't need his protection. 

The dynamic has shifted. Not in a bad way. Just... shifted.

Either way, following Steve into battle is the easiest decision Bucky ever makes. And not cause he's a super soldier, but because Bucky knows him, because he's his friend.

Because HYDRA is going down, and Bucky will do anything to make that happen.

Bucky's been a good sharpshooter ever since enlisting. And now that revenge has sharpened his aim, he's even better. Honed his skills. He trains more than he did before, he's good with knives, and the small cuts on his hands from endless hours of practice are proof.

Steve's large finger taps the map again and pushes forward a stack of schematics detailing the layout of the base in France. "Intel says HYDRA is working on something big here. We don't know what, but we're not leaving without it."

This will be the third official mission for the Howling Commandos. They've been discussing strategy for hours. Usually, this is when Bucky's mind starts to wander. But he's focused now, he wants to be.

They'll get in, get out, blow some shit up, and they'll celebrate after. Like always.

"Alright, Cap," Bucky cuts in, "When do we get to the part where we kick their asses?" He's focused, determined as hell—but he's still Bucky Barnes.

Steve looks like he's trying to maintain his composure, which lasts about two seconds before it cracks into an exasperated smile.

Still wearing his beloved hat, Dugan scoffs, unimpressed. "So, same plan as always? Break in, blow some stuff up, hope we don't die?"

Morita shoots Bucky a knowing glance. "Guess that makes you the 'blow stuff up' part."

Bucky feigns offense, "Hey," He says, clutching his chest, "I've got layers."

Steve sighs, but he's grinning, addressing the group like it's second nature, "We head out in an hour. Be ready."

Because Bucky is Bucky, he can't help himself. He salutes dramatically, posture ram-rod straight. "Aye aye, captain."

In the dark of the night, Bucky and Morita crouch low, awaiting Steve's signal.

There's a small drainage tunnel that, if the schematics are accurate, will lead them into a lower layer of the HYDRA base. A few meters up, Steve is scanning the area, his back to the rest of the Howling Commandos as they await his signal.

The night is deceptively calm, quiet.

Bucky knows that the second Steve signals, all hell is going to break loose.

Anticipation has his knee bouncing, fingers tapping a rhythm against his gun. Morita glares, mouths, "Stop it." The warning works—for twenty seconds. Then Bucky's doing it again. He's never been good at waiting, at being still, and he probably never will be.

Finally, Steve lifts his fist.

Go time.

Unsurprisingly, Bucky's first through the tunnel, Morita close behind. They army crawl through tight, wet concrete towards a faint glow a couple hundred meters ahead.

"Jeez, kid." Morita grunts, trying to keep up, "They ain't goin' anywhere."

Bucky shakes his head, not slowing. What Morita said isn't technically true. The Howling Commandos may have been successful in their missions, but it seems like every time a base comes down, more pop up. He's heard the HYDRA mantra. Even in the face of death, they say it. Cut off one head, two shall take its place.

Fuck Greek mythology and fuck HYDRA.

If cutting off heads didn't work, they'd blow up the whole goddamn body. Which, technically, they were going to do. Bucky pauses for a second to wedge an explosive in a crack of the tunnel wall. Just one of many. Once they're out, someone will hit the switch. This place will be ash.

The second they crawl out of the tunnel, the fight is already on.

Two HYDRA guys in those sleek black fatigues are on them in seconds, barely even giving them time to scramble to their feet in the dim hallway. Bucky reaches for his knife when an elbow to the jaw nearly knocks the breath out of him. He doesn't let it stop him, gritting his teeth through the pain and tackling the guy into a chokehold until he's down. Beside him, Morita's finishing the other guy off, knife to the chest, it's sloppy, but it's done.

"This way," Morita jerks his chin down the corridor.

The hallways are a maze of steel and concrete, alarms wailing overhead, boots pounding on floors slick with grime. Bucky moves fast, rifle raised, its weight familiar in his hands. The others fan out, covering angles, but it's close-quarters now—too tight for distance shooting.

His knife is out in seconds, flashing silver under the flickering lights as he drives it into the ribs of the nearest HYDRA agent.

Even after all this time, even though it's HYDRA, Bucky can't get used to the feeling of warm blood on his hands.

Another comes at him from the side. Bucky turns, ducks, slams the butt of his rifle into the man's jaw. He goes down hard. Behind him, there's a burst of fire—Dugan's got his back. Somewhere ahead, Steve's shield ricochets off the walls, and a scream follows. The guy doesn't get back up.

Bucky pushes forward. The deeper they go, the stranger it gets. Rows of equipment hum along the walls; HYDRA's latest experiment, whatever the hell it is. Machines buzz, files burn, scientists scatter. A soldier charges him, and Bucky meets him head-on, dodging a punch before driving his knife into the guy's throat. More blood, Bucky wincing as he pulls his knife free, there's more to come.

The deeper they push into the base, the more the fight shifts. Less gunfire now, more screams. HYDRA's and their own. A set of heavy doors groan as Steve forces them open, and Bucky follows on instinct, rifle raised.

Inside, the air is thick with something acrid, metallic. A lab. And it's not empty.

Figures in torn uniforms huddle in the shadows—prisoners. Soldiers, maybe civilians, all battered, their wrists raw from restraints. Some flinch when the Commandos step inside, but Steve raises a hand, voice steady, commanding but gentle.

"We're getting you out of here."

One of them, a man barely standing, looks between them with suspicion. "Not a trick?"

Bucky scoffs, stepping in to help lift someone who looks half-dead. "Does this face look like it has time for tricks?" He jerks his chin toward the hallway. "Come on. Move."

They don't need to be told twice.

It's chaos, it's exhausting, but they aren't leaving until it's confirmed that all the prisoners are out. His boots are heavy on the floor as he and Morita run through the halls doing one final sweep to make sure.

Then, behind them, a tremor shakes the ground. A deep, vibrating rumble that sends dust raining from the ceiling.

"That better not be what I think it is..." Morita mutters.

Neither of them needs verbal confirmation. They're running towards a side exit as fast as they can before they can get blown up along with the rest of the base. "Jones." Bucky shakes his head as he sprints, "Too damn trigger-happy."

Morita was already ahead of him before they started running, so Bucky's already too far behind. He's the only one who feels the impact of the explosion. The ground shakes violently before he's thrown, flying through the air with no control.

He crashes into the shallow bed of a half-frozen river. Water claws into every seam of his uniform. Cold steals the vowels from his lungs. Cold. Ice seeps in instantly, soaking his thick uniform, choking the air from his chest.

He can't move.

Can't breathe.

His left arm is pinned beneath him—twisted, useless. It won't respond. The cold is seeping deep into his skin now, swallowing him whole.

Somewhere in the distance, Morita is laughing. Loud, obnoxious, relieved.

Oddly, it keeps Bucky from panicking.

"Asshole," Bucky coughs when Morita finally skids to a stop and drags him out of the water, back to solid ground.

He flops onto the frozen earth, gasping. Soaked. Sore. Half-frozen.

Morita just grins. "You fly well, Barnes."

Dugan shakes Bucky's shoulders as they collapse into the barstools furthest from the door. He's dripping wet, he's freezing, but at least it's over.

The small town they'd liberated from HYDRA's hold is in full-blown celebration mode. Tentative relief has already grown into loud happiness as soldiers in tan uniforms fill the space.

Bucky's teeth clatter. "Jesus. Did I mention I hate the cold?"

Dugan shoots him a glare. "I hadn't noticed."

Because, of course, Bucky had mentioned it. Ten times just on the walk here. Probably a thousand since they'd been shipped out and winter kicked into full effect. He hates it, he hates it so damn much that he's too damn cold to find his usual charm. "Well, I fucking hate the cold."

Patting his shoulders again, Dugan sighs, "You'll get used to it."

The soaked jacket is only making it worse. Bucky goes to shrug it off—but his left arm won't move. It hangs limp, stiff, and numb, like he'd been submerged in that river long enough for the cold to claim it.

It feels like metal.

Frowning, he flexes his fingers. Then his wrist. Nothing.

His stomach twists. Carefully, he grips his left arm with his right and gives it a rough shake.

Finally, the feeling returns.

About an hour later, Bucky is relatively dry, he's stopped shivering, and there's enough liquor in his stomach to make him feel warm.

The guys are laughing at the last stupid thing Jones said when Bucky catches himself looking at Steve again. It's muscle memory, an old habit. Born of years of having to rescue Steve from fights he couldn't win.

Everything's different now, the people in this place are practically lining up to talk to him, and Steve is taking it like a natural. The guy is almost unrecognizable. Again, it hits him, that Steve doesn't need him anymore. Just like his arm, Bucky shakes the thought off.

Steve catches his eye from across the bar, he nods, smiles like he's overwhelmed. And just like that, he's Steve again. Some things never change.

To further prove that point, there's a girl in Bucky's line of sight, smiling as she makes her way over. She's cute, blonde, short hair. For a second, Bucky can forget they're in the middle of a war.

The guys around him roll their eyes playfully, used to this kinda thing. Bucky can't help it; girls love him, apparently, on every continent.

Ignoring them, the girl's smiling, eyeing him. "I hear we have you men to thank." Her accent is thick, French, adorable. Everything about her is cute.

"Hey doll." Bucky grins, easy and smooth, "Seeing a face like yours is all the thanks I need."

She bites her cheek and points to a table of giggling girls in the corner. "My friends um... how do you say, they bet me to come ask you for a dance."

For a second, he thinks of Rosie, and it stings. But she's long gone, even before Bucky enlisted, she was out of New York, following her dad to some military outpost in California.

There are three and a half million women in New York, and last he checked, about twenty million in France. He likes girls, but he also likes numbers. And flying cars. Holy cow. Those words actually came out of his mouth when he saw Howard Starks, even if it did fall.

New York is far away now. The French girl is still smiling at him. "Dared." Bucky supplies gently, "They dared you to come ask me, huh?"

She nods, and Bucky's grin widens, "So go on, sweetheart. Ask me."

Dugan groans, Bucky ignores him.

She glances at her friends once before looking back at him and muttering something under her breath. "Dance with me?"

Shooting out of his chair so fast it makes the girl laugh, Bucky offers his arm. "How do you say hell freakin' yes in French?"

The two of them find their way to the center of the crowded, impromptu dance floor, swaying easily. "What's your name?"

"Elise," Her hands are light on his shoulder, it's nice. "And you? Sergeant...?"

"Barnes." He says. "But, call me Bucky."

Her nose scrunches in confusion. "Bucky is not a name."

He laughs, twirling her once. "Well," he says, grin easy and effortless, "it's mine."

April, 1945 - Austria

Frigid winds rip through his jacket as he and Steve hold on for life atop the moving train.

Bucky's other companion? That same, creeping unease that's been with him since the day Steve broke him out of the HYDRA base. It's even worse than the cold, it's a feeling he can't shake. Since that day, Bucky's been plagued with the sense that someone is watching him.

Today, he feels it more than ever, and Bucky knows why. This mission is more important than the others. Armin Zola.

Hours ago, back in the tent they were being briefed in, Bucky almost dropped the rifle he'd been cleaning when he heard the name. No one thought anything of it, but Bucky knew; he knew that name. He didn't even remember it until he heard it out loud, and just like that, the memories of him on that metal table came rushing back.

I'm going to make you better.

Zola was the one who chose him, who stuck that needle into his neck. Bucky doesn't believe in fate, but this feels pretty damn close. The man who turned him into a HYDRA experiment is on the same train that the Howling Commandos are meant to be intercepting.

The train moves fast, it's high speed cutting easily through the railway running through the Alps. In the near distance, a bridge sits over a deep, icy ravine that looks not only freezing, but deadly. Above all, Bucky would really rather be inside the train by the time they reached that bridge.

"Steve," Bucky turns his attention from the bridge and back to his friend. "Cmon, I'm dying here." Any minute now, Steve is supposed to be using his super soldier strength to pry the train car open from above. But he's waiting, listening for something Bucky's ears can't pick up.

Raising one finger, Steve tilts his head with a concentrated frown. He's always been the more patient one between the two of them. Bucky, on the other hand, is even more antsy than usual. He's here, Zola. That bug-eyed bastard is about to get everything he deserves.

Bucky glances at Steve again and realizes that beneath all that focus, his friend looks nervous. "Steve," Bucky says, because he doesn't have to say anything else.

Steve swallows, face solemn. "You think I'm making the right call? I can't—I don't..."

"Yes, you can," Bucky says, and he means it. Without a doubt. "I trust you."

Bucky knows the responsibility of it all has been weighing on Steve for a while now. And while he may envy his newfound super strength, he's not sure he could handle the burden of expectations the way Steve can. Only now, in this moment of solitude, has he seen self-doubt clouding in his friend's eyes. "So many people are counting on me. What if I disappoint them?"

For a second, Bucky's not looking at Captain America. He's looking at a scrawny kid from Brooklyn who can't throw a punch to save his life. A kid who stood up to bullies despite being half their size. The guy who never gave up, the guy who was always there.

Without hesitation, Bucky grabs his shoulder and meets his eyes. "I'm with you, till the end of the line."

The words seem to have a physical effect on Steve. The tension in his posture eases. Still focused, still ready, but he looks more sure of himself now. "Thanks, Buck."

They share a look, a nod, and then Steve is back to focusing on listening into the train car.

Somewhere below them, the rest of the Howling Commandos are taking out HYDRA's ground defenses. For a while, Bucky could hear their gunshots. Now they're too far away to hear anything but the wind, and he almost misses the sound.

Finally, finally, Steve rips the hatch off the roof of the train and jumps through the opening with zero hesitation. By the time Bucky follows him down, Steve's already dropped two HYDRA men without breaking a sweat. When the third one charges, Bucky sticks his knife in the guys chest before he can even draw his weapon. Blood soaks his hands, not enough to make him squirm but enough that he's praying for the day he can wash his hands of the war—the bloodshed—once and for all.

Soon, he tells himself. It'll be over soon.

There's nowhere to go but forward. Steve glances at the door ahead before nodding at Bucky once. They both know that the second they open that door, only two things will be true. There will be chaos. There will be blood.

One breath for courage, two for vengeance, and then Steve's slamming the door open.

It's exactly what they expected. HYDRA guards, a Goddamn lot of them. Fighting with Steve is like fighting with five regular guys, his impossible, brute strength taking out soldier after soldier. The small train cars are too compact for anything but close combat, so it's all fists and knives and chaos. Super Soldier Steve Rogers may be stronger than five regular men, but Bucky's fueled with enough rage that he at least counts for two. Every time he bleeds, he gets angrier, every hit that lands just sharpens his focus.

HYDRA, Zola, they're all dead. Bucky Barnes will not rest until it's done.

They move from train car to train car. It's messy, but it's efficient, the two of them fighting in sync, like they've done countless times before. But the guards keep coming. Bucky's knuckles are bruised, his knife slippery with blood and sweat. Even as his breaths come out ragged and choppy, he's ready for more.

Another HYDRA body crumples to the floor, and they're offered a second of silence. "Wait—wait a minute," Steve says, stopping Bucky before he can push through the next door.

Bucky nods, taking a second to gather his breath. He's angry, but he's not stupid. His human body can only handle so much, and he does not want to make mistakes. Not today, not with so much on the line. Steve wipes his brow, there are so many soldiers on this train that even Captain America breaks a sweat.

Steve frowns at Bucky. "There's a lot of them," He says, tone laced with suspicion, "It almost seems like—"

The door flies open before Steve can finish his thought, a new wave of HYDRA soldiers coming out to protect their precious cargo. Even under attack, he and Steve are still on the offense. They know each other's blind spots, can cover them without a second thought. Steve covers Bucky and Bucky covers Steve until they reach a door that looks different.

This is it.

Steve shoulders through the reinforced metal like it's nothing, and just like that, Bucky is face to face with him. Armin Zola.

Whenever Bucky would picture this moment, Zola always looked afraid, cowering in some dark corner and begging for his life.

Zola doesn't look afraid now. He looks... calm.

The unease that has been sitting in the back of his head for weeks now clamors to the forefront of his mind, making his head pound.

The warning cry is out of Steve's mouth the second the door slams shut behind them. "Trap!"

But it's too late. It was too late the second they snuck their way onto the top of the train. It's a trap. This isn't an interception job, this is HYDRA coming to collect.

Coming for him.

Zola's face is impassive, eyes glued to Bucky with that same clinical stare he wore a month ago. "Sergeant Barnes, Captain Rogers," He says formally, "Meet my favorite enforcer."

Even with the warning, Bucky doesn't even see the guy coming until he's already on Steve, stepping out of the shadows like a wraith and moving faster than any of the guards they took down already. His knife slashes out with deadly aim, clanging loudly as Steve blocks the blows with his shield. Bucky tries to help, but the two of them are starting this fight winded, and it shows. Nothing about the guy, the enforcer, is normal. Even his uniform is advanced, black armor, modified weapons. He hardly even flinches when Steve lands a punch to his throat. On any other day Steve would have been stronger but the ten train cars of HYDRA guards have taken their toll.

When Bucky manages to stick his knife into the enforcers thigh, the guys arm flies out, throwing Bucky into the opposite train wall.

He doesn't see it, but he hears it. The thud of flesh on metal. Hard, too hard. Bucky looks up just in time to see Steve go slack across from him. It's not enough to kill him, but he's too stunned to move, and suddenly Bucky's the only man left standing.

When the enforcer turns, he's already got a gun pointed right at Bucky. It's not a normal gun either, HYDRA tech, modified weaponry like nothing Bucky's ever seen before.

The trigger pulls, a high pitched whine builds and Bucky feels the energy in the room shift, like the shot is sucking it all up. The air warps. Not a bullet, but a force. Blue light flying straight at him with impossible speed.

The world stops.

Bucky sees it all in slow motion.

The enforcer waiting for the blow to find its target. Zola rising to his feet. Steve looking at him like he's already dead. He probably is.

The blast knocks Bucky square in the chest before he can even think about moving. The impact is impossible to describe. A sledgehammer to the chest, worse. It's hot. A concussive blow that launches his body backwards until he smacks the back wall. The window shatters around him, glass cutting his skin. No. No.

As the wind grabs at Bucky's body, he can see Steve lunging towards him, but they both know he's too late because no one's even trying to stop him. Desperately, Bucky reaches out one last time.

Nothing.

Steve's fingers ghost over his just as the winds already sucked him out of the train.

The bridge rushes toward him. It's over. But two thoughts linger. First, he should've told Steve about the injection.

Second, if he dies now, at least HYDRA won't get him.

Bucky's still alive when the world around him warps back into regular speed.

He sees the ravine a split second before he slams into it. Hard, final.

Bucky's left arm hits the ground first.

It's utter destruction. Every bone, every nerve, shattered. Agony. Shattered like a dry twig.

The rest of his body isn't much better. There was nothing to break the fall. He thuds into the earth, feels something in his spine crack. Gravity pummels him into near death, his body tearing through jagged rock and ice until it stops.

Everything. Stops.

He tastes blood and everything hurts. His arm, his arm—

The world goes black.

Pain forces him back into consciousness. He sees nothing but white. Bucky thinks he's already dead until he blinks.

Jagged, unforgiving mountains. Gray sky above him. The train is long gone. Steve is gone, Steve watched him die. He saw the look in his eyes, knows it was mirrored in his own. He may not be dead yet, he should be dead by now, but it's coming.

His heart's too slow, beating weakly in his chest. It's cold, and cold is too weak a word to describe the feeling. Every inch of him is soaked. Hypothermia is a slow death but Bucky doesn't think he'll last that long. Half his body is numb, the rest is screaming in agony.

He recalls another explosion. A half frozen river and Morita laughing. No one's laughing now. No one but God.

Bucky stares at the sky and wishes it was blue.

If this is the last thing he sees, it could have at least been blue.

Bucky doesn't know what wakes him up again but he wishes it would stop.

Death is supposed to be painless, a light at the end of the tunnel. This isn't death, not yet.

Above him, the sky's still gray and snow is falling, pounding down in wind currents. The blizzard buries him alive. Half alive.

By now, he can no longer tell the difference between numbness and pain. He wants—no—he needs it all to stop, to end.

His uniforms frozen over, his skin crystallizing with ice.

Death, Bucky thinks. His brain shuts down.

He's moving. No. Someone is moving him.

They drag his frozen, half-dead body across the ice. His head scraping the ground. Hair collecting rocks and snow.

Dugan was wrong. He hates the cold, he'll never get used to it.

There's a path of blood staining the ravine red, Bucky can feel it pouring out of him. If he could cough, he'd have choked on the blood pooling in his throat. Maybe that'll be the thing that finally kills him.

The ice has frozen his eyelids shut, and it's a long time before Bucky can crack them open. Barely.

Dark silhouettes. Boots crunching around him breaking up the static of a radio. Steve. He saved him, again. Bucky fights to pry his eyes open even more. It's not Steve. It's black and red. It's German, speaking into the radio device. "Wir haben ihn"

Just like that, Bucky knows he can't die. They won't let him. The trap. They've come to collect.

Red skull, six red tentacles. Cut off one head, two more shall take its place.

Bucky Barnes isn't dead. Death would be kinder.

HYDRA has him.

Chapter Text

April, 1945 - HYDRA Facility: Ural Mountains, Russia

Bucky Barnes' first memory as HYDRA's newest project is more telling than he will ever know.

A bone saw. It whirs to life before he can take in his surroundings. He's been in war long enough to know the sound—long enough to know screams that always follow.

He knows he is about to learn what it feels like.

The facts hit him like rapid fire gunshots in the two seconds before saw meets flesh. They're fighting for attention, forming in his mind one by one with sickening clarity.

HYDRA has him. He's in their lab. White lab coats, red skulls. He's on their operating table. He is tied down and he's not sedated. Metal restraints on his ankles, his knees, his chest, his arms, between his teeth and across his forehead. They don't budge an inch as his body pushes against them. He's never seen the effect of a bone saw without sedation, but he will. He is nothing but an experiment—

The agonized sound of Bucky's cry is unrecognizable even to him. Before they began, everything already hurt. HYDRA doesn't bother with anesthesia; Bucky knows this from the last time they had him. He's too weak to brace himself for the pain, and even if he could...

The bone saw sounds different when it meets his flesh. The high shrill changes. It's wet, squelching, slower, until his voice is so loud he can't hear it anymore. The metal gag doesn't muffle the sound. It throws it back at him. Technically, he can move, but the restraints are so tight they don't budge.

Bucky Barnes is wide awake as HYDRA saws through his arm. When he screams, it's not just pain, it's pure, unadulterated fear. He's living a nightmare, and he knows it's just begun.

The process is slow, minutes that feel like hours. His shouting does not stop for one second. The pain does not relent. His mangled flesh muffles the sound of the saw until it changes again. It cannot possibly get worse. And then it does. The pitch spikes, oscillating metal grates and grinds.

Bone, they've reached his bone.

The saw does not stop.

An agonizing vibration shoots straight to his skull. Metal drags across pavement in his head.

His body thrashes, it's out of his control. Everything is out of his control. Even the screaming. Until it stops. His jaw goes slack. His chin is wet, so are his cheeks. Everything is out of his control. The saw keeps moving, there's a new texture, a slight resistance, and the sound changes again. Bone marrow. Bucky can't even tell if he's making noise. It's not just his arm, his entire body feels the bone being severed, his body doesn't know how to handle it. The pain vibrates through his skeleton like a live wire.

There's a sudden drop, and Bucky knows he is screaming again because he can taste his blood in his throat. He thinks he's crying, he can't tell. The saw breaks through the last of the resistance in his bone with a sudden drop. He doesn't just hear the snap. He feels it. With the sudden shift, the saw is no longer just slicing through his skin—it tears.

His entire body shakes, still completely out of his control, and he can feel his eyes rolling into the back of his head. White lab coats move in a blur. Flesh rips and tears. Exposed bone and nerve—screaming, screaming, screaming.

The pounding in his chest stops. Death, Bucky thinks, he begs, he prays. A single, stubborn flutter of his heart tells him he's alive.

"Pressures dropping, he's going into shock."

Everything is out of his control. His lungs constrict and loosen, too fast, over and over. It doesn't feel like he's breathing, but he can feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest. Hyperventilation. Bucky only registers the prick of the needle when it forces his heart back into action.

"Just saline and vecuronium bromine. He needs to feel it."

His broken bellow echoes through the room. A howl, a roar. He'd beg, if he could. For mercy, anything. Death.

Death is a distant dream. Unattainable. White lab coats rush to keep—to force him alive. Cold liquid spreads, and now he really can't move. Bones heavy, useless. Through the pain, his brain struggles to define what is worse. Involuntary thrashing or forced stillness? He doesn't get to decide.

Flesh tears, the muffled sound of the bone saw stops.

A heavy, dull thud. What's left of his arm hits the floor.

Indescribable pain. Pure terror. The two sensations squeeze his throat shut. His arm. His arm. His arm. His arm. His arm. It's gone.

It's gone.

It's the first thing HYDRA took from him. It won't be the last.

And still, it's not over.

"Begin the cauterization now!" The voice is urgent, not concerned. These people are not doctors. Not really. It's a title, even if they aren't here to heal.

It's urgent because he can see his blood spraying, he can hear too much of it hitting the floor. Through the corner of his eye, Bucky can't see much, he can almost make out the mangled ends of the exposed stump. A white lab coat holding a tool, a switch flicks. There's a low hum that's different than the saw.

Pain exists even where flesh does not. He knows his arm is gone, yet his body refuses to accept it. Even when it should, it does not let go of the pain. His mind screams that the arm is still there, even after the saw severed it loose. Fingers that no longer exist twitch in agony. Exposed nerves fire with nothing to connect to. They exist only to hurt.

"Clamp the brachial artery." His body shudders in protest. Or he just thinks it does.

The tool hums louder, the heat warning him even from a distance. "Thermoautery unit ready."

Bucky tries to clench his fist even though he knows it's gone. In response, the stump twitches once. The white lab coat pauses, "Increase paralytic, he's still fighting."

He waits for a numbness that does not come. The stump twitches again, and then it stops.

His fingers twitch, his muscles spasm involuntarily. One last, desperate act of defiance. Then, the weight settles. His limbs turn to stone. His throat goes slack. He is trapped inside himself.

He cannot move. He cannot fight. But he can feel.

God help him, he can feel everything.

The tool meets his exposed flesh, and Bucky learns again that it does not matter if he thinks the pain cannot get worse. It can and it will.

Heat. Fire.

His teeth almost crack. The paralytic reaches his head last. His jaw goes immobile. So do his eyes, stuck half open. He can't close them, he's not spared the horrors of what he can see. Hot metal on open flesh. His blood stops dripping.

Even if he could yell, his throats too shredded. HYDRA controls his lungs, he does not know how, but his breath is not his own. HYDRA does not let his heart stop even when he wants it to—

The current from the machine increases. Cauterization. They are sealing him shut with something that is not fire, something worse. The movements are slow and deliberate.

It's not like the saw, it does not tear. It burns. It's searing. He gargles and chokes on spit and blood, and still they keep him alive.

There is no one in the world, Bucky is sure, who craves death as much as he does.

It's not over.

"Tissue response is within expected parameters. Continue."

The tool presses deeper. Everything is on fire, every nerve aflame. His bones are white hot shards that burn him from the inside out. His heart keeps pumping despite itself. Every time his vision goes white and he thinks unconsciousness will be granted, it's snatched away.

"Depth is adequate. Proceeding along the lateral incision."

The tool hums as it moves, scorching him over and over. Skin burns, sweat pools. The white lab coat does not stop. The burn does not relent. There is only the hum, the sound of his own sizzling tissue.

He's not in a lab, he's not on a table, he's being burned alive on a pyre.

There was a time when he thought the cold was bad. Right now, he can't imagine why.

The smell hits him then, forcing itself into his lungs. Burning flesh, charred bone. It suffocates him, and still he is awake. And still, he feels it all. He doesn't even twitch, he can't. Nothing stops, not the pain, not the smells. Not his lungs forcing him to breathe it in.

Burning muscle, flesh, HYDRA branding themselves into him bone deep. The sensations stab into his brain, and Bucky knows nothing can make him forget this.

The smell lodges in his throat; years later, he will wake tasting it, though the room will be sterile and stainless.

He tries to close his eyes before remembering HYDRA has taken even this.

The tool stops, but the pain remains. Charred flesh, blackened tissue, dead nerves. Bucky feels it all. A finger twitches and jerks because his brain has not caught up yet. His arm is gone, he knows this, his body does not. There's a chunk of flesh somewhere down below, it used to belong to him. Even though it's gone, it still hurts. No mercy, even in its absence.

There's a heavy silence. Bucky knows they are watching him. He can hear the faint scratch of pencil on paper, someone is taking notes. The stump, the place where there was once an arm, is wrapped in gauze. Bucky's charred body is pulled off the pyre even as it begs for death.

They are watching him. He doesn't dare to hope that it's over, he knows it's not.

For the first time since he woke up in the lab, Bucky sees a face. The man stands over him, and it's like Zola all over again, it's worse. A specimen under a microscope, an experiment not yet finished.

The man is reedy. He's thin, borderline sickly, despite looking about middle-aged. On any other day, Bucky could take him out without even thinking about it. The restraints set the rules. The HYDRA doctor doesn't need to know how to fight. It's his brain that makes him lethal; medical tools are his arsenal of weapons. He stares at Bucky, and Bucky stares back. It's not a fight he can win, but looking away feels like defeat, and he's lost too much already.

Pale skin, thin lips, gray eyes that do not leave his face.

Pain turned his brain into mush, and still, Bucky does not let himself look away.

There's no malice in the man's eyes. Even this is not a mercy. Rage, hatred, those things he can handle; he's been in the war long enough to know how to beat that. This... that look. It's worse. It's nothing, no humanity. Nothing.

"Vassily. The timing must be exact. We have to inject now—"

The doctor, Vassily, raises his hand once, his focus entirely on Bucky.

The first true movement isn't much—a slight twitch of his fingers. Real, this time, Vassily catches the movement, and his eyes flare with something like intrigue. Inhuman curiosity. It's like Zola. He's been here before. He's seen this. The man wants him to not just feel what's coming, but to react.

Even before he sees the syringe, he knows it's there. He has been here before.

His body can move, slightly, barely. Enough that he's glaring up at the HYDRA doctor with a glowing ember of fire in his eyes. Vassily nods once, a twitch of appreciation on his pale mouth. "Subject is ready."

Vassily only touches him because he wants to. He wants to hold Bucky's face as he brings the syringe closer to his skin.

Even after everything, his veins pulse, his muscles twitch, the memory of the last injection makes his body react before this one even begins. Bucky's breath catches in his throat, afraid isn't enough. Bucky is terrified.

He doesn't know what it is. Doesn't have to. Every moment building up to this tells him it'll be worse. That was round one, months have passed since then. He knows now that HYDRA has been trying to replicate the Super Soldier Serum. Waiting for this moment.

His months of freedom between then and now were nothing but a farce. The missions with Steve, the Howling Commandos. None of it mattered. He was HYDRA's first successful test subject, they were always going to get him back, he knows that now. Part of him knew it even when Steve saved him that first time. Steve isn't coming now, no one is. He knows what they saw. Bucky Barnes died when he fell off that ravine. It's what the world thinks.

This was inevitable. Everything else was a lie. Steve never saved him, he never made it out, not really. Inevitable.

Like last time, the needle pricks his neck. That is where the similarities end.

His body reacts immediately. Molten lava burns through his veins. Red hot pain coursing through each vessel. His heart can't take it. It's pounding too fast, it feels like it's doubling in size and threatens to beat right out of his chest.

One second he's hot, he's on fire again. Worse than the cauterization. Worse than anything. But he's thought that before, and it got worse again. Around him, machines display all the information his brain cannot comprehend. They beep and whir and hum. White lab coats take notes. To them, Bucky Barnes isn't a person; he's data, medical information. An experiment.

"Fever as predicted..." A voice says, like it's satisfied. Like his agony and torture are right on schedule.

Bucky doesn't hear the rest because his head is on fire.

And then it freezes over.

The white heat is replaced by an aching ice that locks his body tight. The ravine was nothing compared to this. His sweat runs cold.

It's a constant switch. Fire, ice, fire, ice, fire, ice. Until he can't tell the difference. Ten minutes pass, Bucky only knows because a white lab coat said so. Vassily is watching, Bucky can't see him through the pain, it's just a feeling.

Hours pass, but the lab coat says. "Fifteen minutes."

The pain overwhelms him, it's too much, too much, it's going to kill him. Against his will, his body adjusts. A second of reprieve before he's hurting again. Impossibly hotter, impossibly colder.

And yet, his brain adjusts.

Bucky Barnes can feel his pain tolerance happening in real time. He can feel his body fighting it, rejecting the changes. It thrashes and pulls against the restraints. They cut into his skin, he should be bleeding, but he's not.

"Twenty minutes."

Wrong, impossible. It's been hours. The pain dulls and it's not a relief. His body is changing.

If it weren't for the metal clamped between his teeth, the whole room would've heard his screaming, the raw desperation. Please, please—Please! He's begging and he's not even sure what for. Mercy? Death? A second of reprieve.

Every muscle in his body reacts. They spasm violently. They twitch. His body tries to rip through the metal restraints. Nothing happens.

His eyes snap wildly around the room, he can see too much. The tools on the tray across the lab. His vision sharpens even more. The lab coat in the distance is in hyper-detail. Overhead lights are blinding him, and he can hear them buzzing. He can hear everything. First his eyes, now his ears, they're changing. Pain is there but it's dull, background noise as his body is altered.

His adrenaline spikes and drops with his heart rate.

"Thirty minutes." The voice shouts right in his head.

The shaking in his body goes from violent and erratic to a steady, fast shake that rattles the metal table. His brain is regulating against his will, it's accepting the changes, and he can't stop it.

He knows the pain cannot get worse. It does.

And then everything goes still.

His heart rate is steady, not calm, just steady. His breathing is the same. In, out, controlled. Too perfect, it's inhuman.

Nothing feels the way it used to. His vision, his sight, all changed. He can see too much, too far. He can hear more than he needs to. His chest betrays him, rising and falling in steady, even breaths that don't belong to him. His body and brain betray him—no longer fighting, no longer his

"Thirty five minutes."

Whatever HYDRA expected, it happens right on time. The screaming begins again. With his changed senses, he can still hear notes being taken, murmured observations.

It starts at the base of his spine.

He does not know what is happening, he only knows what it feels like. His spine cracks, it arches sickeningly off the table. Whatever it is, it happens to his arms and legs at the same time. Cracking. Stretching. Lava in his veins, ice freezing over his bones. He fights and fights and fights but it doesn't stop. Cold metal is hardening over his bones. They grow and swell to adapt to his tissue. It hurts. It hurts even in places that no longer exist.

"Forty-five."

Bucky's remaining hand grips into a tight fist. He can feel the new strength. Muscles, bones, he no longer feels like himself.

His body is changed, it changes still.

Beneath him, the metal table bends and dents. He is bigger, stronger. He's not screaming anymore. He changes still. The white lab coats talk of bone density and muscle mass. The numbers mean nothing, but he can feel the difference.

The pain is still there, it might always be, but he's not screaming. He no longer jerks against the restraints. A foreign heart beat ticks in his chest. He does not recognize the sound of his own breathing.

"One hour." A white lab coat says.

The erratic beeping steadies. His body is foreign, unfamiliar—but it functions. The change is permanent. Efficient. Precise. Perfect. He doesn't need them to tell him.

The experiment worked.

His mind flashes to Steve. A super soldier, impossible strength. Steve, who can overwhelm five men alone, who can do impossible things. Who is practically invincible. Bucky's seen Steve take blows that would kill an average man and get back up seconds later. If Bucky is anything like Steve, there's a chance he can get out of here.

It's not hope, not really. Just a possibility. A desperate, flickering thought.

Then, Vassily steps forward, and Bucky knows.

He is nothing like Steve.

Steve is a soldier, yes, but he's not a killer, never violent if it wasn't necessary. The second he sees the doctor, the man who did this to him, Bucky feels a bloodlust like nothing he's felt out on any battlefield.

He is nothing like Steve.

He is something darker. A corrupted mirror of what Steve became. The serum is in his blood, in his bones—it's in his mind, too. Like an icy hand gripping his thoughts, shaping them, twisting them. Kill, kill, kill.

This time, when he jerks the restraints, it's deliberate. And for the first time, he feels the strength in his body—the way the metal groans, the way his muscles coil with something impossible, something monstrous.

He can hear Vassily's pulse. Knows he could stop it with just his hand.

Bucky tests the restraints once more. Steel groans. Somewhere inside, something colder than the table starts to click into place. This time, Vassily actually steps back.

It's just a second, instinctual, the man looked almost afraid before he straightened because the truth is, Bucky is trapped. Even with his new strength, the restraints are iron clad. They no longer cut his skin, but they hold him in place.

Vassily is satisfied. A perversion of pride in his eyes when he looks at Bucky. His chin raises, the room in the air shifts.

"Hail HYDRA." Vassily watches, fascinated. "We are finally ready."

Chapter Text

April, 1945 - Seven minutes post injection

There is only darkness and silence.

They'd moved him a while ago, wheeled the operation table with his new body strapped atop through a series of sterile, gray hallways. He'd screamed, he'd fought, for nothing. They stopped in a room, Bucky could only see the ceilings, hear doors opening. Mechanical locks, wheels on concrete, his own shouts through the gag.

The table pushes through a set of doors into a small chamber, it's colder than the lab, colder than the hallways. The sweat on his skin has long since dried and he just now notices that his uniform has been replaced. He still remembers the first time he put it on. It's gone now, with his arm, with the part of him that didn't know real pain.

Some kind of black body suit, skin tight, straight lines stretching down his chest and legs. Only his arms are bare. Nothing is the same, not his skin, not his bones, not even his clothes.

Another door opens to a second chamber and Bucky stares at the ceiling. It's slightly larger and it's just as cold. There's a needle prick in his arm and Bucky once again feels the paralytic taking hold, trying to. It's slower now. He's still moving, still fighting. They prick his arm again, hold the needle in for longer. He thrashes until even his new body can't fight and he's slack.

Once again, numbness evades him. He still feels everything, his mind is still sharp. Dread, confusion, shock. The inside of his head is loud and panicked and helpless. Only when they're sure that he's completely paralyzed do the white lab coats step back. Men in black take their place. The restraints click free now that his body is heavy and useless. Forceful hands pull him up as his body is lifted from the table, his hand hanging limp on his good shoulder.

Moving makes everything hurt. The stump doesn't twitch; it cannot. Regardless, it stabs and pulses in pain. In theory, Bucky knows what a phantom limb is, he never imagined it would hurt so bad. The ghost of his arm still hurts even though the limb is long gone.

Now upright, Bucky can see the room. Like everything else, it's gray, sterile, and cold. His eyes scan it quickly, taking in any details he can. Sight and sound are all he has now. It's larger than the operating room, stranger.

There's a recessed, circular platform in the center of the room, metal railings around it, positioned like some kind of morbid stage. There are machines Bucky doesn't recognize occupying the space.

A chair. A machine. A torture device.

They're dragging him to it, his silent protests deafening in his head. The part made for sitting takes up the least space. Bucky's screams get louder. Somehow, no one hears. It wouldn't even matter if anyone did. It looms ahead, step by step, he's dragged closer to that seat. Dark machinery surrounds it, angled towards the empty space like the bars and clamps are waiting to strike. His eyes absorb the black metal. Thick restraints, stronger than the ones on the table. Two semicircles hover above the chair, sticking out of the floor darkly.

HYDRA is letting him see this, Bucky realizes, because the sight of it invokes pure terror.

The men in black are fast, Bucky's in the chair before he's even realized they reached it. Cold metal everywhere. Behind his back, beneath his legs. The cool hand of the restraints move like they're alive, tightening in place around his entire forearm, his calves. The seat itself is unassuming. But when they shove him down, he realizes the sickening truth: It fits.

It was made for him.

He's part of the machine now. Wires and cables and metal forcefully connecting him to the chair, bolting the chair to the concrete floor. Above him, the half circles move and whir; he cannot see them, but he feels the metal hands on either side of his face, like the restraints; they tighten, hold him still. Force his head back against the cold headrest. The fit is too perfect, the truth hits again; built for him.

Someone puts another gag in, half metal, half rubber. He can tell it connects to the chair, and his jaw has no choice but to settle around it. Soon, when the paralytic fades, it'll be the gag making it impossible to use his voice.

They cover his eyes next. On the inside, Bucky screams and fights and shakes. On the outside, he hardly twitches. Darkness—not even a sliver of light cracks through the mask. He cannot see.

Around his head, the machine clicks and hums. It does nothing, not yet, but it's all he can hear.

He is in the dark now. Caged in silence. Voiceless. And this is where the real torture begins.

He's trapped inside his own head. There's nothing to see, nothing to hear. He can only sit, and think and dread. Sensory deprivation. Bucky's heard about it, rescued hostages, and now he's learning it.

Nothing is happening, nothing. It's almost worse than the operating room. There, pain was a side-effect. To HYDRA, it was a necessary result of the experiment. It wasn't pain for the sake of pain. The doctor wasn't torturing him, he was studying. It hurt, it hurt like nothing else he'd ever felt, but it wasn't inflicted senselessly.

But this... it's psychological.

The world around him is nothing, a void. He's locked in place for so long that it starts to feel permanent. Cold settles in, it never really left since he fell off that train.

Bucky is held there for long enough—his skin gone cold enough—that he can no longer feel the difference between himself and the machine. Part of him wonders if that's the whole point.

The only hint of the passage of time is the twitch of his fingers. A flicker, a spark of movement. He almost doesn't believe it.

I can move.

He tightens his fingers into a fist. Or he tries to. His hand curls, just slightly, but his arms, his legs—everything else is still locked in place.

Come on. Move. MOVE.

His wrist jerks, metal scraping against metal. A rush of something...hope, maybe, flares in his chest.

The restraints tighten.

The mechanical whir is immediate, like the machine sensed his defiance. Steel crushes around his arm, his chest, his throat. Tighter, tighter, tighter.

The hope dies. He is still trapped.

No matter how much he fights against the metal clamped around his arm, it does not budge. More of it keeps his knees locked in place; it cuts across his chest, allowing only enough room to breathe.

The worst part is the metal wrapped around his head. Unforgiving hands squeeze his skull. It's not tight enough to cause any actual damage to his new bones but Bucky can tell it's centimeters away from breaking him. Not only that, there's a sharpness at either side of his head. It's not needles, it's something else.

Restraints bind, a chair is a chair. The crude crown he wears is something unknown, something worse.

There's nothing in his head but fear. Fear. Anticipation. Dread. He can't fight them. He can't fight anything. HYDRA lets it fester. Let's it spread. Makes him wait. Forces him to imagine what is to come. They're trying to break him. He's nearly broken on the operating table, and they weren't even trying then. Panic. White hot panic. It's all he knows.

It dawns on him then that they could be watching him right now. He'd been so stuck inside his own head that he hadn't even considered what might be going on outside. It could be as busy as the operating room was. White lab coats, men in black. Mysterious preparations and someone taking notes. His muscles lock and tighten, bracing for a strike that could come at any moment. He strains his ears... nothing.

Bucky Barnes won't survive this.

His mind reels, and it's nothing good. Even when he tries to think of Steve, all he can see is that last day. Steve already mourning him as he fell, just out of reach.

In his panicked, stormy mind, he sees his gravestone.

The name is clear. The dates are final.

James Buchanan Barnes. March 10, 1917 - April 22, 1945.

The vision is sharp, too real. He can see the stone. He can feel the cold wind whipping through the cemetery, hear the way the dirt crumbles as it's shoveled onto his grave.

Steve is there. He's standing beside an empty casket. His family, people he knows he will never see again. In the vision, his mother cries silently, his father pats the American flag draped over the coffin. It’s not a dream, not really a nightmare either.

This is the day he died.

No. No.

I'm alive. I'm alive.

The words roar inside his skull. Enough time passes that the battle cry fades to a question. One the darkness does not answer.

April, 1945 - 26 hours post injection

There is only darkness and silence. An unknown passage of time. Hours of sensory deprivation.

And then there is pain.

It cracks into him all at once. No warning, no buildup, just pain. It's undefinable. His bones shake, metal restraints hold.

A new kind of pain. It's worse than the amputation; it's even worse than the serum. His brain scrambles to define it, to pinpoint the origin.

His teeth shake in his skull, biting leather and metal. A blue light shines in his eyes, and Bucky remembers he's blindfolded. It's coming from inside of him.

The headpiece, the sharp pricks. Not the kind that bleeds.

Electricity.

Knowing somehow only makes it worse. Defining what breaks him is no help.

The electric shocks start at his skull, gripping and shaking his brain mercilessly. The tremors rock his whole body. Now that he knows what it is, he feels the electric current more. Lightning strikes, resounding thunder rumbles in his mind. It's a storm, relentless, endless, slamming into him. HYDRA is pushing his pain threshold hour by hour. Each moment a new agony. Each time he thinks it cannot get worse, they prove him wrong.

For a while Bucky had tried to hold himself back, if HYDRA is watching he does not want to give them the satisfaction of a show. He does not want the scientist's eyes alight with intrigue. He does not want any of this. But there is only so much he can control. So he bites down, and even though he cannot see or hear anything, even though he can only feel the pain, he does not scream.

The amputation. The serum. The fire.

And now—

Electricity.

It doesn't replace the pain that came before it. It builds on it.

Every wound, every nerve they burned open—they are ripping through them all over again.

It's not one kind of pain. It's all of them at once.

Lightning strikes. Again and again and again. All he can see is that blue light, radiating out of his skull and filling the mask.

And then it's ripped off him.

Bright white light shines in his eyes as the electricity crackles through him. A sole figure is illuminated, nothing but a silhouette. Whatever was blocking his hearing stops suddenly, and sound rushes at him. The hum of the machine is still there. Around it he can hear footsteps, quiet voices, gears turning.

Bucky grits his teeth, biting metal and rubber, narrowing his eyes, and trying to make the shape of the man out even as his body convulses with the effort to hold back his screams. There's nothing identifiable about him. It's not the scientist, someone else. The man is saying something in Russian before Bucky feels the weight of his stare even without seeing his eyes.

"Zhelaniye." He says. Like it means something. Bucky doesn't know Russian, it's just noise. Senseless. But he can tell the words are directed at him. The black shadow remains planted in his vision, and he's got nowhere else to look, nothing else to hear.

"Rzhavyy. Semnadtsat. Rassvet." More words, more nonsense.

"Pech'." The convulsions get worse, and Bucky realizes that someone is cranking up the power each time the man speaks.

"Devyat'." Lighting. Again, rattling his skull. He thought cauterization was bad? It's a distant memory now. This is worse. Ever since the pain started, it's only ever gotten worse.

Bucky's vision pulses. The world around him distorts and shatters until he's looking through fractured glass.

"Dobroserdechnyy." His muscles seize. A thousand needles attack his skin. The words mean nothing, but he knows they bring pain. The electricity slices through him like it's a physical thing.

"Vozvrashcheniye na rodinu." The man keeps a steady pace. No hesitation, no pauses, "Odin." His joints tighten, his own body locking him in place. He is electric. He should not be alive.

Bucky can tell from the way the man says it that he is not done.

"Gruzovoy vagon."

The ten words end, his whole body is a live wire, and then—silence. Just for a second, before his roar shreds through the air. The sound that rips out of him is guttural and desperate. He can't stop it as it tears out of his throat, and part of him had already given up trying. The harsh cry hurts, it shreds his already raw throat. Bucky knows that this time, the black creeping at the edge of his vision will take him completely. His body has already short-circuited a thousand times over. The pounding of his heart is erratic, fading. Even the serum's effects didn't make him strong enough for this.

The Russian steps closer, still just a silhouette. For the first time, he speaks English. Words meant for Bucky to hear, the last thing he registers before the darkness finally takes him.

"You do not understand yet." The voice is calm, almost bored. "But you will."

A pause.

"It will hurt less once you stop fighting."

Something inside him twists at that. Because he knows. That's what they want.

Not just his body.

They want him to stop fighting.

July 1945

Bucky Barnes' entire life exists only in two places.

There is the cage. A dark, cold cell in the first chamber in the room they let him out of.

There is the chair. Where electricity pulses through his body for hours. It doesn't stop for anything. He blacks out each time.

Days, maybe weeks. He doesn't know. Time has lost all meaning. Words have lost all meaning. No one talks to him, no one tells him what's going on. White lab coats and men in black are the only people he sees. Russian he doesn't understand occasionally fills the silence. There has not been one moment since HYDRA took him and turned him into something else that he has not been restrained. Even in the cell, he is restrained. A thick chain around his arm, tethered to the floor. More around his ankles. He's allowed just enough mobility to almost reach the bars of the cage. One day, Bucky nearly dislocated his shoulder in an attempt to grab on to one. He'd used every ounce of his new strength to pull at it, to do anything to put a dent in it. For what felt like hours, he poured everything into the efforts until his vision went black and his body gave out.

Today, he is back in the chair. Sometimes it feels like he always has been.

The cold metal is already in place. Locking his body into position as electric currents shoot from his head to the rest of his body. Bucky had long since given up trying not to scream. He still remembers that man's words from the first day: it'll hurt less once you stop fighting.

He does not want to stop fighting.

As a thousand watts of electricity surge through him and Bucky is screaming, screaming. It's not a cry for help, he knows they will not stop. To them, it's just noise. Noise he cannot stop, a loud, desperate result of pain.

In his head, Bucky clings to the good things, the before.

Steve and the way his shoes never quite fit. Early winter mornings and summer nights in Brooklyn. The way he made fast friends with the Howling Commandos. Dugan's stupid hat and his obsession. His apartment and the smell of laundry detergent. His favorite record spinning. That number, it worked before: 32557038. James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky.

The electricity isn't just breaking him. Not just torture. It's cutting something out of him.

Those ten words hit his brain like a blade. They mean nothing. They take everything.

Its charged fingers dig through his mind, picks it apart, dissecting him from the inside out. Like his memories are a physical thing that can be removed with a scalpel and clamps.

The silhouette is always there. The meaningless words always come. "Zhelaniye. Rzhavyy. Semnadtsat. Rassvet."

With each word, the electricity gets worse. The fight goes out of him.

"Pech'. Devyat'. Dobroserdechnyy."

Razor sharp pain splays his nerves open. His movements are not his. Muscles pulsing beneath this skin, locking tightly until it's like his entire body is made of stone.

Steve and his illfitting shoes. Brooklyn, any season, he'd take any damn season. He misses the Howling Commandos. He even misses Dugan's hat. Will he ever see his apartment again? Ever hear his favorite record? Hear anything other than the sound of his pathetic cries for help. What was that number? It's right there... 32557038. Again and again and again. His name is James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky.

"Vozvrashcheniye na rodinu. Odin."

"Gruzovoy vagon."

The ten words end.

Silence.

For one breath, two—

Then the pain spikes—

And he breaks.

His scream shreds through the air, guttural and desperate. It tears out of him like it has a life of its own.

He can taste the blood in his throat, but he can't stop.

For what feels like hours, the electricity is at its worst.

He's screaming until he is not. Until the world is nothing.

January 1946

Steve. Brooklyn. The Howling Commandos. Summer nights. Dugan's hat. His apartment. His favorite record. 32557038. James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky.

Electricity courses through him. It feels like his skin is being sliced open again and again and again. He does not bleed, but it feels like he should be.

It's intentional now when Bucky runs through his memories. Once, a while ago, he'd done it to escape, for comfort. Now? Now he's trying to hide them. To lock them in some safe part of his brain HYDRA cannot find. But there is no safety here. His screams fill the room as The Silhouette begins that strange mantra.

"Zhelaniye." He says. Bucky's spine arches off the chair. He will not stop fighting. "Rzhavyy. Semnadtsat. Rassvet."

Lightning strikes. It sizzles and burns. Through the pain, he forces himself to picture Steve. Taller now. Blonde hair, blue eyes. His friend.

"Pech'. Devyat'. Dobroserdechnyy."

His body thrashes as he searches for the words, tries to drown out the Russian. Steve. The Howling Commandos. Brooklyn. James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky.

The list used to be longer. Part of him knows this. Part of him is just trying to cling on to the part that remains.

"Vozvrashcheniye na rodinu. Odin."

His body is not his. It moves against his will. Eyes locking forward, muscles bracing for... something.

Steve. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. Sharp, clear, familiar.

Steve. His face. His...

...Why can't I see his face?

The image flickers like a bad photograph, burned at the edges. The shape of him is still there, but his eyes, his mouth-gone. A low sound his fills his ears. No, not a sound. Just static.

Something is missing.

Something is being taken.

The realization punches through the pain, through the electricity still slicing him apart.

He's forgetting.

They're making him forget.

"Gruzovoy vagon."

Steve. Nothing. Just a name.

The Russian words end. The electricity does not.

His throat is raw. His body shakes.

He holds onto the name with everything he has left. Until there is nothing left.

Then, he screams.

This time it isn't just from pain.

It's from knowing he's slipping. Knowing he can't stop it.

May 1946

Bucky can't move. The cold hits first. Bucky recognizes it now. Paralytic, spreading like ice through his veins.. Its effects leave him immobilized on the concrete floor of the cell.

This has happened before, many times.

Men in black stand above him, hands on their weapons. White lab coats poke and prod and take notes. Even without the paralytic holding him hostage, Bucky isn't sure he'd be able to fight them anymore.

Today is different. They're talking more than usual, Russian Bucky doesn't understand. Their focus is more on his arm than him. Or, the stump where his arm used to be. He doesn't like when they touch it. The memory of exposed bone and fire is there, but the pain is different now. A dull throb, pulsing, slow, always there.

As they move above him, he catches sight of something new. A thick metal disk, attachments at either side. It makes his heart rate spike, makes it pump blood fast enough that his finger twitches. He cannot see what they are doing, but he knows.

It clicks into place. A final, mechanical whir.

A realization slams into him: this is permanent.

Is it permanent?

Agony. A firestorm of pain. The bones in his shoulder creak and snap.

He's not just afraid, he's terrified.

Seconds later... it's awful. Something is grinding into him, embedding itself into his skin. Deeper. Deeper. Pressure builds until it cannot be contained.

Before he even knows he's moving, his body rejects it. His back arches violently, his arm swings out. A white coat flies across the room.

But they're ready for him.

The ghost of his arm flexes and tries to shove them away. All his efforts result in a rough jerk on his shoulder, the stump moving uselessly. His chest pounds, pulse roars. Something makes him fight the paralytic, and before he knows he can, Bucky's back is shooting off the floor. His good arm flies out, throwing a man in a white lab coat across the cell.

The fight doesn't last long. The men in black are there. A small electric device fires a round of energy into his neck. Enough to stun him, enough that they are able to pin him down and allow the white lab coats to continue. They move faster now, like they expected this. Bucky can see the fear in their eyes as he thrashes against them. But there are too many guards and he's still half sedated.

Bucky knows it's a losing game, but he fights anyway.

The metal is still there, forced onto the stump. It's like a hot metal iron sinking into his skin and clinging. His body reacts against his wishes. Nerves rushing towards attachment. It's wrong. It hurts. He grits his teeth and screams, but a black glove is holding his head down. He kicks at nothing. Pain as his nerves fire in response to the thing on his arm.

And then they're moving him. Out of the cell, Bucky knows where the path ends.

Right before he's thrown into the chair, right before the metal grabs him, Bucky is able to turn his head towards his shoulder. It's nothing yet. Just a round metal plate flat against him. Cemented in but Bucky knows. Soon, it will be different. HYDRA doesn't just take. They replace.

His arm is gone and they've made space for something else.

The realization hits him harder than the pain. They aren't just taking. They are making him into something else.

He thrashes. Tries to rip it off, to shake it loose, but the metal digs deeper, deeper, deeper.

His body accepts it, and that's the worst part.

The electricity hits him the same way it always does. His screams fall on deaf ears the way they always do.

It's too much. His list was too long. There was no safe box to lock his memories in. Blood trickles from his ears. His brain is being reformed into something new.

Bucky. It is the last part that remains. He knows the list used to be longer, but it was too hard to hold on to. So he clung to the one thing he could. His name. Bucky. Bucky.

"Zhelaniye. Rzhavyy. Semnadtsat. Rassvet." The silhouette's voice is in his head. The electricity rips him open, and the voice embeds itself deep.

Bucky. Bucky. Bucky. Bucky.

"Pech'. Devyat'. Dobroserdechnyy. Vozvrashcheniye na rodinu. Odin."

Pain. Pain. Pain. It'll hurt less when you stop fighting.

He still fights. Bucky. Bucky. Bucky. Bucky. His name. It's his name. He cannot forget his own name. Agony tears through him. It's loud, he's still fighting.

Bucky. Bucky. Bucky. Bucky...

Bucky. Bucky. It's the last thing left.

He clings to it, claws at it, like it's a lifeline.

He has to hold on.

Bucky.

Bucky. Bucky.

It's all that's left.

His name. His name. His.

The one thing they can't take.

They can't.

The voice speaks. "Gruzovoy vagon."

Bucky flinches. But the pain doesn't just slam into his body—it slams into his mind.

The grip tightens. He won't let go.

Bucky, he says to himself. In his mind. Over and over.

Bucky. Bucky. Bucky.

He hears the voice again.

The pain again.

Bucky, he thinks again. It's fainter.

The pain flares. The words dig deeper.

Bucky. A whisper.

Electricity crackles. Surges. Searching and punishing.

The word is there.

But it doesn't belong to him anymore.

Obey.

Obey.

No. No. Not that.

Obey.

OBEY.

He doesn't think it.

He feels it.

It's not a word. It's a pulse.

In his bones, in his blood, in his mind. They put it there.

Obey.

It's not a command.

It's the only thing left.

One Year Later - May 1947

Something has been taken from him.

He knows this, but he does not know what it is.

All he knows, all he's ever seen is this: the cage, The Chair, The Silhouette. HYDRA.

He is in the chair but it is not on. Not yet. It holds him in place. Waiting. His mind is wrong. Confused. Scraped empty with something rough. He can feel the void. Feel where something used to be. Buck—

A group of white lab coats approach. They do not look at him, they look at the new metal plate.

He sees it. An arm. Metal.

Not his. But the right size. His shape. Made for him.

A wrongness coils deep in his chest. It tightens when the lab coats get closer.

He doesn't remember how he lost his arm. But—falling. There was falling. Snow. Cold. Wind screaming past his ears.

And a sound—whirring. It slices through his mind like a dull knife. His jaw clenches. A fragment, a glitch. Then—gone.

HYDRA replaces what they cut away. The metal screeches as it connects. A violent, grating sound

And then it latches onto him.

A sharp, foreign pain burrows into his shoulder. Not cutting, not burning. Like something burrowing into his bones, hooking in, embedding.

His spine arches. He chokes on a breath. The weight is wrong, wrong, wrong.

And it's part of him now.

Electricity. He flinches, braces himself. But it's not in his head. It's in his shoulder. His left arm is metal now, it twitches to life as scientists work. Small metal tools, twisting, plugging. Another surge of power. It climbs up his shoulder and down his spine. His breath comes out in short, stuttering gasps.

He doesn't remember what it feels like to not be in pain.

Another harsh zap of electricity in his shoulder. This time, when he reacts, the arm does too. Two fists clench. One flesh and bone, one dark metal.

His fingers twitch.

The metal fingers twitch too. Not his.

A tremor crawls up his spine. The first movement is slow, unnatural. Like waking up a limb that isn't asleep—

But dead.

The scientists speak loudly in Russian. He does not remember his name but he remembers he is their experiment. A project. A man part machine.

It's true now. He studies the arm, tries to move it. It's slow, not perfect, but it's part of him now.

Buck—he frowns, focusing on it. Gone.

The arm. Turn, he thinks, move. His body strains, something unnatural twitches. A place where flesh meets metal, and then the metal arm obeys. It moves. The new hand turns and lifts.

Before he can try again, there is electricity in his head.

The process begins. It wipes him clean. The silhouette. The words. A limb taken. Replaced.

Obey.

August 1947

The chain gives him just enough length to pace three uneven steps before it jerks, metal biting the new socket where bone meets alloy.

Bucky takes those three steps anyway, over and over, because standing still means feeling the arm.

Wrong.

Too heavy, too cold, welded to nerves that twitch with phantom heat. Every time the weight drags at his shoulder, the memory flashes: whirring saw, cauterized flesh, the snap of clamps locking shut.

He hears it even now, echoing off the stone.

On the fiftieth circuit, he stops pretending the limb is useful.

His right hand—splinted, swollen from yesterday's punishment—lifts, claws at the plate. Fingers hook beneath an exposed ridge, yank until nails shear and blood stripes chrome.

The arm doesn't loosen; it responds— servos whining, knuckles clenching as if the metal itself resents being touched.

A sound tears out of him, half‑snarl, half‑sob. Not loud enough. He digs harder, tries to peel the thing away, teeth bared like an animal caught in a trap.

He wants it off. He rips, flesh tears, but it won't come off. No matter how hard he tries, he will not be the same.

Boots thunder down the corridor.

Stun baton. Flash of blue light.

His body folds, convulsing—still awake enough to hear the guard spit a curse before locking another shackle around his waist. The boots hit his side. Again and again and again.

When the footfalls fade, silence floods back in.

He lies on the concrete, pulse tripping, breath fogging the iron links.

Blood seeps beneath the plate, cools to tacky rust.

The grief that follows has no voice left; it arrives as a slow, shaking inhale...

and then another...until the tremor becomes a sob so small it makes no sound—

just water sliding from the outer corner of his eye, disappearing into charred skin.

Three steps are impossible now; the waist chain cuts that distance to none.

So he curls, good hand hugged to ruined chest, and lets the arm hang—dead weight, blank steel reflecting nothing of the man it replaced.

By the time the overhead bulb clicks out, the cell holds only two noises:

The drip of blood on stone and the faint, mechanical tick of a foreign heart beating in his chest.

December 1947

His brain is empty. His mind is blank.

He can feel the void where something once was.

He knows something has been taken. Everything has been taken because nothing remains.

No—not nothing.

The emptiness is there. But so is something else. It is a weight. A pressure behind his ribs. A gnawing, twisting thing.

It does not make sense. He does not understand it.

Is it pain? No. Pain is sharp. Pain is clear.

This is something else. Something human.

It drags at his chest. It swallows his breath. He does not know its name.

He does not know that it is sadness, but he knows that it hurts.

Hurts in a way the electricity does not. When the scientists cut into him, when he bleeds, he can handle it. Cold metal slices his skin, blood is collected. The pain is there but the thing in his chest feels worse. An emptiness that eats him alive.

He is in the Chair. Electricity rips him open. He still screams. Pain is all that exists. The void inside him waits to be filled.

It'll hurt less when you stop fighting.

He does not remember what was taken from him. He knows it will be replaced.

The silhouette is there. The words begin. He braces for pain.

"Zhelaniye."

The sound presses into his skull. The pain follows. He expects nothing more.

But something else happens.

The word appears in his mind. Not in Russian. In English.

Longing.

He does not translate it. The knowledge is already there.

He understands. He doesn't want to.

"Rzhavyy." Rusted.

Another foreign thought slips into place, smooth, silent. Like a puzzle piece locking in.

His hands clench. The void in his chest tightens, sharp, urgent—

He knows what comes next.

It's embedded in his mind.

Like someone put it there. Carved it into him.

Longing. Rusted. Furnace. Day-break. Seventeen. Benign. Nine. Homecoming. One. Freight car.

His chest cracks open and aches. It is a human feeling and it does not belong here. He is not human, not really. His mind is blank, he is part machine.

Sadness. Unnamed. Unrecognized in his blank mind. Something wet stains his cheeks.

The ache lingers. He does not fight it. It's the last human thing left in him.

It pulses beneath his ribs. It waits. It... wants something. But it hurts. It hurts.

The words press against his skull. The electricity sparks.

The ache flickers. A final, desperate breath. The agony is different. Internal. It will kill him.

Then, He lets it go. The feeling is too much to handle. It is gone.

The silhouette stands. Waiting.

His jaw twitches. His mouth moves.

He is speaking Russian. Has he always...? It does not matter. He has let go.

The ache is gone.

The words rise up, smooth, automatic.

It is not his voice. "Ya gotov otvechat'." Ready to comply.

April 1948

Time is a concept. It exists, but not for him.

The passage of it is marked only by pain and obedience. He does not know the date. Does not know how many days have passed since HYDRA took him. The man he once was is gone.

What remains is this: the cage, the chair, the training. Weapons. Combat. Guns. Knives. Training. Cage. Chair.

His body obeys first. His brain follows—slowly, reluctantly. But it follows.

He is stronger. Faster. His movements perfected through pain. Fresh scars mark his skin. He does not remember how they got there. His instincts are sharper. Forced into him.

The metal arm, once unfamiliar, once unwieldy, is now a part of him. It moves with him. It listens.

His other arm does not. The flesh arm is useless. A problem HYDRA solved.

The first time they broke it, he had fought. He remembers that he was punished. The second time, he had hesitated. Punished. The third, he had only breathed through it, jaw tight, silent. Now, he does nothing at all.

They break it when he resists.

They break it when he does not perform. They will break it until he knows how to use the metal one.

They do not let it heal. Set, snap. Set, snap. Over and over again. His own body betrays him, trying to mend the damage, but they keep shattering it before the bones can take hold. It is bound now—behind him, tied out of use. A dead limb. The metal one is all that remains.

The lesson is clear.

This is your arm now. Use it. Learn it.

So he does.

They train him until his body is a machine. Flesh and steel both. They push him past the limits of pain, past exhaustion, past thought. He does not sweat. He does not hesitate.

He has learned to obey.

They speak of a weapon. The Winter Soldier Project. The Russian is familiar to him now. It rolls off his tongue daily. Ya gotov otvechat'. Ready to comply. HYDRA's favorite words. One of the few things he is allowed to say.

He is standing when they come for him. The men in black, the faceless guards, the ones who pull him from the cage and lead him somewhere new.

A chamber. Another cell. But not his.

This time, there is another man inside.

Another target. Another test.

The Silhouette watches. Remains just out of sight in the shadows.

The target in the cage moves first. There are no weapons inside. Just them. Just fists.

He dodges the target easily. He knows how to fight. The knowledge is there. It feels like it always has been. This is all he knows.

The metal arm is wrong, but it moves with him. He ignores the pain of the broken arm tied behind his back. His eyes know how to locate the target's weak points. Easy. Too easy.

The target kicks at his legs. Spins to attack from behind. He is already there. Elbow out. The swoop of his legs. The target falls. Breathes hard.

An order. Russian. He does not remember learning but he knows what it means. "Kill him."

His body will obey first. His mind will follow.

He kneels. Knees pinning the target's legs down. Metal arm wrapping around its throat. Kill him. He squeezes.

But then—he stops. There is a flicker. Something.

He does not want to kill. His hand loosens. The target gasps for breath. The order comes again. "Kill him."

His body wants to obey. His mind does not. He fights himself, the orders. He does not kill.

Already, he knows what will come, but he does not kill. "KILL HIM!"

He does not know why he spares him.

"No." His own words make him tense. He disobeyed. He will be punished. He does not make the kill.

A gun fires from the left. Not at him. The target. Another order. "Stand."

The body obeys. Thick shackles. Both arms behind him. He knows the chain holds him to the wall. He knows what is coming. He flinches. He will be punished for that, too. Something deep inside him screams. It rattles the bars around his mind.

Masked men enter the cage. Metal tools in hand. The kind for punishment. The kind for pain.

He knows what is coming first. They use their tools to snap his arm. Broken in two places now. He chokes, they hear it. Not allowed.

The baton is out. Knowing the impact is coming changes nothing. They know he knows. They make sure of it. He stands still even as the first swing cracks against his ribs.

Do not fall. Do not protect. He knows the rules.

It hits his knee. His side. They need tools to cause damage. His body is strong. Instinct screams to block the blows, to stop the pain. He does not. It was beaten out of him long ago.

He is tense. Bracing for impact. They notice. They hit harder.

His body is strong. It is not invincible. They remind him the way they always do. They make him bleed. The baton cracks across his face. He feels the blood rush from his nose.

More tools then. Sharper. Intentional.

It reopens old scars. They slice into him. He does not fall. He cannot fall. When he falls, it gets worse. If he screams, it gets worse.

They cut him open. The blood runs. He stands. Silent.

Exactly how they want him.

November 1948

The ten words end. He says. ""Ya gotov otvechat'." Ready to comply.

He moves from the chair to the cage. Following orders. He knows Russian now. He thinks he always has. Accepts it.

There is a man in the cage. No mask. The Silhouette speaks, addressing both of them. "Fight."

He moves before the order is given.

The second he stepped into the cage, he knew.

There is something familiar about the man standing across from him. Not a memory—just the shadow of one.

Something was taken. This man was part of it.

The last ember of human emotion flickers in his chest, burning like a coal buried deep beneath ice. It has no name at first. Then he knows.

Rage.

The order is given. He doesn't hesitate.

The enforcer is fast. Stronger than the others. His movements precise, tactical. Trained, like him.

They are equal for exactly three seconds. Then the he takes the advantage. Instinct. Training. He moves like a weapon. For the first time, he thinks, he is a weapon.

They move in tandem—limbs snapping forward, twisting, dodging, striking. A counter for every attack, a blow for every miss.

A fist collides with his jaw—his head snaps to the side, but he does not stumble. He has learned. He does not fall.

His body is no longer bound. He is allowed to use both arms now.

He does.

The metal catches the enforcer mid-strike, a fist colliding with his ribs—something cracks. The man exhales sharply, staggers. Not down yet.

Good.

He does not want this to end quickly. He has not felt. He feels now. Rage.

The enforcer fights harder, his blows calculated, brutal. But so are his.

Every strike is an echo. A reflection of what was done to him.

Set, snap. Set, snap.

Every broken bone is payment. Every ragged breath, proof.

He wins.

The enforcer goes down.

He does not give the man time to stand. His boot slams into his chest.

His hand grips his skull.

The order comes.

"Kill him."

There is no hesitation.

The Soldier obeys.

His hand slams the man's head against the concrete floor. Once. Twice. The skull caves on the third.

The body is still beneath him. Blood seeps across the floor, slick under his boots.

He stands. He does not breathe heavily. He does not shake.

He does not feel.

Footsteps approach. Slow, deliberate. A presence steps into his view.

Black boots. A long officer's coat.

Not a scientist. A commander.

The man surveys the body at his feet, smirks. Looks up. Looks at him.

A pause. Then, a single word.

"Yes."

A nod. Approval.

A hand extends. Not to shake. To claim.

The man speaks again. This time, he names him.

"The Winter Soldier."

The words land like a brand. Final. Absolute.

Something inside him locks into place.

And then—the final thing he will ever be called.

"Hello, Asset."

A title. A brand. A claim.

December 1949

The cage door slams open and steel links whip around his neck. The chain is cold, but the hands that jerk it tight are colder. Two guards drag the Asset out by the chain at his throat, boots skidding over congealed blood. They drag him until he falls; the concrete tears his knees, the greater sting is the knowledge he deserves this—he must, or why would they keep doing it?

A corridor, grey and echoing. Each fluorescent tube buzzes through his skull. He counts them the way a drowning man counts heartbeats, an anchor to keep his thoughts from scattering. Twelve lights. Two guards. One collar. He can still add; that small, useless fact shames him more than the pain.

They haul him into the punishment chamber. The moment he sees the colonel he forgets to breathe. He knows this room, knows it will.

This will hurt.

Karpov stands immaculate, boots shining like a mirror that shows only ownership. On a tray beside him sit two stun batons and a pair of bone shears. A hum under the floorboards tells the Asset the generator is already warming.

The chain jerks and he kneels. He keeps his gaze fixed on the colonel's coat buttons: safer than the eyes behind them. The Winter Soldier is not supposed to make eye contact. Not unless he is told.

"Recite," Karpov says, voice soft as snow.

"I am the Asset," he answers. His own words taste of metal and defeat.

"Why is the Asset here?"

A flicker of memory tries to rise—blood under his fingernails, a face he once recognized crumpling under his fist—but the Winter Soldier has no permission to remember. "For correction," he says.

"What defect?" Karpov asks, almost curious.

The metal gag is unnecessary now; the Asset's voice obeys before the order finishes echoing. "Emotion contaminated efficiency."

A smile tugs at the colonel's mouth, thin as a wire. He steps close enough for the Asset to smell the starch in his uniform. Two gloved fingers stroke the chain where it cuts the throat. The touch is tender in the way a vivisection is precise.

"Emotion," Karpov repeats, letting the word linger. "We will burn it out."

A nod to the guards. The first baton arcs down, cracking against the half‑healed humerus. Bone splits; the sound is wet and personal. The Asset clamps his jaw, but a breath still slips, half growl, half plea. The colonel tuts, disappointed, and another blow slams into the fresh fracture. Sparks crawl through flesh; the scream that escapes feels like it belongs to someone else. It rips free, high and hoarse— cut short when the guard backhands him across the mouth.

Karpov crouches, face inches away. Heat from the stun wand radiates through his glove as he paints the Asset's cheek with blood. "Listen," Karpov murmurs. "Each crack silences a little more of the man you were. Soon there will be nothing left to silence."

He rises and gestures again. The guards fling him into a steel trough filled with ice water up to his chest. The collar shortens until his chin scrapes the rim. Frigid water steals his breath; before he can regain it, the generator slams to full power.

Blue forks tear across the surface. Current seizes muscles, locks joints. He wants to twist away but the electricity nails him inside his own skin. Teeth rattle uselessly. He screams, but the sound is just bubbles rupturing in the water.

Karpov leans over the tub, sparks lighting his grin. "Remember: I choose when you breathe, when you burn, *when you break*."

The switch finally clicks off. The world shrinks to the roar of his pulse and the stench of burnt hair. They drag him out; steam rises where the metal arm meets abused flesh. His shattered right arm hangs, nerves too bruised to ache.

Karpov fisting the front of his suit wrenches him upright until their noses nearly touch. "Speak."

It's automatic now, a reflex cut deeper than pain. "Ready to comply." The words emerge ragged, but they emerge.

Something inside him notices that he feels nothing in saying them. That something goes quiet, ashamed.

The colonel's sigh is one of deep satisfaction. "Good boy."

The leash tightens, and they march him back through the corridor, leaving a thin, glistening trail of ice‑water and blood. The twelve lights buzz overhead. He tries to count them again, but halfway through, the numbers turn to static.

May 1951 - 6 Years Since Injection - The First Mission

The mission is simple.

No noise. No witnesses. No mistakes.

He moves through the dark, a specter of silence. The Winter Soldier does not fail.

Footsteps light. Shadows his ally. The target is alone, unaware. A single heartbeat in a city that does not sleep. The weak sound barely registers. A living thing, soon to be dead.

One shot.

A sharp inhale. A soft thud.

The target is down.

Blood spills onto stone, pooling thick beneath a lifeless body. He does not watch. There is no need. The mission is complete.

In and out. Efficient. Perfect. Lethal.

The report is short.

Mission success.

Karpov listens, nods. Satisfied.

"My Soldier," he says, the ownership clear. The pride. "The Asset."

The words settle, weightless. There is no reaction. There is no need.

A flick of a wrist. The notebook appears. The words begin.

Longing. Rusted. Furnace.

He listens. He complies.

By the time the final word is spoken, he is already gone.

They pull him toward the chair. He moves without resistance. He lowers himself into the metal restraints. His mouth opens before they tell him to.

The rubber gag slides between his teeth. He bites down.

The electricity begins.

He screams, but he does not think.

"Prepare the cryostasis."

Orders given. Orders obeyed. He does not question. He was made for this. A weapon fired. A weapon stored. Awake when necessary.

A chamber looms ahead. Frost licks at the steel. The door yawns open. A coffin, waiting.

"Enter."

He steps forward. Without pause. Without thought.

Cold.

Ice blossoms over his skin, racing up his spine. His breath catches. Something primal stirs.

Fear.

It is sudden. Sharp. His metal hand twitches. Reaches.

But there is nothing to hold.

The cold takes him.

His chest rises—once.

Stillness.

The Winter Soldier is gone.

Chapter Text

It's been a while since Natalia last treated The Soldier.

By now, she knows the drill: Trauma ward until he's back. It's not a comfort, it's not exactly a relief, but that specific chaos, its repetition, is the most familiar thing here.

There are no loaded conversations with Karpov. No need to look perfect. No unease at the lack of pain management. She wears the black scrubs, her blue sneakers, and doesn't bother taming her hair. She knows that one day her schedule will change again, but for now, she pushes the thought away.

There are patients to be treated.

Vogl is half-present. Appearing when Natalia needs help dealing with an unruly patient and cleaning up with her at the end of the day. Strangely, for the most part, she's researching in her office.

One day, when Natalia shows up, Vogl presents her with an opportunity. "There's a surgery in thirty minutes. It'll be led by Dr. Blane, he's brilliant. I recommended you to assist, if you're interested."

"Oh," Natalia says because she's slightly confused. It doesn't feel like a test. She's not sure what it is. Strangely enough, it doesn't even feel like an order. Vogl and her crooked olive branches. HYDRA's growing approval. "Yes, sure. I'm interested."

Vogl doesn't smile; people here rarely smile, but she does look pleased. "Good. As I said, Dr. Blane is a revolutionary. It's one floor down, OR-553. It's a bit of a walk, so I'd get moving. Take lunch before coming back here."

She's still confused and, for some reason, not moving. "Okay."

Vogl shoots her an impatient look. "It's a bit of a walk." She repeats, "You'll have keycard access. Go."

Like the trauma ward, operating room 553 is almost normal.

As Natalia scrubs in, nothing seems off. The motions are the same as the ones she took in a previous life.

The cap and mask. Five minutes iat the sink, scrubbing antiseptic soap up to her elbows. A nurse is there to help with the sterile gown, the gloves are the same light blue as they would be in any hospital.

The man on the operating table is already unconscious. There's a serenity on his face that tells her he's numb, which, in a place like this, is a relief. The wound on his leg is ugly, jagged, and nearly deep enough to reach the bone.The nurse helps her drape him, and Natalia checks the instruments on the stand.

It's only when she looks closely that she sees the difference. Everything here is shining with that HYDRA strangeness. The equipment looks too advanced, there's a locked cabinet behind the operating table, the room is silent with the lack of pre-surgery chatter.

The door pushes open, and Natalia comes face to face with Dr. Blane. He's short, slightly younger than she expected, and is so blonde his brows look nearly white. "Dr. Haddad, you're French, yes?"

"Well, no, but—" She corrects herself quickly because he doesn't need to know. "I speak it."

"Thank God!" He says before switching to French so quickly it makes her head spin. "Université Paris V, correct?"

It seems that everyone here has had unfiltered access to Natalia's file. Part of her isn't surprised, but it's still unsettling. It takes her a second before she can slip back into French. "Yes."

"A prestigious university!" He says as he lines up the instruments on the tray. "I went there myself, you know. A while ago now." He waves his gloved hand dismissively. "I understand that the circumstances that brought you here were... unpleasant."

Her brain short-circuits, eyes widening slightly. There's no lie she can tell here, the question is a pure matter of fact. "Yes. But, I've been... adapting, Doctor."

Dr. Blane chuckles. "Good answer. Let's get full exposure. Retractors in place."

Natalia acts quickly at his sudden command. Finding the retractors and placing them for exposure. For a while, he's silent other than issuing quick commands. It almost feels like she's back in school. Nothing but the quiet sounds of surgery, an old French doctor the students admire.

"Suction." He says. The HYDRA equipment moves faster and smoother than she's used to.

Vogl's assessment was correct: Dr. Blane is objectively brilliant. His hands are steady in a way that can only come with a lifetime of practice. No complications make him blink, even when an arterial bleed makes the machines beep rapidly, he doesn't snap. He's calm, precise. If they were anywhere else, Natalia would have let herself appreciate it.

But he is HYDRA, and his next words reveal exactly why Vogl offered this 'opportunity' to her.

"You said you've been adapting?" He glances over at her as he sutures the wound shut.

The persistent dread coils in her gut. "Yes."

"You've seen medical miracles, Dr. Haddad. You know this. What is accomplished here in HYDRA cannot be accomplished anywhere else. Even out there, people die. Trial runs, experiments... ethics make them hit a dead end." He ties a suture knot quickly before moving on. "Medicine is constantly changing. HYDRA pushes it forward, makes it better, smarter."

It's the third time Natalia's heard this speech, and Dr. Blane says it with the most passion. She knew all along, yet it hits her again, she's not back in France, he's not a teacher. He is a monster. Fuck him and his steady hands. They're bloodstained. They're bloodstained, and it's spreading to her through force. She may not be a killer, but she's aiding and abetting.

Does her not wanting to be here even matter? She is guilty by association.

Natalia takes a deep breath to calm herself. The phantom of a gun barrel presses against her head. She is a witness to crimes she cannot stop. She has to play the role. Everything depends on it.

"Like I said," Natalia keeps her voice steady, "I'm adapting. This isn't why I got into medicine, but objectively, I can appreciate medical advancements."

He nods. Another satisfactory answer. Another test passed.

Dr. Blane finishes the sutures. They're perfect, but something about his posture hints that it's not over. He turns to the nurse and nods his head. "Get me A23."

Natalia watches as the nurse retrieves a key and unlocks that cabinet. Carefully, he procures a small syringe of slightly opaque liquid and hands it to the doctor.

"Watch closely." Dr. Blane says.

Slowly, he injects equal amounts of the mystery serum into the area around the stitches.

The change isn't magic, but it's instantaneous. The area flushes with color, like blood is already circulating the way it should be. She blinks, and the swelling is down significantly. If she hadn't seen it with her own two eyes, she'd guess it had been healing for hours.

HYDRA and its medical advancements. Natalia isn't amazed, not really. She may not know exactly what it took to get the serum successful, but she knows things here aren't just morally gray, they're black.

Natalia only eats lunch because Vogl told her to do it before she returns to the trauma ward. She'd been on her feet for two hours straight and knows that if she wants to be up to par, she needs it.

She doesn't let herself fully take a break, though, not really. More than anything, she needs the distraction of that room.

Keycard in hand, Natalia steps into the elevator and pauses. It's so stupid, it's almost normal. She left her reading glasses in the scrub room after the surgery. If she wants to not accidentally poke someone with a needle, she needs to get them.

More annoyed than anything, her finger moves from the button to the fourth floor to the third. Thankfully, she still has access.

Vogl wasn't kidding, the walk really is long. The first time, she'd hardly noticed. An endless stretch of gray hallway in either direction. For the first time, she notices how much her blue shoes stick out like a sore thumb.

Rushing before she is subjected to another conversation with Dr. Blane, Natalia grabs her glasses and makes her way back to the faraway elevator. By now, Vogl seems past scolding her for tardiness, and Natalia would rather keep it that way.

Her heart still beats too fast, all wound up from the surgery. She hadn't realized it until a cat's meow cuts through the chaos in her head.

Natalia spins in surprise. It's been a while since she's seen Earl the cat, and the surprise reunion makes her smile. She glances in both directions before letting herself crouch down in front of him. "Well, hello, Mr. Earl Gray. Aren't you the most handsome boy in HYDRA?" The words, her own tone, surprise her. Vogl was there every other time she had a second with the cat, and Natalia is pretty sure she wouldn't appreciate the cooing.

But she's alone now, so she lets herself gush. Earl crawls closer to her extended hands, welcoming the pets and head scratches easily. "Aaww, such a pretty boy." Despite the circumstances, Natalia hears her voice rising in pitch, "Yes you are... yes you are. What are you doing all the way down here?"

Earl meows again, arching into her hands. "Oh my goodness. Too cute. You're going to make me late."

They stay like that for another minute before Natalia rises back to her feet. Earl follows closely behind her, like he somehow knows where she's going. "Are you following me, Mr. Earl?" Natalia feels like an idiot. She's fussing over a cat in the middle of a HYDRA hallway. Despite the oddity, she can't help it.

As she walks, she keeps her gaze happily trained downward, watching as Earl rubs against her legs. "Don't worry, I'll get you back to the fourth floor. It's almost lunchtime for you, isn't it—"

Black boots step into her line of sight, making Natalia's heart rate skyrocket and stopping her dead in her tracks. Shit. She freezes, head tilting upwards nervously to the tall figure.

It almost takes her a second to register, but it's him. Blue eyes, brown hair, metal arm. He stops in front of her. Her pulse regulates and slows back to a normal level before she can even register that she felt calmer bumping into HYDRA's most lethal weapon than she would have with anyone else.

He's there—silent, towering—and she never heard a footfall. He looks down at her almost blankly, almost. But there's... something in his eyes. He's not frowning, he doesn't frown. It almost looks like confusion. Maybe it's as strange for him as it is for her to see him outside of the usual areas they interact.

So he's back from whatever assignment they sent him on. It's doubtful that anyone else treated him, and if she wasn't sent to see him, it at least means he didn't get hurt.

Or maybe he wasn't on a mission. No, he definitely was. The Winter Soldier looks tanner, skin warmer. Like it had the first day, the thought hits her again. Were it not for all that inhuman blankness, he'd be devastatingly handsome. The jaw, the scruff, even the outgrown hair. Beneath all that roughness, he could be... charming? In her imagination, an image flashes for a split second. A blinding smile, crooked, maybe.

Reminding herself of who he is, where they are, she pushes the thought away.

Natalia may not be afraid, but she's visibly flustered. The earlier tension from the surgery lingers, the fear that someone caught her with the cat still has her brain running too quickly. She was talking in a voice that's reserved for pets, she knows that kind of behavior is not tolerated in the halls of HYDRA.

"Oh—hi." She says for some reason. Hi. It's as if her mind does not know how to function when her every word is not carefully selected. The Winter Soldier may be lethal, he may be HYDRA's favorite asset, but he isn't testing her. The knowledge makes her lips keep moving. "Do you, um—you look... tanner?"

The Soldier blinks once. He looks at the cat and back at her. Earl meows, and there's a ghost of a frown on his brow before it's wiped away.

It doesn't seem like he's going to answer. Which is... expected. He rarely answers anything, much less comments about his sudden suntan.

But then—his voice. "The sun was out."

Natalia's reply is instinctual, easy. The kind of thing said over coffee. It only stutters at the end when she remembers who she is talking to. "Oh, that's nice! Warm?"

She swallows. Earl meows again.

The Asset did not expect to see her. The doctor.

The mission was completed. Sniper. The jet brought him back. No injuries. No mistakes. He was not sent to report to S-100. Karpov took the mission report and dismissed him for training.

And then, in the hallway. Jasmine. A voice. Hers.

She appeared just as he rounded the corner. Her gaze down on the animal below her. He registered her surprise, the confusion. Not fear. Not like the others.

He knew this. He sees it more. Especially now.

She looks like a civilian. Someone he'd ignore on a mission.

Black scrubs that are too big. Not like what she wears in S-100. Not HYDRA. Not now. Natalia. He remembers her name.

Messy hair. Curly, dark. Piled atop her head. Blue nails.

She was smiling. It lingers, not at him. Below her, the animal begs for attention. A cat. Blue shoes.

Something twists under his ribs—small, sharp, unfamiliar. He catalogues it away the only way he knows how: black scrubs, blue shoes, soft voice.

She does not look like HYDRA. She does not talk like HYDRA either.

Oh, that's nice. Warm.

More inflection than the others. Emotion.

Nice is not considered for mission completion. It is not necessary to register. Weather is something to be calculated. Fewer places to hide. Sweat beneath his uniform. Beneath the mask.

This is not a mission debrief but The Soldier reports a fact. "It was hot." He recalls her voice from earlier. Scans the hallway. Empty. "Who were you talking to?"

Her eyes widen. A beat. "You know, for someone your size, you walk incredibly quietly."

Stealth. A necessary skill. Why is she— The Soldier registers. She thought she was alone. The words were private.

His brow ticks. "Who?"

There is a faint pink to her cheeks that was not there before. He doesn't understand. She looks at her feet. "The cat. Earl."

His confusion mirrors hers. The cat breaks the silence. It meows, demands attention.

She is smiling again. At the cat. Why?

She bends and picks it up. Strokes his head softly. There is trust there. He can almost recognize it.

He knows, and the cat knows. She has gentle hands.

The cat hisses at him. "Earl! Be nice." She blinks. Looks back up at him. Familiar brown eyes. "I should go, um... bye."

The Soldier doesn't speak, he moves. The orders were to report for training.

He is halfway down the hall when he hears the faint sound of her voice.

He turns. She carries the cat as she walks. Kisses its head.

His brow ticks. Catalogues. Attempts to define.

Unruly hair. She likes the sun. She likes the cat. Blue nails. Blue shoes.

This is not a mission. She is not a target. He should not be cataloguing.

Irrelevant. Irrelevant. Irrelevant. Irrelevant.

His training kicks in. He reports for duty.

Orlov and someone else. They take his vitals. His brow ticks again. Orlov looks at his tablet then at the Soldier. He follows a written order.

"Your usual handler was in surgery, but you'll resume regular protocol next time and report to her."

Her. His doctor.

The Soldier exhales, barely audible.

Relief.

Automatic. Inexplicable.

He catalogues it anyway.

Chapter Text

After the surgery, after that interaction with The Soldier, nothing today brings can phase Natalia.

The hours pass with their usual routine. Vogl is only mildly relieved when Natalia returns Earl to her office. Whatever it is she's researching sets her on edge. Natalia isn't told, so she doesn't ask.

Only a few patients are occupying her time, nothing that calls for an emergency, nothing too frantic.

Vogl dismisses her early, which is also not too unusual on slow days like today.

After showering, she waits to eat dinner with Trudy before the two of them find their usual spot on the couches by the window.

Today, they play chess. Natalia is pretty sure they're playing it wrong, but neither of them knows, or cares enough to find out. Either way, Trudy is cheating and not bothering to hide it. She goes so far as to hide one of Natalia's chess pieces in the couch. Natalia lets her get away with it.

After the chess, Natalia says, "I saw Earl Grey today."

Trudy blinks in surprise. "Huh, out in the hall, looking lost?"

So she was right. Like her, Trudy works as some kind of doctor or scientist on one of the medical floors. Natalia had figured as much. They both carry the same, unwilling tiredness. They both look out the window as much as they can after the suffocation of the underground levels.

Natalia just nods. Both of them know how to read between the lines. She doesn't ask if Trudy saw anything else, anyone else. All discussion of The Asset is strictly off limits. He's a secret. Natalia has been told, she knows.

The two of them look out the window in silence. The sun has already set, but it lowers later in the day now. Ice melts, green peeks out through the retreating sludge. They aren't allowed outside, but it's nice to see anyway. Spring is coming.

Natalia doesn't know it because she's lost track of the days, but a week ago she turned 25. About two months ago, the Earth's population rang in the new year. It's 1992. Grunge is taking over, jeans are getting baggier. There's a new Madonna album that Natalia would have purchased if she weren't here. Outside the dark walls of HYDRA, the world goes on. Inside, Natalia knows this. She doesn't know what she is missing, but she feels the loss. Mourns it. Her mother sent her a care package, it was never received.

The Winter Soldier is also kept in the dark. His age is harder to define. Years of cryogenic sleep and advanced biology blur the lines. Technically, he'll soon turn 31. He has been alive for 74 years. The world he knew is long gone. It's sepia-toned and vintage. Unlike Natalia, he does not mourn because he does not remember.

Newly twenty-five and unaware of it, Natalia climbs into bed. As she falls asleep, she vaguely wonders if The Winter Soldier has ever petted a cat.

Vogl researches again the next day while Natalia takes care of the patients.

She's even more on edge, and Natalia can see it. The door connecting her office to the trauma ward is almost always shut. Whenever it does open, Vogl is a mess. Hair awry like she's been pulling at her bun, shirt untucked. She mutters to herself before grabbing whatever supplies she's looking for and shutting herself in her office again.

She dismisses Natalia even earlier than yesterday. On her way out, Natalia sees a familiar face. She recognizes the receding hairline, his slight hunchback. Dr. Aubert, from her early days here in the lab.

He's holding a stack of books and files, not even looking at Natalia as he passes. Rushing, similarly stressed, he joins Vogl in her office and shuts the door.

Dr. Aubert is gone when Natalia reports for work the next morning. Vogl's stress is not.

She's out of her office, pacing near the back end of the room. It doesn't even look like she slept or left since yesterday. There's a section of cots blocked off with curtains despite being empty.

Still alert, still Vogl, her head snaps in Natalia's direction. "You deal with them," she waves vaguely in the direction of the men on the open cots. "Whoever they bring to me, you leave to me."

Less than an hour later, whatever Vogl was waiting for comes in loudly.

Natalia is focused on changing the dressings on one of her patients' healing wounds when the door bangs open. Instinct almost has her flying to her feet, but they bring him over to Vogl quickly. She remembers the order, the not-so-subtle hint to mind her own business.

The man is already on a stretcher, screaming, convulsing, pain etched into his features. Natalia only catches a glimpse before the curtains are drawn, but the sight is almost familiar to the effects of another poison she's seen. Black veins, muscles strained. It's similar to something she's dealt with before, but it's worse. Whatever poison is coursing through him makes the man scream incoherently. "They're coming! Run, RUN!"

He's hallucinating.

From behind the curtain, Natalia can hear the sound of Vogl and another nurse struggling with the man. Monitors beep loudly, wildly. Vogl is screaming, "Hold him steady!"

Then he's quiet. The machines go calm. He flatlines.

Natalia recognizes the sound of the defibrillator, the sound of it failing. The low whine of his heart rate monitor displayed nothing. Vogl's voice, "Time of death, nine thirty-three."

The man's body is carried out the back door. Either Natalia is imagining, or he's already turning gray.

Vogl disappears again into her office. Natalia makes herself busy, she doesn't ask questions. But then it happens again.

Vogl's pacing, a man with the same symptoms, his quick death. This time, the loss seems to hit Vogl. When his heart flatlines and the defibrillator fails, her gloves are ripped off and thrown across the room. "It's not working!" Her leg flies out then, toppling a tray and scattering tools across the floor before she storms back to her office.

Natalia and the nurse on duty clean the mess quietly.

Eventually, Natalia can't take it anymore. Checking her patients one last time, she knocks on the office door before stepping in. "Vogl?"

Natalia halts. Vogl's entire office has been transformed into a lab of sorts. There's a metal table that wasn't there before, the back wall is now occupied by a shelf of glass vials and beakers. Earl, or any evidence of him, is nowhere in sight. In the center of it all is Vogl herself. More stressed than Natalia has ever seen her. "What are you working on?"

When Vogl doesn't answer, Natalia almost leaves, but she stays in place. "Can I help?"

She sighs, almost shakes her head, but then she pauses. "I suppose a fresh set of eyes couldn't hurt..."

To Natalia's shock, Vogl's efforts for the past week have been entirely focused on developing an antidote to a poison.

The effects of B27 are not just lethal, they are horrifying. It's all neatly outlined in a series of files and test cases.

It kills, but it destroys the body first, the mind. It's brutal. A potent neurotoxin combined with a cytotoxic compound. B27 attacks both the nervous system and peripheral tissues. In just minutes, it can induce hypoxia, trigger widespread cellular necrosis, and disrupt neurotransmitter function.

Pain, hallucinations, death.

Since it's her first time looking at Vogl closely enough, Natalia is only now able to see the exhaustion in her eyes. The way the tips of her fingers are stained black from handling the poison.

The poison itself isn't black—a murky dark gray that looks deceptively unassuming in the glass vials. It's administered intravenously. The files don't do it justice, they do not accurately depict the horror of what she'd seen the two men endure.

She and Vogl study it for hours. The two of them hunched over her desk, interrupted every so often when Natalia has to run out to treat a patient. Vogl walks her through the early process of her and Dr. Aubert's attempts at creating an antidote. They've been able to successfully halt necrosis, even reverse the effects, but it's the combination of stress on the heart and brain that kills.

There's an odd machine in the corner. It's loud, nothing Natalia's ever seen before. Its benefit is that it allows for a trial run of sorts. The poison is injected into organic matter meant to mimic the human organ system, the antidote is injected next. Vogl calls it the M-Phase Scan and shows her why five different antidote solutions have failed.

When she closes her eyes to sleep that night, statistics and information about the poison are burned into the back of her eyelids.

The next morning, Dr. Romero is covering Natalia's patients. No one is happy about it—least of all the patients—but Vogl barely notices, too buried in her work to care. Natalia is ushered back into the lab without ceremony.

The days blur. Another man seizes, screams, dies. The antidote fails. The M-Phase Scanner hums and falls silent again and again.

Vogl curses, kicks trays across the room. Natalia vomits until there's nothing left.

They don't even try to pretend anymore. The men coming in aren't operatives—they're prisoners. Too thin, too old. Test subjects.

By the second day, four bodies are gone. No one records the names.

Natalia watches as the poison blackens veins, rots organs, shreds minds.
She holds them down. Watches them die. Again. Again. Again.

Guilty by association. The words echo inside her skull.

At dinner, she barely hears the clatter of Trudy dropping her silverware. It's the tremble of her hands that finally draws Natalia's eyes up. Black staining her fingertips—just like Vogl's.

Trudy tries to hide it, but it's too late.

Wordlessly, Natalia grabs her hands. Leads her away. They crowd together in bed, she holds Trudy until the tears stop.

Natalia doesn't sleep much, but when she wakes, she's more determined than ever.

It gets worse the next day.

Two more men die before the antidote can even touch them. The third almost survives—almost.

The antidote slows the black rot crawling through his veins. His chest rises, steady for the first time. Natalia dares to breathe.

Then he shrieks—an awful, broken sound—and seizes so hard the restraints tear. The heart monitor screams. A wet, sickening crack splits the air.

Gone.

If she'd eaten anything, she would have vomited again.

Vogl tries to dismiss her after that, but Natalia refuses to leave. They run another three trials in the M-Phase Scanner. Failure. Failure. Failure.

Natalia only makes her way back to the upper floor when her body betrays her. Eyes dropping, limbs heavy.

She needs food and rest. Two simple solutions that seem too trivial to waste time on.

Upstairs, Trudy is asleep on the couch by the window. Fingers still black, body tense even in sleep. Natalia softly shakes her awake before leading her down the hall.

They sleep in Natalia's room again, crowding the small bed.

The next morning, Natalia feels more alert, ready to study the poison again.

Trudy braids Natalia's hair back. Natalia ties Trudy's graying hair into a neat bun.

Alone in her room, she pulls the black slacks on and forces down another bar. It's not that she wants to eat, but if she wants to be focused, she knows she needs it. She hadn't slept much, but it had helped. Eating helped too.

Trivial. One problem, two solutions.

Her breath catches. Her body locks up, fingers tightening around the half-eaten bar.

Two.

The realization slams into her like a physical thing. Two. That's the answer.

She's running before she even knows she's moving.

The keycard is gripped tightly in her hands as she slams the elevator button, sprinting to Vogl's office before wildly throwing the door open. "Vogl!"

Vogl startles, clutching her chest like she's annoyed, "Jesus—"

"Two." Natalia gasps for breath. "There needs to be two antidotes. One that targets the tissues first, then the nervous system."

Vogl halts. Mouth parting, fingers twitching like the thought is just now clicking into place.

Her eyes snap up to meet Natalia's. Something sharpens behind them. "The necrosis..."

Natalia nods, breathless. "We stop that first. Then inject again, if we can stop the cell death, the antidote will actually be able to reverse the effects on neurotransmitter function." The words come out quickly, desperate but hopeful.

They don't waste another second.

Vogl is already moving, grabbing files, flipping through formulas with new energy. Natalia snatches a pen and jots calculations onto the nearest notepad. They work fast. Faster than ever.

This time, they will not fail.

Hours pass. Two trial runs of the new strain sit uselessly in the beakers behind them. The M-Phase scanner spins and hums.

They'd failed, but at least they're making progress; Natalia's idea is working .

The first half of the antidote always works. The necrosis is retreating and fading. They watch as blood vessels swell back to life, more receptive to the second round of injection. They're not quite there yet, but they're close, Natalia can feel it.

Two batches of their newest attempt sit before them. Two syringes each, clear liquid, fresh from the centrifuge.

Vogl takes a deep breath before injecting the first into the organic matter in the M-Phase scanner. That's the easy part, the part they know already works. The effects of necrosis are instant. This alone is a miracle, but in HYDRA, with this, it's not enough.

As she injects the next vial, Vogl's black, stained hands shake slightly. They both hold their breath. They wait—

The door to Vogl's office flies open. Men in black find Natalia instantly. "Haddad, follow."

Vogl registers what's happening first. Her cry of protest is loud and surprising. "Wait! Not yet—"

The guards are unfazed, grabbing Natalia's arm to take her away. A man in a white lab coat moves around the chaos. "Is this the most recent trial?"

Vogl turns desperately between the M-Phase scanner and the men. "Yes, but it's still being tested. It's not ready. Listen to me!"

They don't. Natalia's feet trip on the floor as they drag her out. She cranes her neck, attempting to see what happens in the Scanner, but everything is happening too quickly. The man in the white lab coat follows shortly behind, holding the two vials carefully.

Second floor, Natalia already knows where they're taking her before they reach it. S-100.

And then they leave her. A large metal cot. The untested antidotes. She knows what's coming.

She knows who the next test subject is.

Chapter Text

The Winter Soldier stands still. Waiting.

The chamber hums behind him, cold mist curling at the edges. His body anticipates it, muscles bracing for the chill that will seep into his bones.

He expects orders. He expects the cold.

Today, something is different.

The voices outside the room do not speak of the chamber. They do not say freeze him. They are speaking of something else.

"...it won't kill the Asset."

His gaze remains forward. He does not react. But he listens.

"...need to observe full neurological response."

"...we'll know soon enough."

"...if it works, we move forward."

He understands enough. An experiment.

A command crackles through the speaker. "Step forward."

He obeys.

The scientist approaches. White gloves. A syringe. The liquid inside is dark. Opaque.

Unfamiliar.

"Arm."

His metal fingers uncurl. The sleeve is pushed up. The needle slides beneath his skin.

Burning.

Not like the chair. Not like electricity. Something different.

A sensation roots itself deep. It coils through his veins like barbed wire.

His pulse slams in his ears. He inhales—

The breath shudders.

His balance shifts.

Knees buckle. A miscalculation.

He falls to them, metal hand catching him against the tile. Bracing. The cold surface stings against his palm.

His breathing is steady. His body is not.

Muscles seize. The metal arm shakes.

His vision distorts. Too bright. Too dark. Flickering.

Something is wrong.

The door slams open, startling Natalia as they throw him in.

The Winter Soldier hits the cot hard. No hesitation. No ceremony. He's nothing more than an object to them. A piece of equipment being moved from one location to the next.

But he isn't silent, not now. For the first time, she hears him screaming. It's not a sound she's ever associated with him before, that raw reaction to torment. The poison affects him the same way it affects all the others. The reaction is human in a way that she didn't think he was capable of.

His body seizes and contorts. Metal arm jerking violently against the restraints they buckle down with sharp, efficient clicks. The men in black move quickly, uncaring, unaffected. Like it's just another day. Like his pain isn't even worth acknowledging.

Then they leave.

Natalia is frozen for half a second.

The sound he made—it wasn't a cry of rage, not defiance. Not even frustration.

It was pain. Pure. Raw. Tearing him apart.

She shakes herself, she knows what to do.

It's just her and him now. The man strapped to the cot, his body betraying him. The Asset is trained to endure pain without flinching, to withstand unspeakable things in absolute silence.

This—this is different.

Natalia snatches the first syringe off the tray. No hesitation. She doesn't waste time rolling up his sleeve, just presses it to his neck and injects.

"Okay, okay," she whispers, a meaningless comfort. To him? To herself? It doesn't matter. "Come on, let this work..."

His muscles lock, his spine arches. Every tendon in his body is drawn so tight it’s unnatural. His metal hand slams against the cot with enough force to dent it.

And then something shifts.

His veins.

She watches them—black and spreading like ink beneath his skin—begin to recede. They shrink, retreating. The first antidote is working. The trial runs in the M-Phase scanner already proved this, but she's relieved either way.

The remaining, and larger issue, is reflected in his eyes. Pupils still blown wide. There's no hint of the usual blue, nothing but the same blackness that killed all the men before him.

He's still lost, still trapped inside the hallucinations. This is the part that matters, the part she isn't even sure will work.

She doesn't hesitate. Doesn't let herself. Second injection.

Natalia moves fast, reaches for his arm—but he's thrashing too hard. If she injects the wrong spot, too much pressure, or too close to an artery—

Her hands find his face, holding his chin desperately. "Stop. Please." It's instinct. A useless plea. He can't hear her. She presses down, firm. Not cruel, but grounding. "You have to stop."

It's like trying to hold down a storm. His skin is too hot. Too tense.

Tears of frustration and panic prick her eyes. This was easier when Vogl was there to help. At least there was someone else to share the burden. Natalia grits her teeth and tries again. “I’m sorry, but I need you to hold still .”

There is a second of stillness, awareness. Whatever nightmare he’s experiencing pauses enough that his eyes meet hers.

Holding eye contact, Natalia drives the second needle in and plunges the antidote deep into his muscle.

His chest stutters. His head snaps back.

The Winter Soldier goes still.

For a moment, she thinks she killed him. She watches, barely breathing, her pulse too loud in her ears. And then—his breath returns. Slow. Shallow. Ultimately steady.

His eyes are still open, still dark, until they finally slip closed. He's out. For the first time, Natalia glances at The Winter Soldier getting some semblance of rest. For the first time, the antidote seems to be working. The monitors around him beep steadily, he's alive.

He’s alive. 

She exhales and staggers back. For a moment, her eyes search for Vogl's until she remembers she's alone.

And then, it hits her.

He was never going to die. Not really.

HYDRA wouldn't have poisoned him if they thought it could kill him.

They weren't testing if he could survive. They were just testing what it would do to him. He's not a regular man, he's stronger. His body recovers faster, she's seen the files, she knows. She also knows this isn't the first time they've done something like this. To HYDRA, he is the perfect test subject. Nearly un-killable.

The thought almost makes her physically sick.

Her body shakes. It's exhaustion. Adrenaline drop. For the past few nights, she and Vogl have spent most of their time in that office. Sleep deprivation is starting to kick in. No matter how badly she needs sleep, she can't leave, not now.

An unseen force drags her down, the weight of the last few days pressing against her chest. She wants to stand, wants to pace, wants to do anything other than sit here and feel the truth of what just happened.

He was never going to die.

He was screaming. He was human enough to scream.

Natalia sinks into the chair beside him and studies his unconscious form. The steady rise and fall of his chest, his brow still furrowed in pain.

Her fingers move before she can think. She brushes his hair back from his face.

Human—he looks so human it hurts. His scream had sounded so human that it still echoes in her head. Around them, the monitors tell her the worst is over, the antidote worked. Natalia is too tired, too overwhelmed, to feel the success. The whole thing has been tainted from the start. A success within the walls of HYDRA is not really a success.  

Her eyes are heavy, the world blurring at the edges. Natalia doesn't mean to fall asleep, but she does.

The Soldier wakes up. It feels wrong.

His limbs are heavy, unresponsive. His spine stings like it's still trying to uncoil. A distant hum. Pain in his skull. Deep. Old. Something lingers.

He tries to move. His body does not listen.

Not in the cryogenic chamber. He's lying down. Unfamiliar. Cold metal. Restraints.

No words. No orders. Just quiet.

It comes back: experiment. Poison. Pain. Her.

The poison made him see things. Hallucinations. His mind knows, catalogues.

Not real. A train. Falling. Snow. Not real. Not real. Not real. Not his. Then, why?

His head turns. The pain remains. He scans and stops. Her. Jasmine. A melody. Blue. She likes the sun— Irrelevant.

She is close. Asleep. Not HYDRA. Black scrubs. Messy hair. The Winter Soldier does not remember sleep but he recognizes it.

More pain. A name. He does not know why. " Natalia ." His voice is raw. Too quiet. He'd been screaming. He does not know if he will be punished for it.

Not by her. She does not punish. His body jerks. Involuntary. Pain.

She stirs, then wakes. Brown eyes open. Widen. She stands and comes closer. "You... hi—You're awake."

The memory of her name fades. Dissolves into nothing. He searches. He does not know what to call her. She does not know what to call him.

She has never called him anything. Not the Asset. Not the Soldier. Not like the others.

Another name rises, unbidden. He hears himself say it. "Barnes."

The syllables feel strange in his mouth. Foreign. It means nothing, but it lingers—just long enough for the edges of a memory to form.

A train. Snow. Falling.

Then it's gone. Static swallows it whole.

"What?" Her head tilts, but the word doesn't reach him. The name is already lost.

He does not remember

Soft hands. Jasmine. She brushes his skin. He remembers. Just before everything faded. Those hands had touched his face. Light. Gentle. Unfamiliar.

A secret.

She looks between him and the machines. Concern. Relief. Not HYDRA.

The door opens. Men in black. "We're taking him."

"No. I'm not done." Her voice is sharp. A flash of something real. Anger. Fear. "You can't keep doing this!"

His restraints pull. His vision narrows. He locates the voices. The guard speaking, the one standing closest to her. Too close. 

The one who shoves her.

She stumbles. Nearly falls. Too rough. Too rough. She does not belong here.

His metal hand jerks.

He does not remember telling it to move. The motion is small, almost nothing—but it happens.

The Soldier does not move without orders.

And yet.

The door closes behind her. The man who shoved her turns. Steps closer. Reaches for the restraints.

The Soldier looks at him.

He does not react. Does not speak. Does not move.

But he marks him.

The same way he marks a target. 

Out in the hall, Natalia manages to compose herself. Forces her body, her expression, into a semblance of calm.

A guard is watching her closely, unaffected. Either way, she doesn't let herself look at the closed door of S-100. She doesn't let herself wonder what they will do to him now.

She's getting better at their games, she has to. This time it's not about her life, it's not even just about her mother's life or S.H.I.E.L.D. It's more. It's him.

That flash of humanity rocked her to her core. There'd been hints before. Like when his metal arm was ruined near his flesh, the first time he'd spoken to her in a way that wasn't robotic. That interaction in the hall. And today. He'd said a name, someone he knew... someone he shouldn't have remembered. Who is Barnes?

Focus, she needs to focus.

Straightening her scrubs, she turns to the guard. Her voice is steady because it has to be. Because she's learning to play their games. She thinks of Trudy, their attempts at chess. Hiding pieces in the cracks of the couch. She'll hide that one, the name, the memory they told her he didn't have.

"I need to check on him tonight. Tell Karpov it's urgent." The lie comes easily. It has to, she is focused. "Just because the antidote worked on the Soldier doesn't mean it will work on anyone else." There's an imperceptible crack in her voice when she has to call him that. The Soldier. It's not a name. "You can tell Karpov I'm requesting it. My observations are incomplete. I need better notes if we want to know the antidote works."

She's steady, she's calm, and she's lying. Natalia hides the metaphorical chess piece behind her back.

It works.

The guard nods, "I'll tell him. Dismissed."

Natalia keeps her chin up all the way back to the elevator.

Back in her room, she and Trudy wait.

Trudy doesn't know what for, but Natalia gave her a hint. A dangerous one, one she knows will take away some of the pain behind Trudy's eyes. She holds her hand once, runs her fingers over the blackened tips. "It's over."

This time, when Trudy's eyes water, Natalia knows it's relief.

Late as it is, Trudy doesn't question it when Natalia showers and changes into a Karpov-approved outfit. The rules of the game are strange and cruel, and Natalia knows them well. Her request will be accepted, she's sure of it. Vogl, Dr. Blane, Karpov... she's been passing all their tests.

Cream blouse tucked into brown trousers, it's her clothes, but not really. Simple flats, her jewelry, her grandmother's watch. Trudy helps brush through her wet hair, ties it half back.

For once, Natalia doesn't pace, she doesn't chew her nails, she just waits.

Then, there's a knock at her door.

Trudy's already asleep, so Natalia steps outside and closes the door quietly behind her.

There's a guard, he says, "Karpov approved your request. You'll gather your supplies before I take you to the Asset."

"Good," Natalia says before following him to the elevator.

Vogl's waiting in the trauma ward, quickly helping Natalia pack the medical bag. A blood draw kit, ABG to check oxygen levels, EMG for neuromuscular damage. All HYDRA tech, impossibly small, fitted into a single bag.

Lastly, Vogl hands her a plastic case with two yellow pills. "For the necrosis, if there's lingering effects, it's not pain relief but... it helps." At the end, she adds, "Already tested."

Natalia still doesn't like her; she never will. But she can tell she's growing on Vogl.

The guard leads her out again, back to the elevator.

He pushes the button for the first floor.

The Asset stands. Waiting.

The room is cold, dim. They speak in hushed voices, clipped Russian. Words exchanged between the white lab coats, the men in black. He does not listen—not at first.

Then, something familiar. Recognizable. Asset. Cryogenic chamber.

Not an order. A discussion. About him. Not to him.

His body still processes the antidote. The poison is gone. Mostly. His pulse still pounds in his head, his limbs are slow, wrong. There is an unsteadiness that does not belong.

The decision is swift. No cryogenic chamber.

"Not yet. Too soon."

"Observation first... test reactions."

"...keep him restrained.

One of them looks at him. An order. "Walk."

The Asset walks. Elevator. The dark cell.

The restraints are routine. The cell is routine. He does not question them.

The door opens.

A guard steps in.

Recognition is instant. The kind he does not usually have. It is not from a mission. Not from orders. It is from—

The hallway. The doctor. The guard who pushed her . 

Something sharp coils in his chest. A tension he does not understand. He does not need to.

The guard does not see it coming.

The Asset moves fast. A sharp pivot, a twist—the crunch of breaking bone. Even as he attacks, he knows. The Asset will be punished. It will hurt. It does not stop him. Not now.

The guard's scream is sudden, pained. Cut off. A body slams hard against the floor.

Shouting. Movement. Hands on him. Pulling. Restraining. Locking him back in place. Force him to his knees. 

He does not fight them. He lets them. A punishment is coming. The only thing the Asset fears. Not this time.

The voices are sharp now. Barked orders. Frantic analysis.

"... violence due to residual effects."

"Unpredictable neural response."

"Not fully stabilized."

No one considers the real reason.

They do not suspect choice.

He does not care.

They do not wait long.

The restraints force him to his knees. Arms locked behind him. Chest bared, back exposed.

The first strike lands hard. Heavy. Blunt. Designed to bruise, not break.

Then another.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Pain registers. It does not matter.

He knows punishment. This is punishment.

His body absorbs the impact. He does not move. He does not react.

He still does not regret it.

Eventually, they stop. Not when his head hangs. Not when he chokes. Only when the guard's arm tires.

The whip pulls back. Boots retreat. The door shuts. The lights cut out.

Silence.

His breath comes slow. Even. The bruises burn.

The Winter Soldier stares into the dark. He still does not regret it.

For the first time since she's been here, Natalia descends the elevator to the first floor.

The shift is palpable the second the doors slide open. The depth feels heavy, colder, even colder than the other floors. It's darker, and it's like she can feel the pressure of being so deep underground. The outfit she chose does nothing against the temperature, the cold biting her skin as she follows the guard down a long hallway. Karpov's rules feel stranger than ever.

When they approach a metal door, the guard halts, gestures with his chin. "There's two doors, I'll be out here. Shout if you need anything."

A quiet urgency has Natalia already reaching for the knob but she turns her head at the last part, brow furrowed, "What?"

The guard just shrugs, "The Asset got violent a few hours ago. Karpov's orders were to leave you alone but make sure nothing happens."

"Violent?" Natalia repeats. That doesn't make sense...

He doesn't get violent, not unless he's told to.

"Attacked a guard. He's restrained now, don't worry. Residual effects of the antidote or the poison. I don't know, you're the scientist."

Part of Natalia wants to snap that she's not a scientist, she's a doctor. It's supposed to be different, she's supposed to help people. But it doesn't matter, not here, not to a random HYDRA guard.

Either way, it doesn't make sense. Unless he was still experiencing the effects of the poisons hallucinations there'd be no reason for sudden aggression. But she'd seen him earlier, he was recovered, calm. So if it was the antidote... no. That doesn't make sense either. She and Vogl would have noticed if something in the antidote triggered aggression.

Glancing at the guard once, Natalia just pushes through the first set of doors. The second is a few meters away. The interaction already has Natalia frowning as she opens the second door.

What she sees makes a cold dread drop from her ears to her stomach.

He's not just restrained, he's on display.

Natalia's lips part as she takes him in, a quiet sound of protest trapped in her throat. A display. This is a blatant display of control.

He's on his knees, back straight, the muscles in his chest pulling and strained. Behind him, his arms are pulled taut, metal restraints around his wrists, tethering the chains to the wall.

"My God." The words are so quiet she hardly hears herself. Her throat closes.

That's not it. There's a black mask around the lower half of his face. It starts just below his eyes, covering his nose, mouth, and jaw. She's seen it before, he wore it in the footage Karpov showed her that day. At first she thought it was for the sake of anonymity, just a mask. But looking at it now, she knows—it's a muzzle.

His head hangs low, loose hair blocking his eyes. He doesn't look at Natalia as she approaches, vision swimming, bag gripped tightly in her hand. God. She tries to swallow, but her throat is dry.

He's restrained now.

No. The medical chair is different; the restraints when she treats him. He's sitting up then, the metal around his arms and legs more of a precaution than anything. This is different, it's... barbaric. His body is pulled in an unnatural position.

Natalia isn't naive, not anymore. She knows exactly what she's looking at.

He's being punished. He's been like this for hours.

It would be brutal anyway, the cruelty even worse knowing it happened directly after the effects of the poison. He'd been in pain. She heard it, she'd never forget those screams. And to go straight from that to this...

Before she knows what she's doing, Natalia lowers herself to her knees, she feels the cold of it through her pants. Hours. He's been here for hours. He must be freezing .

Now that she's close, she can hear the effects of the muzzle. Like she'd suspected, it's not just a mask. His breaths are labored, heavy, even if he doesn't show it. Her brain is running through any excuse she can to remove the mask but she's coming up short. Karpov wouldn't approve but she can't just sit here and look at it.

"They said you got aggressive?" Natalia asks carefully. It's not an accusation, not even a statement. She's asking.

When he does finally look up at her, it's slow, nearly reluctant. She doesn't understand what it means when his eyes meet hers. His hair falls back from his face, revealing a small, bloody gash on his brow, something from impact.

Something clicks then, the pills. Vogl gave her pills for the necrosis. She has to take the mask off, if anyone asks, that's what she'll say. Vogl's first real olive branch, and it was an accident.

"I'm going to take this off." She says, searching his eyes.

Nothing.

She has to stand back up to reach around his head, fumbling with the mechanism. His head twitches for a split second when she reaches for him. Not quite a flinch, but almost like he'd expected something else. A sharp pull, something harsh. Finally, she figures out the claps, and the mask slides free slowly. There are red marks on his skin, an indentation under his eyes from where the hard material sat.

Not a mask, a muzzle, she knows that now.

The evidence of his relief is obvious and automatic. He gasps, breathing freely, eyes locked on hers as she sets the mask aside. Her chest constricts and tightens.

Getting back on her knees, Natalia faces him again. "The poison, do you feel it still? Does it still hurt?"

There's a beat of silence. It's long, it's heavy, and she can hear the roughness in his throat when he says, "Not anymore."

Not just no. Not anymore.

Her blink is a second longer than it needs to be. Something still doesn't make sense. Why the violence? Why attack the guard? She tries again, "They said you attacked someone... one of the guards?"

Nothing.

Natalia sighs, fumbles to open her bag. For a second she can't bear to look at him and keeps her chin tucked in, gaze low even when she finds what she needs.

"I'm going to take some vitals, draw blood... it won't hurt."

He doesn't nod, he just stares.

The Winter Soldier does not want to look up when he senses her approach.

He knows who it is. Quiet walk. Jasmine. It's stronger, fresher.

It overwhelms his senses.

He does not want to look up because his mind might be tricking him. Like it did earlier. The poison.

When she gets on her knees, he knows it’s real. No one else would do it. The hallucinations could not create this. He hears her voice. Real. Her.

He knows the pain is over. For now. It won't hurt.

He knows. The Asset doesn't speak again. He heard his voice the first time. Too hoarse. Too weak. Weakness is punished.

But then he remembers. Not by her. She'd removed the mask. Unnecessary.

The Asset does not understand. So he watches. Studies. His breathing steadies, evens.

He recalls the guard. The feeling of snapping his arm. Instinct. Not HYDRA's. His.

She takes his vitals. Quiet. Gentle. Machines he does not recognize. When he does not flinch, it's not just training. It's because he knows.

Jasmine. A melody. Blue. The cat. The one she'd smiled at. She does not smile now. Furrowed brow, not just concentration. Something else.

He does not recognize the look in her eyes. For him?

It is not fear. Not a command. It is not a look that is meant for a weapon.

In a medical sense, everything is normal. His levels are balanced, his eyes are blue again. The antidote worked perfectly.

It should be a relief; it worked. But at what cost?

Two questions linger, they pound in the back of her head. Natalia knows she can't ask, not now. The stakes are too high, it's the first time she's insisted on seeing him, Karpov may not be directly watching, but in a sense, he's always there.

Despite knowing this, they crawl up her throat and choke her.

Why did you attack a guard?

Who is Barnes?

They aren't the only things clawing at her insides. Pain, like its physical hits her every time she looks at him.

Hours of this, on his knees, arms yanked back. The freezing cold cell. And this is just what she's seen, just today.

The blood on his forehead catches in the light, and Natalia is fighting every instinct not to do anything about it. That's not why she's here, not to heal, not to mend, just to collect data for the antidote.

Swallowing, Natalia stares at the remaining instruments in her bag. "I need to take a blood sample."

No reaction, not that she expects one.

Standing, Natalia grabs the kit, a glass tube already attached to the butterfly needle. With the way he's positioned, she'll have to step behind him to reach the vein on the inside of his elbow. It'll be a difficult position, but there aren’t any other options. For a second, only the sound of Natalia's movements and rustling clothes fills the room.

Then—shattering glass.

The vial falls from her hand when she sees his back. His back, it's... it's... no. God.

At the sound, the Soldier’s head turns toward her, moving as much as his position allows. It's just half his face, the sharp line of his jaw, unmoving lips. She can hardly see his eyes through his hair. Natalia looks at him before her gaze is dragged once again to his back.

She already knew he was being punished. The cell, the painful restraints. Even that, she thought, was too much. But his back tells a different story, one that's worse. There are scars, random, varying in sizes and shapes, the kind she's seen before, the kind she's seen on his torso. Those are from injuries in a fight. Those she expects. That's not what makes the blood rush from her head.

It's the bruises. Angry and red, raised welts in straight lines marring his skin. They're fresh, even with his increased healing they look fresh. "Your back—What did they..." Her breath catches in her throat. Her chest tightens to the point of cracking. "What is this?" Straight lines, intentional, made to hurt.

His answer isn't just practiced, he says it like it's true. "It's part of the training."

"That's not—this isn't training." It's a dangerous thing to say, but she says it.

His head is still half turned in her direction. There's a finality in his eyes, acceptance. "It works."

There's a second where her vision goes white. Pure survival instinct keeps her upright. It's not just that HYDRA that thinks he's more weapon than man, it's him too.

She's seen it, seen him. The way he moves is unnatural. He doesn't fight like a human, he doesn't react like one. There have been moments, oddities, but... for the most part, he's blank. A HYDRA-made brain, she remembers what Karpov said. She remembers his files. They'd told her from day one. He's not human. 

He doesn't even think he's human.

Her lungs constrict before she forces them open with a series of controlled breaths.

If someone walks in and sees this, sees her reaction, it's over. Chess chessboard knocked off the table. The invisible gun at her head will fire in a way that is real. 

Natalia kicks the glass away, grabs another vial from her bag. Luckily, Vogl packed a backup.

It's HYDRA technology, so it's faster than a regular blood draw. The whole time, Natalia is trying not to look at his back and failing.

When she settles back down in front of him, he's even more unreadable than before.

His words echo loudly in her mind. It's part of the training. It works. But something else echoes louder: his screams, the shouts of pain.

It doesn't take her long to decide, Natalia is hiding another chess piece behind her back. This is not a game she's ever really been playing, she's been lying the whole time.

Staring at the blood on his brow, Natalia reaches into her bag and does something she is not supposed to do.

She is quiet. The Asset notices.

Because of his back. Because of what she saw.

Punishment is necessary. Pain is irrelevant. He knows. She should know. All his handlers know.

The look in her eyes is too soft. It is not the kind ever directed at him. Not something he understands.

And then he feels her hands. Light. Careful. Wrong. He'd forgotten the cut on his brow until she touches it. Something soft in her hands. One hovers near his chin. The other dabs away the blood. Featherlight.

He forgets to breathe. 

Unnecessary. He should tell her. 

The Asset says nothing.

His eyes drop to her face. She's focused. Head tilted, hair falling. He's been staring for too long. Brown eyes. Dark lashes. Olive skin.

Her hand is still there. He should pull away. He does the opposite. 

Warmth. 

Too gentle. He is not made for this. Unnecessary.

She does not belong here.

The Winter Soldier says nothing. Even when he should.

Natalia wraps the bloodied gauze until the evidence is hidden and stuffs it in a far corner of the medical bag. The chess piece is a physical thing now, and she has to hide it.

The air around her feels thick and heavy. Her eyes keep betraying her, whiplash making her head spin.

One second, he can look so human, the next it’s gone. She'd registered the split second of surprise in his eyes when she'd touched his face. Because she knows to watch closely, because she needs to know if she's imagining things.

She'd felt the weight of his stare, feels it now as she hides the gauze and retrieves the pills. But the predatory stillness of his breath, the blank expression, he's back to looking like something that is not human.

Habit has her showing him the pills, explaining them as much as she can. "For the..." She shakes her head, finds simpler words. "It'll make the muscle spasms stop."

She's about to hand them to him when she remembers the restraints. Closing her eyes, she shakes her head again. When she looks back up, his mouth is already open. Obeying without even being told. Trained. Reluctantly, Natalia slides the pills between his parted lips, watches as he swallows without question.

When she cracks open the water bottle, she tells herself that if anyone asks, she'll say it was necessary. It's been a while, the guard could come in at any minute. She knows she is taking a risk.

The Soldiers head tilts like it's unusual. Just a fraction of an inch, easy to miss, but Natalia saw. When she presses the bottle to his lips in offering, his blue eyes are on hers. A beat passes.

Then—he tilts his head back. One swallow, just one, before he's turning away.

Natalia follows his gaze to the object waiting on the floor. The mask, the muzzle. She realizes he’s waiting. When she doesn’t reach, he speaks. "Put it back on. If you don't, they will."

Her teeth clamp around the inside of her cheek. There is no part of her that wants to put that thing back on him but she knows she has to.

As she reaches for it, a thought hits her. Another question. Why did he say it? Is he following orders, or is it something else, a warning?

Mask in hand, she turns back to him, and the question dies with a simple answer. Blank stare, looking straight ahead. Natalia is back on her feet, bag packed, holding the mask. She knows what she has to do. She does not want to do it. The second the mask is back on, she knows it will be harder for him to breathe. She knows the way it digs into his skin hard enough to leave a mark.

A second after she stands the door opens. Instinct has Natalia moving quickly, arms reaching around him to place the mask back over his jaw. The guard watches as she locks it in place and steps back, collecting her bag. She grips it so her hand doesn't shake. There's only one setting on the mask, she'd tried to loosen it but it's impossible.

"Did you get everything you needed?" He asks from the door.

Natalia doesn't look at the Soldier again. Doesn't risk it. "Yes." No. Not at all. Not even close.

The guard just waits for her to follow him out. It is not until he turns around that Natalia once again feels the familiar weight of the Soldiers' stare on her back.

Just when she thought she knew the answer, the question is back. Why did he say it? The timing seemed almost too convenient. Like he'd heard the guard coming, like he knew she wouldn't have done it otherwise.

Once both sets of doors are closed, the guard turns to her, and the game is back on. "Why did you take off the mask?"

Natalia already knows what to say. "The Asset needed to take pills. It's part of the antidote trial run. Standard procedure."

The guard believes her, she can tell. Karpov will too.

As Natalia walks down the hall, she knows. Two things are true.

They say he's not human, not really. But...

Weapons don't need to be punished.

Chapter Text

The Soldier sits in the chair.

The chamber hums behind him, frost curling along the floor. Cold mist licks the edges of his boots.

The room is sterile, quiet, expectant.

Russian voices clip through the air. “Wipe him. Freeze him.”

It is routine.

The white coats move. Gloves snap. Screens blink. Electrodes are checked, restraints secured—tight, but measured. He knows the steps. The rhythm of it. It requires no thought.

The Asset does not flinch. Does not blink. He is waiting.

This is what happens when the weapon is put away.

The mask is removed, peeled from his face. The cold air hits raw skin.

He does not react.

A memory stirs.

Fingers—gentle. Not protocol. Not necessary. Jasmine.

The grip of it is brief. Already fading.

His gaze lifts, unfocused. Ahead of him, the cryo chamber hisses open.

He remembers this too. Deeply. In the bones. In the spaces between wipes. It lives there.

Not like a thought. More like a law.

Use the weapon. Store the weapon. Repeat.

They do not speak to him. They never do. The words pass above his head.

“Three days.”

“Observation next time. We’ll monitor the neural response.”

Three days. That is short. Shorter than usual.

He does not measure time in hours or days. Time is a thing that begins when he is woken. Ends when he is stored.

But he knows this is happening more often now.

He does not know why.

It does not matter.

The electricity comes like a storm.

Lightning. Heat in his spine. The words.

They hit all at once. Command tones in Russian. Static. Silence.

The wipe sears through him, devouring everything.

For a moment, he sees it—

A train. Snow. A fall. A name: Barnes.

Then it’s gone.

Ripped away, erased mid-syllable.

The Soldier exhales once. Blank. Empty.

A voice calls. “Asset. Step forward.”

He obeys.

Boots move across tile. Steady. Precise. He steps into the mist, into the cryo chamber.

The air is colder now. It fills his lungs like smoke. His skin tightens.

The platform hisses beneath his feet. He does not look down. He does not look at them.

His breath fogs the air.

Just before the doors seal around him, a woman in a white coat. Pale hair in a bun. Past handler. 

She steps close to the chamber window. Looks at him how Karpov does. 

A whisper, too quiet for the techs to hear. “Don’t worry. I won’t let them keep wasting you.”

Then she’s gone.

Inside the chamber, there is no noise. No light. Just the sound of his own breathing.

It is slow.

Steady.

Automatic.

His mind is clean. Blank. Wiped.

There is no name. No pain. No orders. No woman kneeling in front of him. No blue shoes. No jasmine. No scream.

No memory.

The freezing begins.

His eyes close.

He goes still.

But—

Somewhere, far beneath it all—

“I’m with you…”

Chapter Text

Natalia lies on the couch. Exhausted, not relaxed. Just slumped there.

Trudy hums softly, her hands moving carefully over Natalia's head as it rests in her lap. She's picked up a new habit, knitting of all things. It's so oddly mundane that Natalia doesn't know what to make of it. Not that she’s thinking about it much, her mind is elsewhere.

Last night, after the cell, there had been vomiting. A lot of it. Trudy held her hair back, guided her to the shower. Sleep had been replaced with something else. Compartmentalization.

She has questions. She'll get her answers. In time.

Day by day survival isn't a good enough excuse anymore. Despite Nick Fury’s advice and all of Hale’s warnings, Natalia can already feel the change. If she’s going to be any help to S.H.I.E.L.D., keeping her head down won’t cut it. Getting out isn't an option, so she'll get inside. The chessboard is bigger now. The other side has more pieces. Now, at least, Natalia knows she isn't seeing the whole board.

And if she wants to win, she has to play.

So she puts on the HYDRA mask and clicks it tight. She can do more, for S.H.I.E.L.D., for herself, for him.

In the trauma ward, she gives her best performance yet. Looks Vogl in the eye. Steady hands, steady voice. As she shares the Soldier's post-serum vitals, she doesn't flinch. Doesn't shake. He's there, of course—always there—lodged in the back of her mind like a splinter. The Winter Soldier. More machine than man, but... she's seen things.

The thought of him in that cell doesn't suffocate her. It pushes her.

One step at a time. Karpov's building approval. Vogl's gradual respect. A long game. A careful one. And she's playing it.

HYDRA is shifting in her mind. Not just a faceless entity. For months, she hadn't even considered the bigger picture. Not just the experiments. Not just him.

The why.

She's in it now. Vogl was right. Guilt gets her nowhere.

Her hands are already bloodstained. It will get worse. She knows that. She's prepared.

She'd thought her childhood hardened her. Thought years working in war zones had prepared her for anything.

They hadn't, nothing had. Because HYDRA is something else entirely.

She's not numb, she can't be cold, but she's getting better at faking.

The only way out is in.

And Natalia plans to dig deep.

There's no changing what's already happened. All she can do is decide what happens next. Not just for herself, Natalia isn't HYDRA's only victim.

"Hey Trudy?" Natalia asks, head still in the woman's lap. "What did you do before this?"

"Hhhmm? Oh, forensic pathology," she says simply, her attention still focused on her knitting.

Silently, Natalia runs through it in her head. HYDRA took her emergency medicine specialty and turned it into something that fit their purposes. They must have done the same to Trudy.

Natalia thinks of her black stained fingertips, the things she must have seen. It's not an invisible string that connects them, it's dark and twisted and bloody. When the dead bodies are wheeled out of the trauma ward, it's Trudy who has to deal with them. Who has to cut into patient after patient and determine the cause of death. The answer is always the same—HYDRA.

As awful as it is, Natalia has at least gotten to save people. All Trudy witnesses is death.

Natalia's heart twists for her.

Survival isn't enough. Not anymore.

Natalia and Vogl stand over the data sheets displaying the effects of their antidote.

While the experiment on the Winter Soldier was a success, it isn't the finish line. HYDRA built the Soldier to be able to withstand anything, even deadly poisons of their creation. Half the reason the antidote worked on him was with the added help of his body's increased healing abilities.

Another patient was killed this morning. Just when it looked like their antidote was working, his brain failed him, his heart went out shortly after. Natalia had felt the head rush, the drop in her stomach at the blatant disregard for human life. The sound of a heart flatline would never get easier to hear. Never. The light left his eyes and she had to stand there and watch. Feel his ribs crack beneath her hands after multiple rounds of failed CPR.

But Vogl did not react, and neither did Natalia. Later, she'd mourn him. Natalia knew she was postponing the inevitable. She could pretend, for now, to be like Vogl, but she knew that the second she was alone, the second the mask slipped, it would hurt her. Part of her wonders if the man is better off dead. If HYDRA had taken him prisoner, his grave had already been dug. Perhaps in death, he'd been spared.

The thought does little to ease the twisting in her gut.

Face impassive, she sits in Vogl's office and studies. After Natalia's eureka moment about administering the antidote in two doses, they've hit a wall. Both the M-Phase Scanner and the dead patient are loud, glaring proof. She never even knew the man's name; she never knew any of their names. Vogl refers to them as 'test subjects', out loud, Natalia does the same. Forcing herself to say it until her voice stops cracking over the two damning words.

Even before this, Natalia was never a religious person. It's an effect of war, loss, it makes people go one way or the other. Divine intervention or the hard truth of life. She's still not religious, but internally, in the part of her that HYDRA cannot see, she hopes the dead at least find peace.

She stares back down at the file. Simple clinical data that displays the Winter Soldier's vitals and levels directly after the poison and post-antidote injection. The data she collected that day.

The image is there in her mind suddenly. The dark cell, the lash marks on his back, the accepting look in his eyes. Even now, she can still hear him screaming. For once, Natalia doesn't push it away. She forces herself to remember every detail. Not just of him, of the deaths that came before, the ones that came after. She thinks of Trudy, who will have to cut into his body and observe it all.

It's the worst kind of motivation, but it works.

They've hit a dead end on ideas for altering their antidote, she knows it, and Vogl knows it.

The poison is too deadly, too fast acting. Of all the things HYDRA's advanced technologies could be focused on, she's not surprised this is the path they've taken. Beneath the table, her hand tightens into a clammy fist. Out loud, she clips her words until they fit. A simple question, necessary for the endeavor. "What is the purpose of developing B27 in the first place?"

Vogl glances up at her, already dismissive. "Does it matter? Knowing the why doesn't help us find a remedy faster. Get back to work."

"I'm not a fucking chemist." Natalia snaps, letting a flare of real anger flash in her eyes. She is angry, she is just lying about why. "We've been going in circles. Let's stop lying to ourselves. This is what a dead end looks like."

Vogl's eyes narrow, "If you're going to get all weepy-eyed on me—"

"Do I look like I'm crying?" Natalia interrupts. Real frustration, buried truths. "You're telling me that failing, over and over again, it doesn't bother you?"

"Loss is necessary." Vogl says, it's the same thing Natalia's been hearing since day one, “It's the bigger picture you should be focused on."

When her back stiffens, Natalia doesn't bother burying the reaction. She wants Vogl to know she's irritated. Like it's an accident, she snaps, "No one ever got anywhere faster by being kept in the dark. The perfect poison has no cure; B27 accomplished that. Why are we bothering with finding an antidote for something that clearly cannot be beaten?"

Vogl hides her expressions well, but Natalia knows now that she has to pay attention to everything. It's that same look that she wore the day of Natalia's test, the one Karpov watched. Not respect, not even intrigue, but slight satisfaction. She says, "Don't lose focus, Haddad."

Natalia scoffs, mutters under her breath, "Jesus, you don't even know."

Easy target. Easy bait.

Power is gold here. Involvement in projects means status. If you're not in on the secrets, you're replaceable. Karpov told her. To him, it wasn't just a threat, it was an opportunity. Orlov in his training room, his desperate grab for control. Vogl doesn't want to be just a cog in the machine, another mindless soldier taking orders.

"It's for interrogation purposes." She says evenly, but there's a hint of pride. Her attention is entirely focused on Natalia now. No more deflections, no more half answers. "It'll make anyone crack, any secret spill in a way regular torture cannot. Torture won't kill you, but poison will. A good interrogatee can handle pain, but very few people remain quiet when threatened with death. You bring them to the brink, dangle the cure in their face... loose lips."

Revulsion. Horror. Dread. They all climb up her throat and threaten to choke her. Later, later. The mask has to stay on. "Hypothetically," she counters.

"What is that supposed to mean?" Vogl frowns at her from across the desk.

"It means I've seen the test subjects," Natalia says, like the two words don't chip away at her each time she says them. "None of them look ready to talk about anything other than hallucination-riddled ramblings, much less spilling secrets."

Vogl shifts. Natalia waits. And then.... "Go on."

"The problem isn't the antidote. It's the poison. It's too fast acting to achieve its desired effect."

Vogl crosses her arms, leaning back in her chair, "So... what, you want to get into poison development now?"

"No," Natalia says. "I'm not a chemist, and neither are you." And neither is Trudy. She can't stop HYDRA's experiments. This is all she can do. "We both have better things to be working on."

This time, Vogl isn't just looking at Natalia like she's another successful experiment. She's looking at her like she agrees. "I'll take it up with Blane. You get back out on the floor. Romero is getting sloppy anyway."

Just like that, Natalia is out of it, and Trudy too, by extension. The chemists would have continued, all Natalia can do is deflect. If she’s stuck here, she’d rather work on patients, not poison. 

It's not a checkmate. It's barely even a win, but it's a step in the right direction.

The second Natalia is alone in her room, the act shatters. Before the door even clicks shut, the mask cracks and falls. Metaphorical or not, its absence makes it easier to breathe.

It cracks and splinters quickly, as if she couldn't bear the facade for a second longer. It will be back tomorrow, so for now, Natalia lets herself breathe and feel. As she bends down to untie her shoes, her hands are already shaking. The tears in her eyes are seconds away from spilling.

The first thing she does is shower. Stripping off her scrubs, Natalia washes the weight of the day off like it's a physical thing, letting every suppressed emotion come out. Pushing it down might be easier, but like a bandaid on a bullet wound, it wouldn't last forever.

She lets every buried emotion claw its way to the surface: grief, rage, the horror she postponed for this moment in privacy.

Free from the burden of lying, Natalia's brain runs through it all. It's a whirlwind, it hurts, and she lets it hurt. Processing is necessary, if she doesn't now, the game is over before she can even start playing.

The man, the 'test subject', is gone now, forever. Natalia remembers the wrinkles on his face and she always will. He had a faint tan line on his ring finger, he was someone's husband. Someone, somewhere, is still waiting for him. A wife who doesn't know he's already gone. A family mourning him long before he took his last breath. Hours after his death, Natalia lets herself react. Her tears fall freely in the confines of the shower. She cries until the well runs dry. Tomorrow, surely, it will be filled again. Natalia knows this, she prepares for it. She thinks of all the reasons she cannot let HYDRA win:

The dead patient and his unknown loved ones.

The Winter Soldiers back—a timeline of years of scars. Not just injuries but punishments, HYDRA's sick training. She sees his vacant eyes and hears him screaming.

Trudy. Her fate a mirror of Natalia's. Another person forced into a machine.

As Natalia combs her wet hair, she forces herself to face her reflection. It's the same one she's known her whole life, and it is a relief; the mask is off. HYDRA may be forcing her to play a game—they cannot change who she is.

Natalia will not lose herself.

Her train of thought is cut off by the blinking light from the tablet indicating a schedule change for tomorrow.

1200: 2nd floor - S100

Another day with the Winter Soldier, the first time she'll see him after the cell, the poison. Natalia is nervous; it's twisting her insides into nothing but a mess of nausea, and it's all over her face. Pale skin, shaky hands. She isn't afraid of the Soldier the way she fears HYDRA. But everything about him, about what he is, terrifies her. He is impossible to understand, and tomorrow the puzzle will be laid out before her again. Half the pieces hidden behind the curtain of HYDRA's lies. The inevitable meeting with Karpov that will follow.

Instinct screams at her to crawl into bed. Pull the covers over her head and wallow in panic until the moment comes. But... Trudy. She's the only thing that reminds Natalia she is human. If she forgets that, game over.

Trudy makes it worth it. Natalia opens her room door and goes to find her.

Things would be worse without Trudy, a lot worse.

Natalia is reminded of this every day, especially now. The two of them are the same. Guilty by association, forced into this, all thoughts of escape crushed beneath a steel-toed HYDRA combat boot.

But Trudy is knitting again, same as yesterday. Same as tomorrow, probably. She's been here longer than Natalia and must have long ago realized the importance of holding on to humanity. Part of Natalia feels guilty for this, the same weight that crushes her with every conversation and attempt at normalcy. How can they act like nothing is going on in the midst of it all?

How can they not? If she forgets what it means to be human, she won't come back from it. Mourning is part of it, human fear too but... so is this.

The tattered fiction book. Trudy's humming. Her insistence on keeping knitting that monstrosity.

Natalia can't tell what it is yet, the red and pink mess of yarn tangled in Trudy's lap as she works. A small smile curves the edges of Natalia's lips. An expression reserved for times like this. "Where did you find yarn?"

Trudy glances up, only half focused on Natalia as she shrugs, "They keep it in a box near where we found the chess."

Which HYDRA official may have put it there is lost on Natalia, the whole concept is lost on Natalia. The entirety of the eighth floor itself is an oddity in its normalcy. Hallways of living quarters, a dining hall, this... space. Windows, couches, bookshelves. Yarn, apparently. But, she supposes, even within the mysterious walls of HYDRA, people need somewhere to live, to sleep, and eat. Whether they are here willingly or not.

It is as if HYDRA realizes that not everyone is the Winter Soldier, their brains are organic and cannot be in a constant state of work and experiments, and training. It's clinical, calculated. Like they took a formula on what it takes to keep a human from cracking and found a way to make it look semi-normal. The worst part is, it works in a technical sense. Natalia and Trudy may stick to themselves and ignore the other inhabitants of the eighth floor, but they fill their time in the same way. Some are louder than others, talking with an ease that suggests their involvement here isn't forced upon them. The HYDRA initiative and its methods are not something Natalia can begin to understand, and she needs a break from trying.

"When did we stop playing chess?" Natalia asks, watching Trudy's fingers work through the yarn.

Trudy doesn't even look up. "When you cheated."

She says it so simply, so matter-of-fact, that Natalia almost chokes on a laugh.

Being accused of cheating by the woman who'd taken to hiding game pieces in the couch is so... Trudy. Giving her a look of amused disbelief, Natalia shakes her head, "I wasn't cheating... besides, I'm bored. You can talk and knit at the same time, you know."

"I'm concentrating," Trudy says with mock annoyance. "Fine, okay... Did I ever tell you about the time I met President Hoover personally?"

"Oh my God!" Natalia is laughing before she is even aware of it. "Is anything you say true?"

Trudy slams down her knitting with a huff. "It is true! He came into the ice cream shop where I worked in the summers in Maryland. He ordered mint chip!"

"Really, how many scoops?" Natalia asks, a smile still playing on her lips.

"Three, the greedy bastard. I should have known he'd destroy our economy."

The Soldier steps out of the cryogenic chamber. Walks to the chair. The one that puts him together.

The words come. Electricity follows. Lightning strikes. It's worse before they freeze him. Right now, it is just waking him up.

Activating him.

The words continue. They reorganize his mind one by one. Fill the emptiness. One thing is left. The only thing. Ready to comply.

The Asset is always ready to comply.

Cold shower. Routine. Four minutes exactly. They come before and after missions.

The Asset knows before they tell him. He is being sent out again.

The mission details are long. Complicated. Targets and extraction points take their place in his waiting mind. It will take days. HYDRA will assign the necessary weapons. The Asset will be sent out tonight.

Another command. "Report to S100 and the helipad directly after."

Routine. The room where the Asset is checked before missions. Repaired after missions. Helipad. Where he is sent out. How he returns.

The Asset finds the room. The chair. Different than the other one. No electricity.

His handler is already waiting. A girl. New?

A doctor, despite the clothing. Steady hands. Preparing the tray.

Not new. She moves with familiarity. They have met. The Asset has been wiped. The Asset does not remember the handler.

It does not matter.

Natalia ran this morning. It was her second time using the HYDRA gym, and she didn't enjoy it any more than she did the first. Despite the reluctance, she knows it's necessary. The dead time, here, is almost as lethal as poison.

Running forces her body into a state of calm, it makes it easier to step back into the game. After showering, Natalia puts on all the physical things necessary for her role today. Another gray high-necked blouse, another mid-length black skirt, the one pair of flats that don't slide on the cold floors of room S100. Her hair is neat, her jewelry is on, and her grandmother's watch is ticking like it always is. She looks the part, and now it's time to play the part.

With him, The Soldier, the rules are slightly different.

While he is HYDRA made, he’s not necessarily someone who is testing her. He watches, he calculates, but he isn't reporting back to Karpov, not like Vogl does. The talents of the Winter Soldier are not wasted on studying the behavior of HYDRA's newest and most replaceable doctor. So the mask is on, but around him, she can loosen it a little.

The sound of the even, measured steps of his combat boots alerts her to his presence as he enters the room. Behind him, the door clicks shut just as Natalia turns around. One look at him, one, and the mask almost falls off entirely. She'd thought the memories in her head were vivid? Seeing him is like a gut punch, the first glance is the same as always. Human. Until she blinks, and then he's not.

The questions fight and beg for answers even as she keeps them trapped behind closed lips.

Who is Barnes?

Were you warning me about the guard coming?

It's not like he gives her an opportunity to ask. He sits in the chair, unaffected as the restraints automatically slide into place.

Earlier, a guard had informed Natalia that The Soldier would be shipped out on a mission later today. Her job is one she's done before. Check his vitals, his levels, record all the things HYDRA needs to know to ensure their weapon is at peak performance for whatever it is they'll make him do.

This time, though, Natalia is going to pay attention.

Like all the times before, she goes through the motions, explains what it is she's doing before she does it. Like all the times before, he does not reply.

He watches her still, but... It's almost like it's his first time seeing her. It is strange enough that directionless suspicion coils in her gut. 

It almost distracts her from the strangeness of his levels until the numbers are grabbing her attention again. Things she's ignored before, things she wrote off as effects of HYDRA's serum.

First off, his body temperature is low, even for him. Natalia may not be told what exactly it is the Winter Soldier does with his day, but unless he's been waiting out in the snow for hours, his body temperature is too low. She thinks maybe he's been outside until she remembers the view from the window on the upper levels. The snow has melted by now. Natalia records the numbers in HYDRA's file, records it internally, another puzzle piece with no attachments. Either way, the Winter Soldier does not react to the apparent cold.

She presses the backs of her fingers against his arm. He's cold to the touch, and he’s sitting there like it's nothing.

She thinks again of the frigid temperatures in that cell. Had he been in there all this time? No, that place was freezing, yes, but not enough to bring his internal temperature down to this level.

The oddities continue. Not just the kind that comes from being an enhanced super soldier.

When Natalia taps his knee the same way she always does, the reaction is slow. Still faster than a regular human, but she has spent months observing the effects of the serum. If she had access to any of her old notes, Natalia would compare them to the times before. Since she can't, she forces herself to file it away with his temperature. To be reviewed later, in her head, when no one is looking.

His pupils are the same when she checks them with the light. Inhumanly fast—slow for him. On paper, Natalia does not report the strangeness.

She checks his hydration levels next, the words come out automatically. They are muscle memory at this point, whether they belong here or not. "You need to drink more water." Before she's even finished saying them, she knows it's useless. He's not a regular patient, not the kind she needs to remind to take their meds or something. But he's answered her questions before, replying when he'd deemed them necessary, so she tries again, two questions in one. "When was the last time you drank water?"

Silence. Natalia lifts her head, and the second her eyes meet his, her head jerks back in surprise. Nothing. And not the usual nothing. He doesn't know.

Already knowing the answer, Natalia says carefully, "I gave you water, in the cell. Was that the last time you drank any?"

The Winter Soldier has always been quiet, blank, distant. But this is something else. His silence isn't measured, isn't calculated. It's just... empty.

His reaction is a fraction of a second, but Natalia sees it. She knows when she's caught someone off guard. His eyes don't narrow, his brows don't crease, but—

He doesn't know what she's talking about.

What the hell?

The doctor is too familiar. Not their first time meeting. Someone constant. Left alone with him. The Asset watches. Catalogues.

Too small. Young. Concerned eyes. Not HYDRA. Floral scent. He knows it. Jasmine. White flower. Vine through concrete.

The observations are not new. The Asset does not remember. He has thought them before.

Blue nails. The Asset knows before he looks.

Not a target. Not a threat. He knows—he does not remember.

"You know, I think Earl actually likes you." The tone is not HYDRA. Neither are the words.

The Asset is unfamiliar with the name. He knows very few names. Karpov. Orlov.

Brown eyes. Searching. Worried. "Earl... the cat, remember?"

No. But then—

Hallway. The doctor. Black scrubs. Blue shoes. Messy hair.

Different now. Gray clothing. The jewelry. Bad at giving orders. Hesitant. A question in her eyes. Unasked. Good.

Unnecessary.

She steps back. Looks at the Asset. Not like the others. Nervous. "I'll tell him you said hello."

Him, the cat. She talks to cats. He remembers this. Not the words.

Assessment finished. The restraints slide back. The Soldier is walking towards the door. Following earlier orders. Helipad. Mission.

"Wait—"

Not an order. The Asset keeps walking.

Chapter Text

The Asset returns a few days later. Natalia is still lying in bed when the screen on her tablet blinks red. A notification, a familiar one.

She already knows what it will say. 

S100. 0500 hours.

He's back. Maybe not yet, but soon.

No warning. No explanation. Just an order. Just like always. He'll be injured, it will be up to her to fix him. The tablet says all it needs to. Day by day, that's how she stays alive. Robert gave her another letter from her mother. It's a good sign.

Yesterday, Hale came to her room again, nodding attentively as Natalia fed him every bit of information she’d gathered. Even though he’d learned of the poison through her stolen notes, he squeezed her for every last drop of intel she could gather. 

In the meantime, Natalia has continued playing her least favorite game. By now, she can differentiate between the men coming into the trauma ward from the simulation versus those whose injuries come from something else. Real missions, real assignments. Like the Soldier. Of course, that's where the similarities end.

HYDRA may be excessively cruel, but the treatment of their operatives is calculated in the same way as everyone is. That equation they've written, the one that is just enough to maintain some semblance of humanity. On the eighth floor, its windows and books, and yarn. On the fourth-floor trauma ward, it's just enough anesthesia to keep men from cracking. More humanity than the Winter Soldier gets, still not enough for Natalia to be able to pretend that this is anything but calculated cruelty.

One of the men brought to her is sporting an infection that looks beyond painful. Were it not for the advancements in HYDRA's medical wings, there's a high chance he would have lost the leg.

Even mid-performance, Natalia ensures the lidocaine is working before she asks her carefully worded questions. "How long has this gone untreated? Were you given anything?"

"Angel." He grunts around the lingering pain, "What's with the questions?"

Natalia gives him an impatient look, like she is exasperated. The same one she used to give the men she treated on the sidelines of war zones. "They'll end faster if you stop answering with your own questions." She raises a perfectly plucked brow, "Can you answer me now?"

He eats it right up. She knows how men are, even here. "I dunno, a few days... and no, I didn't take anything for it. We had a performance enhancement, but far as I know, it does nothing about... whatever the hell is going on on my leg."

"It looks painful," Natalia says, already getting to work. The trauma ward has been fully stocked with Dr. Blane's concoction. The serum that regenerated cell activity like nothing else in the world could.

The man's grin is lazy and drug-induced. "Better now."

Natalia rolls her eyes. Plays the part. "So I'm assuming they don't send medics out with you guys?"

Vogl is listening, pretending she isn't. But Natalia knew she heard the man say, "Oh, Angel, the field is no place for a pretty little thing like you."

In reply, Natalia's laugh is dry and practiced. An imitation of what she'd heard around her. Camaraderie, HYDRA-approved familiarity. She looks at the man and pretends she can't feel Vogl watching. "You don't know me at all."

Vogl moves on—interaction approved. Natalia tells herself she'd let the relief settle later.

A chess piece moved, a play she isn't even sure will work.

Well aware that she is standing at the sink for too long, Natalia reminds herself that her hands are not actually soaked in blood and leaves for the day.

Hours later, Natalia lies across from Trudy in the small bed. They spend most nights together recently. Times like these remind Natalia why the game is worth it. The only issue is Hale; every few weeks, Natalia has to tell Trudy she feels like sleeping alone. The pattern would be an issue if anyone noticed, so Natalia keeps it random.

Trudy steals another inch of pillow as she stares at Natalia. "How old are you, honey?"

"Twenty-four," Natalia says, "But I've got a bad feeling I turned twenty-five..." After a second, she adds, "I'm catching up to you now."

With a gasp, Trudy flicks her nose. "Watch it, young lady!" But when her hand drops, she's smiling. "I remember twenty-five. A good year. I cut my hair so short my mother, God bless her, cried for months."

Natalia laughs at the thought, the story. They talk like they are somewhere else. Like Natalia actually knows how old she is. "I think my mom would kill me if I cut an inch off my hair," Natalia says. It's true, she and her mother have nearly identical hair. Long, thick enough that it's borderline heavy and curly enough that it's never really tame. A few summers ago, she'd gotten highlights, but they're long faded now, lost in the dark brown.

"What do you usually do on your birthday?" Trudy asks from across the pillow, "Maybe we can celebrate somehow."

Natalia is laughing again, it's quiet and low as sleep creeps in, but she's laughing. "Get drunk, find a boy. Motorcycle not necessary but appreciated."

Trudy laughs too. "I think we're in short order on all the above. What else do you do?"

Natalia thinks of her mother's letter, their old traditions or whenever her mom came up to France. "There was this bakery... tiramisu like nothing you've ever tasted." The image is so clear it almost hurts.

The red awning. The bell that chimed when she stepped inside. The glass case full of pastries.

"Well, howdy-doo little Mrs. French girl." Trudy teases like she often does. The woman herself is all American, classic. Her stories revolve around the Fourth of July, barbecue evenings, and blue denim. Trudy likes to mock Natalia playfully whenever she says something remotely French.

"Shut up, it's good." Natalia shakes her head, mimicking Trudy's American accent in a dramatized way that never fails to make her laugh. "Me and my meemaw just die for some Georgia apple pie!"

"Georgia is peaches, Mrs. Frenchy," Trudy corrects, "But I'll forgive you, I bet you never ate dessert. You're a twig, borderline bony."

Trudy reaches over and squeezes Natalia's side, eliciting a surprised laugh. Quickly, her smile fades. It’s not just her mind—her body’s changing too. Natalia used to be more athletic than this; she feels it in all her clothes, loose where they shouldn't be with the lack of muscle mass. Before this, Natalia was a runner, she'd even been roped into the occasional jazzercise class. Her mother had Jane Fonda's workouts on VHS. Now, when Natalia runs, it's only for necessity. A way to force her brain and body to reset. It's the same with eating. At the end of each day, she’s overwhelmed enough that most food tastes like sand.

Everything is different. She'd forgotten for a minute, but she remembers again.

Face falling, Trudy registers the change quickly. "Oh, honey! I'm sorry--"

"It's not you," Natalia assures her as she wipes a stray tear. "It's just..."

Trudy says the only thing she needs to. "I know, I know."

The door clicks open. The Asset waits.

Karpov steps in. Not hurried. Precise.

"No one told me The Asset was back."

The room stills. A man at the terminal turns. "Three hours ago, Colonel. We thought you knew."

Karpov doesn't look at him again. Only once, toward the Soldier.

Three hours. Still standing.

"Like a tool left on a shelf," he says. "Shame to see a weapon left idle."

He crosses to the table. There's a pistol laid out—standard precaution.

Karpov doesn't touch it. He doesn't have to.

The Soldier doesn't move. He won't.

Karpov sits. Legs crossed. His eyes scan over notes.

He doesn't look up when he speaks. "Mission report, Soldat."

The Soldier gives it.

Clean, clipped. Entry point. Targets. Kill confirmation. Exit. No deviations. Minimal resistance.

Karpov doesn't interrupt.

The Soldier stands the entire time. Unmoving. His armor presses into cracked ribs. Pain flickers behind his eyes—sharp, but never surfacing.

He finishes.

Karpov looks up. Reaches out.

His fingers close around the Soldier's right arm.

The broken one.

Pressure.

Tighter.

A snap of weight right on the fracture.

The Soldier's jaw clenches. Nothing else.

Karpov lets go.

Satisfied.

He leans back. "What did you think of Berlin?"

No real question. Just mockery. There's no answer to give.

The Soldier doesn't speak.

Karpov's gaze sharpens.

"I asked you a question."

A beat. Then—

"I thought nothing," the Soldier says. He is not made to think.

Karpov nods, almost pleased.

"Report to S100."

Dismissed.

The hallway is long. Quiet.

The Soldier walks it without pause.

His ribs grind with every step. His right arm hangs heavier by the second.

He does not slow.

He knows what S100 is. The room with the doctor. The one with steady hands.

He doesn't know her name.

But part of him recognizes the scent before the door even opens.

Jasmine.

A memory too faint to hold.

He pushes the door open.

There she is.

Her.

The pain crests. Something in his chest gives.

His boot catches. The Asset stumbles.

S100 looks just the same at five in the morning as it does any other time of the day due to the lack of windows.

After the warmth of falling asleep beside Trudy, it had been harder to climb out of bed. Natalia had opted for pants today, a cardigan.

Hardly two seconds after she finishes preparing the room, the Winter Soldier appears, footsteps heavy as the door shuts behind him.

His metal hand is clenching his side, the other hanging limply and bent out of shape. Even from a distance, even under black leather, she can see the bend. The wrong angle, the unnatural shape.

"Oh my God..." The words are out before she can stop them, and then she's moving, stepping towards him as he makes his way to the exam chair. "No—you need to lie down. Now."

The movements are automatic but strained. His boots dragging, his breathing labored. Natalia can't tell if he even notices her hand on his elbow as she guides him to the metal operating bed towards the back of the room.

It's not the first time she's seen him in pain, but it's different. The effects of the poison were one thing. He'd been half conscious, screaming from delirium.

Today, he's actively trying to hide what he's feeling and doing a bad job. When they finally reach the bed—not really a bed—he practically collapses as Natalia guides him until he's lying on his back before she pushes the button so the bed is at a 45-degree angle.

There are a lot of things she could address. First off, his clearly broken arm. Then there's the reopened cut on his brow crusted with blood. But the real issue is his breathing. Too shallow, clearly strained.

His metal arm grips the edge of the table as Natalia inspects him, "Your ribs?"

The Soldier nods tightly, like even that hurts, "A bomb went off at the entry point. No witnesses within a three-mile—"

"I don't need a mission report," Natalia says, listening for sounds of fluid in his lungs.

HYDRA is years ahead of the rest of the world in portable X-Ray machines, but there's a small obstacle before she can even attempt using it.

His clothing...armor, or whatever it is.

Leather, reinforced with something hard and stiff. Above that is a series of gun holsters strapped to his chest and waist. Natalia removes those first; they're similar enough to things she's dealt with before. The Soldier shifts slightly so she can pull them off  him and drop them to the floor but her hands pause.

His chest—the leather armor—is a mechanism of buckles and straps she doesn't understand. Her scissors won't cut through the material, and her hands pull uselessly at a clasp that's so tightly secured it won't budge.

And then his metal hand is there, unclipping everything with a practiced ease, even with the slight wince on his face.

Natalia watches the motions carefully in case she'll have to do it again. "Sorry." She says when he finally drops his arm.

The process isn't fast, and for a second, all she can see when she looks at the armor is a straitjacket. 

It finally unclasps, and he's shifting again, allowing her to pull it off and reveal the damage to his bare chest and torso. The part covering his flesh arm unzips, bringing even more injuries to light, but she has to take care of his ribs first.

They're broken. Not just one. Multiple.

Frowning, she looks closer as she pulls her gloves on. His entire left side is swollen and purple with dark bruises. "Wait, you said... at entry point." Her stomach drops at the realization, and she can't stop the next question. "When did this happen?"

"Two days ago." The answer is clinical. Mission report style.

God. No.

Broken ribs, a broken arm. Two days untreated and counting. "This might hurt," She warns, pressing her hand gently along his ribs to identify the exact problem. "How long have you been back?"

Her thumb finds one of the fractures and he sucks in a tight breath. "Four hours." And then, as if he can sense her next question. The obvious one. The one that screams; Why the hell didn't they send you here right away? He continues, "Mission report. Then treatment. Standard procedure."

Nothing about this is standard. And it's worse than Natalia thought. Not only was he walking around with broken bones, he was fighting through them. For days. "Did you also break your arm when the bomb went off?"

"The flesh one. Titanium is stronger."

She glances once at the metal prosthetic before focusing back on his ribs. She's about to keep checking for the exact breaks when he speaks again.

"It worked. The trick you showed me with the arm.."

Natalia's hands still mid-motion. The last time she'd seen him, before this assignment, it hadn't looked like he'd remembered her at all... now she doesn't know what to think. "What?"

"The metal arm. It popped out of place on impact. When I did what you said, it reset. It worked."

Right. Of course, she remembers that day. Since she was too weak to pop a large arms-worth of titanium back in place, she'd taught him a movement to fix it himself. He remembered...

Natalia isn't smiling, not at a time like this, but she can feel her own eyes widening in surprise. "Well, I'm... I'm—glad it worked. Did it hurt? Your shoulder, I mean?"

His eyes settle on to hers. "Not after."

She nods, lowering her head again.

Two fractures on his sixth and seventh ribs. Two days untreated plus four hours. Natalia knows the injury made it hard to breathe, and she thinks that's too much to handle until she remembers another detail. "You had the mask on?"

He blinks once. "Yes. Standard procedure."

Broken ribs and a mask she knows is a muzzle. Like punishing a dog. Breathing probably felt... impossible. He isn't just in pain, he's in agony. Not that she'd know from looking at him, but the signs are there.

He's feverish, there is a light sheen of sweat on his brow. And every time her hands move towards the injured side of him, he tenses slightly. It's an instinctual reaction, the body trying to protect itself. He probably doesn't even know he's doing it. His body reacts the way he's been trained to. Tighten, brace, and wait for pain.

"You broke two ribs. They want—I need an X-Ray, and then I can tape it. The X-Ray will just be a second."

His eyes watch her every movement, and then he just nods once.

The Soldier remembers her, the doctor.

He remembered her out on the field, too, but he didn't know it.

The mission. The damage to the metal arm. His body knew what to do. Quick reset. Circle the arm above the head until it snaps back in place.

She told him. He didn't know it then. But he knows now.

The Asset walked through that door. And he knew.

Different. From the first day. No orders. Gentle hands. The cat. Her smile. Blue shoes. Jasmine.

He will forget. They will wipe him and he will forget. But right now. He knows. He watches.

The pain is there. She will make it go away. Like always.

The girl who is not HYDRA. Who looks at the Asset differently.

The X-ray scans. Her face pales. More words that are not HYDRA. That are wrong.

"Like I thought," she swallows, "two broken ribs. I'm sorry, that must have been..." A sigh, "You know it's really dangerous to walk around with broken bones for so long."

The answer is automatic. "Pain is—"

"Yeah, irrelevant, I know." She closes her eyes. Shakes her head. Looks at the Asset. "So it did hurt?"

Why? Why ask? He studies. Clenched fist, small but tight.

A test? The Asset cannot tell. The sting of past punishments is never wiped. This, they let him keep.

It shapes his words. "It didn't slow the mission down."

A crease in her brow. "You know that's not what I'm asking."

No, he doesn't. He doesn't understand. It is not concern about functionality. Not like his other handlers.

The look in her eyes is unfamiliar. She shifts. Jasmine. He inhales. It hurts, but he does it again.

Her jaw is tight. She does not want to be here. Past handlers have been afraid. Replaced. She is not afraid. Then, what?

"I'm going to have to wrap your ribs. It'll feel tight at first and then eventually it'll feel better..."

There is a word. He remembers. Searches. "Yes."

She pauses. Looks at him. In the eye. More than the others. "Do you mean okay?"

He nods. Yes. That. "Okay."

She does not smile. But something in her eyes changes. Like last time. "Okay."

Steady hands. Gentle hands. The cat trusted her. The Soldier does too. He does not brace for pain.

Warm hand on his chest. "I need you to inhale, deep, and then exhale, please."

Not an order. The Asset inhales as she watches. He watches back. Exhales. Jasmine.

Jasmine.

White flowers cracking through the concrete.

He does not register the pain as she wraps the gauze. Tight but secure. Breathing is easier now.

And then—

Power outage.

Darkness. Silence. A few minutes until the generators come back on.

They’ve been here before. The two of them, a dark hallway. Anonymity. 

The Asset can see more than most in the dark. He can see her. Long hair. The slope of her nose. The curve of her lips. She steps back. Rubs her brow. Searching but unseeing.

Her voice. Quiet. "Do you remember me?"

The Asset nods. She cannot see. He says. "Yes."

She breathes. Chest rises and falls.

"Are you not supposed to?" Softer now. She is nervous.

The Asset does not answer. Something distracts him. A sound. Ticking.

A clock—No. A watch.

In the dark, his eyes search. Land on her wrist.

The Asset’s brow lowers.

Titanium meets a small wrist. What. Is. That?

Ticking. Ticking. Something he knows.

His pulse races.

The lights come on. Machines hum.

The watch on her wrist. Blue strap. Thin. Gold face. He has seen this before. Something like it. The static in his head crackles.

Something comes through. Breaks the static.

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

He's holding her wrist. The Winter Soldier is holding her wrist. He'd grabbed her only once before, only when absolutely necessary. That day in the combat simulator. His hold is looser now, but it's more intense, the metal hand cold on her skin.

Natalia doesn't know what to think. Shock has her frozen, lips slightly parted as she follows his gaze.

Too much has happened all at once. The word okay coming back to haunt her, the way he'd struggled to find it. The power outage, her risk of a question. His non-answer answer.

It's her watch that's captured his attention, and Natalia has no idea why.

"Um..." Words fail her, she doesn't know what to make of his sudden fixation on her grandmother's old watch. "It was my grandma's—"

"Longines, 1939." He says hoarsely.

One word exists to describe the look in his eyes, and it's desperate.

This is not how a weapon looks at anything.

He's off by a few years, give or take, but that's not the point. The point is that crack in the impenetrable ice. The way he's looking at her like he's begging for an answer. The way his hand is curled around her wrist. Natalia has seen it, heard it. Everything the Winter Soldier does is categorized as necessary or unnecessary. Anything irrelevant to function for missions is not in his vernacular.

He's a machine. This is an anomaly that's punching her right in the gut and making her dizzy.

Natalia nods before her brain remembers how to form words. "Yeah. Yes. I think—"

He drops her hand, metal fist clenching and unclenching at his side.

More questions arise in the same instance that Natalia gets one, undeniable, foolproof answer.

That day in the cell, the Winter Soldier was one hundred percent warning her about the guard when he told her to put the mask on. She knows, without a doubt.

Because not two seconds after he dropped her hand, the door to S100 opens, and a guard sticks his head in. "Just checking on you after the outage." The guard says.

As if he'd ever even moved, The Soldier’s gaze is fixated blankly on the wall.

"It's fine." Natalia replies, using the tension in her chest to force an air of irritation into her tone. "I just have to reboot all the machines now."

The guard nods, about to step back outside, when he pauses, Natalia's heart jumping into her throat. What. What?

He's looking at the Soldier wearily, "Why isn't he restrained? He should be."

For the first time, Natalia notices the reinforced metal cuffs on the medical bed. It's no surprise, it's HYDRA. The mask is back on. "I had to take them off for the X-Ray. It's an interference."

"Well—put them back when you're done."

Luckily, the guard knows nothing about X-rays because the screens behind her already clearly portray the evidence of his cracked ribs, the fracture in his arm. Natalia channels Vogl and just glares. "Yeah, no shit."

The guard just nods and steps back out of the room, clicking the door shut behind him. Not a second after he's gone, Natalia feels the returning weight of The Soldier’s stare and meets his eyes.

There are a few seconds of silence, and now Natalia knows that he is listening for the sound of retreating footsteps.

His next words are more observational than accusatory. "You lied."

"I did," Natalia says. But it wasn't just her. Omission is lying, especially in HYDRA. "So did you."

He doesn't react. Natalia wonders if she's the only one wearing a metaphorical mask.

"Put the restraints on."

Natalia's eyes narrow. It's like a switch has been flipped. It's the same tide that ebbs and crashes. Human, not human. A trick of the light, her naive mind playing tricks. "Why?"

"It's standard procedure." His tone is back to its usual, even coldness. No hint of emotion, nothing.

Her heart is still racing so fast that it makes her entire body shake. 

"Fine." She forces herself to say. Slow game, slow. One answer was more than she expected to get today, even if it just opened the door to more questions. She can't push no matter how badly she wants to.

Stiffly, Natalia starts with the restraints at his ankles, clicking them over his combat boots before moving on to his arms. Considering one is still broken, she avoids it and pulls the one around his metal arm in place, unable to bring herself to fully tighten it.

He notices, of course he does. "If you think that can stop me—"

This time, she interrupts him. The mask slips and falls before she can catch it. "What are you going to do? Attack me like you attacked that guard... I thought that was a side effect of the poison."

Like he had that day in the cell, he avoids the question. "Tighten it. Standard procedure. If I snap, you're dead in a second." The funny thing is, it almost sounds like concern. He talks about himself the same way the others talk about him.

The Soldier isn't a man who could snap. He's a gun that could misfire.

It's not rage behind his eyes. Rage would be too human. It's what coils in her gut and makes her forget to watch her tongue. "You're lying again."

"You act like you're not afraid of me." He says plainly. "That's not a mistake most people make."

There are a million different ways Natalia has seen just how terrifying The Winter Soldier is. The footage was one thing. The training was another. Brutal efficiency, impossible speed, no errors, ever. But it's that emptiness cements it. The Soldier doesn't kill because he wants to. It's not personal, it's orders. No questions. The last thing his targets see before they die is a face that promises no guilt, no remorse, and most of all, no mercy.

A weapon crafted in the HYDRA forges. A brain like a computer. Reset when needed. None of it makes sense.

Weapons don't need to be punished. They don't recall vintage watches by name. They don't remember things they aren't supposed to.

It's not him she's angry with, but the emotion is reflected in her tone all the same as she pulls the restraint tighter. "I guess I'm learning."

Neither of them speaks again. Natalia sets the broken bone in his arm, wraps it. Part of her wants to tell him that she'll have to check on him again tomorrow, but her throat closed up long ago.

By the time she finishes and unclasps the restraints, he's looking straight through her.

The Winter Soldier sits in the chair. The one with the electricity.

Wipe him.

He already knows. Mouth open. Accepts the bit.

Teeth clamp down. Body tense. It is the one reaction the training cannot erase. The coming screams are the only ones he is not punished for.

It's supposed to hurt.

The Asset braces. Waits.

The doctor is a liar. He knows how to read targets. Knows when they're acting.

She is not testing him, but she is lying. He heard it. The tone change with the guard. Unfamiliar from her. Clipped. Clinical.

How she should be with The Asset.

Not the irrelevant questions. Not the gentle hands. Wrong. Not a handler. Wrong. Not HYDRA. Wrong.

An anomaly. Unpredictable. Unwelcome. Pain. Not physical. Internal.

Jasmine and he stumbled. A mistake. The Soldier is not supposed to make mistakes. Again, he recalls the watch. It's name. That year.

It does not belong. She does not belong. The pain isn't physical, but it is sharp. She is a variable. Unstable. Unacceptable.

They will erase it. He waits.

A break in the static. Wrong.

The watch ticks in his head. Electricity crackles around the sound before the chair begins.

Tick. Tick. Tick. The Asset wants it to stop.

The static should not pause. The Asset is not supposed to remember.

It'll hurt less when you stop fighting—

Electricity. Real. The chair hums. He screams. Allowed. Expected. A wipe. Not the first. Not the last.

He clings to nothing. Lets the static in.

Forget her. She does not belong. Weapons do not need to be repaired with gentle hands. Confusion. Mistakes. Cracks.

The cold is all he knows. Not comfortable. He is not used to it. But it is all there is. Knowing warmth will only make it worse.

She will only make it worse.

The watch stops ticking. The color fades. Static.

Electricity glues the Asset back together. Good.

Good.

Familiar pain. Sharp. An empty mind does not make mistakes. Somewhere, Karpov smiles.

Something old comes out to fight. The electricity smothers it. The Asset forgets it.

It claws. Scratches. Pushes at the static.

The Asset kills it.

Chapter Text

Natalia is five minutes late to her usual briefing with Karpov, but she needs the time.

Punctuality is one thing, the mask slipping would be a bigger problem. Those five minutes are a necessary risk.

She takes them out in the hallway. Away from the Soldier, away from the guard. Hands on her knees, and trying to regulate her breathing before it escalates into full-on hyperventilation.

Whiplash has her all off kilter. The mask can't go back on until she's breathing right. Compartmentalize. Wait. Every play is important.

Breathe in, breathe out. Slower, she tells herself, slower. Calm down.

Meet with Karpov, then spiral about the Winter Soldier. It's coming, it's inevitable, all she can do is delay it.

Breathe in, breathe out. Pick the file up off the floor. You can do this, you have to. Breathe in, breathe out.

She knows how to get a body to calm down, she's been doing it for years. She's done it even as gunshots fired outside the hospital walls she’s worked in. She takes another three deep breaths.

One for stability. One for courage. One to slip the mask back on.

Invisible and necessary—she feels it pulling her face back to neutrality.

Elevator. Hallway. Karpov's door.

The act begins again.

Karpov studies the files. The x-rays, her carefully recorded notes. She knows what he sees and what he does not. It's all medical, clinical. Half-truths and lies of omission.

No mention of reactions to pain, no more suggestions for pain management. That was the hardest part. The Soldier should at least be resting, but Natalia forced herself not to write it down.

Guilt twists her stomach, and she forces it to stay there. There's no evidence of it on her face.

As Karpov reads, she glances around like she's bored. Her days of nervous shifting are behind her.

He picks up the X-ray of the Soldier’s arm, brows raised. "Quite the fracture."

Quite the fracture . Two days and four hours. A mission completed in immense pain. Quite the fracture.

Fucking. Bastard.

Natalia meets his gaze. She doesn't need the glasses for distance, but she keeps them on like the barrier will do something. It helps; her tone sounds exactly how she needs it to. The sound of his bones cracking and shifting echoes in her mind. She doesn't push it away, she lets it push her forward. "The bones were already healing—marginally—but... impressive still."

"How long until you think the Asset is functional again?"

Functionality, not recovery. She heard him loud and clear.

Weapons aren't injured. She snips and edits her words before they are out of her mouth. Makes them match his. "Based on the previous files of similar damages, I'd say a week. Less, under ideal circumstances."

The file shuts, forgotten for now. Karpov's attention is focused on her, he pushes the file aside to make it clear. He's listening, to everything. "Ideal circumstances?"

Like she has before, Natalia almost calls him sir. This time, she adjusts. "Colonel, if I may? I've noticed some things."

Sir is for scared little girls. Colonel means she is part of his ranks. He notices, it's subtle, but after searching for the needle in the haystack of blankness in the Winter Soldier, human reaction is obvious. Natalia is a magnet.

Karpov is already redefining her in his mind, like Vogl. True believers in the HYDRA initiative, confidence in the brainwash propaganda. "You may, doctor."

Doctor. Not Natalia.

"The operatives coming into the trauma ward are being seen too late." She's allowed to discuss the operatives differently. Even HYDRA offers them a crumb of humanity. "By the time they are treated, their injuries are worse. Infection, fever. You know my line of work. Urgency is necessary."

Karpov raises his chin, signals for her to go on.

The words are practiced, rehearsed, even the pauses. "A medical team on site is common practice. People can fight through an injury, but... objectively, they fight better when they are not." It's a seed she planted days ago, one she hopes takes root. "It's the same with the Winter Soldier."

Defiance is obvious, it's crushed. But manipulation... it whispers, it hides, it's all she has.

He's considering her words, she can tell. Karpov may be the man in charge, he knows what he knows. More importantly, he knows what he does not. "This may be true for our other operatives, but the Asset does not feel pain."

Liar. 

Later .

"I'm not talking about pain." Pain is irrelevant. The unofficial Winter Soldier motto. "I'm talking about logic. The past mission, for example. Two arms are better than one. The Asset was made for efficiency, why tarnish that? Pain aside, those fractures in the ribs could have punctured the lung. It wouldn't matter if The Asset didn't feel it. The loss of oxygen could have been a huge obstacle, it could have slowed things down. And then, after. The Asset's functionality is delayed now. If the bones had been set correctly quicker, they would have healed faster."

"Hm." Karpov hums. It's a universal sound. It means: you're right. Not that he's going to make it easy. Natalia almost forgot a key detail. Colonel Karpov isn't just a military leader. He's the head of The Winter Soldier Project. The ultimate HYDRA project. It's something he's proud of, morbidly so. My Soldier . The Asset is his favorite gun, one he put together himself. "The missions were a success. Both the operatives and The Assets."

Natalia nods, like she wholeheartedly agrees. Like she's logical. Like she's HYDRA. "Yes, this time. I'm just suggesting a way to make them better."

Karpov is quiet, contemplative. His gaze does not stray the way it used to. Like he's no longer checking for mistakes, no longer making subtle threats. "All things to consider. Noted." His knuckle raps the table. "You'll be given a time for a follow-up check with the Asset soon. Dismissed, doctor."

Natalia made her move. A good one.

Now she just has to wait and see how he'll make his.

"You look like hell," Hale says by way of greeting. They've met a few times, but Hale comes around less and less often. You can never be too careful. His mantra, his second favorite one. His favorite includes a lot of cursing and promises to take HYDRA down.

"You always say that." Natalia's voice is dry. She is aware of what she looks like; the weight of being here gets heavier every day. Hale looks like hell, too, which is a small comfort.

"Yeah, well. You always do." A beat passes. For once, the familiar banter doesn't make her smile. Hale's face sobers. He leans his head back against the wall, exhaling through his nose. "Things are moving," he says. "Our last few drops... they made it out."

Natalia lets her head tilt back, too, eyes slipping closed for a second. Relief. Just a crack of it. Good. It has to mean something.

"They're starting to see it now—S.H.I.E.L.D," Hale continues. "The scope of it. The—" he cuts himself off, shakes his head. "Doesn't matter. Just... you should know. The info you're leaking? It's getting out."

She lets out a slow breath. "Good. They still can’t track down the exact location of this place?”

He gives her a semi-apologetic look, “That’s the hardest part, kid. Not the hardest but… near impossible.”

“Bummer,” Natalia says, because crying and falling into a pit of despair helps no one.

He nods once. Hesitates. Then, like he can't stop himself: "I'm thinking... about doing something."

Natalia turns her head sharply. She knows that tone. Knows that glint when she sees it in his eyes. "What happened to careful?"

"Relax," he says quickly, palms lifting like that could undo it. "It's nothing reckless. Just—" A shrug. "Might be a way to get more. Hit harder. Set something in motion."

Her stomach knots itself tight. She tries to find the right words, but they're heavy and clumsy in her throat.

She hates the way her voice catches. "Don't get yourself killed."

He grins—a crooked, tired thing that doesn't reach his eyes. "Hey. I'm good at this, remember?" He nudges her shoulder lightly with his own. "Purely computerized infiltration. I'll be fine."

The promise hangs between them, half true and half a lie. Natalia nods like she believes it. She has to.

A long pause, silence only broken by the low whir of air vents overhead. Then she says, quieter, "I'm working on something too."

Hale's brows lift slightly. Encouraging.

"If I can convince them... I might get sent out," she says. "As a field medic. On missions." 

Hale's face freezes for a second, assessing. And then he whistles low under his breath. "Shit, kid. That's risky."

"I know." She does know, but she already pulled the metaphoric trigger.

"But..." A slow grin, pride, this time. "If you pull it off..." He shakes his head, impressed despite himself. "You'll have access to a-fucking-lot."

Natalia nods. Her pulse drums against her ribs. The game board is bigger now. The stakes are higher. So is the risk.

"You sure you can pull it off?" Hale asks.

"No," she admits, just honest enough.

He leans back, watches her for a moment. A rare seriousness settles over his features. "Just keep your head down," he says, third favorite mantra of his. "You're good at this. Better than you think."

She lets out a dry sound that almost passes for a laugh. "You saying that because you actually believe it?"

"Maybe." He smirks. "Or maybe because if you screw this up, we're both dead."

She huffs once. Some things don't need to be said.

Pressing her hands flat against the cold floor, Natalia grounds herself. "You stay safe too," she says finally.

Hale nods. More solemn than she's ever seen him. "I will."

He taps the wall lightly as he stands—their unspoken goodbye. Their version of a salute.

By the time Natalia opens her eyes again, he's gone.

The next night, Natalia sits beside Trudy on the couch. Braiding her wet hair and watching as Trudy knits.

All plans to dissect her time with the Winter Soldier are temporarily put on hold. Maybe it's foolish, maybe it's willful ignorance. Maybe she's getting a little too good at compartmentalizing, either way, it's not happening.

Her emotions are scattered, haywire. Natalia has a feeling that even if she did attempt to relive the emotional whiplash, her brain would stop her. Like her subconscious knows she needs a break. Somehow, simultaneously, she's both angry and relieved. Anger after everything that happened in S100, relief after surviving the minefields in Karpov's office.

It's not like she's high on victory—Natalia isn't even sure that was a victory—but she's looser than she's been in months. It'll come crashing down. Soon, when it's quiet, when Trudy's not there to distract her, she'll absorb it, him, whether she wants to or not.

But Natalia needs the momentary calm like she needs oxygen.

"Trudy," Natalia ties her braid off and gives up on trying to figure it out herself, "What exactly are you making?"

Trudy attempts a glare that doesn’t really land. Not with her messy gray hair and especially not with a mess of pink and red in her hands. "Don't sound so snooty, it's for you ."

"For me," Natalia repeats, and the grin returns. The one that's reserved for Earl the cat and Trudy the American oddity. "Why?"

"Belated birthday gift. Or early... who knows!" Trudy waves her hand, "Your birthdays gotta come around at some point, and I don't have the faintest clue how to make tiramisu." Glancing up at her once, Trudy adds, "And it's a scarf, can't you tell?"

The thing isn't remotely scarf-shaped.

"Oh," Natalia says for Trudy's sake. "Obviously, my bad."

For a second, Trudy looks satisfied, until her narrowed gaze is back on Natalia, and she's smacking her with the lump of yarn. "Don't look at it like that!"

Natalia raises her hands in defense before picking her book back up. "I'm just looking! When’s your birthday anyway, grandma?” 

“Mind your own gosh darn business, young lady!” Muttering under her breath, Trudy resumes knitting.

It's quiet for a while, a comfortable silence. Natalia already feels sleep dulling the sharp edges on her mind. The time passes easily, minimal words spoken. The closeness is enough, it lulls Natalia into a false sense of security. Safety isn't exactly abundant in HYDRA. The cover can shatter at any second.

Trudy's humming pauses, hands and knitting needles slowing. "I want to put your initials on the bottom of the scarf," Trudy says, "But what's your middle name?"

Natalia yawns, "Nasseem, my dad's name."

"That's odd." Trudy crinkles her nose.

"It's tradition." Natalia explains, "Like a written family tree. Through just a name, you can trace back to your grandfather, your great-great-great-grandfather, and so on."

After a moment, Trudy nods. "Okay, that's nice actually." And then she says, "What's in a name?"

"You're officially losing it." Natalia mumbles, sitting up so she doesn't fall asleep out on the couch.

Trudy frowns at her. "You don't have Shakespeare in France?"

Natalia shoots her a look. "I still don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, cmon, Romeo and Juliet... you know the line."

Natalia just shrugs.

Somehow, this signals to Trudy that she should begin to recite lines from the play, "What's in a name? That which we call a rose. By any other name would smell as sweet."

Already back to her knitting, Trudy doesn't even wait for a reaction. Natalia sighs, "Can we go to bed? I'm sleepy."

"I thought I was supposed to be the old lady between the two of us," Trudy grumbles, but she rises to her feet and follows Natalia to her room.

They change and climb into bed, the two of them now used to sharing the small space.

Despite appearing to be more awake, Trudy is out like a light within minutes.

Natalia's eyes shut, her mind hovering in that place between consciousness and sleep. There's a faint smile on her lips as she imagines Trudy attempting to stitch her initials into the scarf. She thinks of her father, whose name lives on in hers, of his father, and all the names that came before that.

What's in a name?

It's a nice quote. Natalia's eyes flutter open and shut again. What's in a name...

Asset. Soldier. Soldat.

Barnes.

The truth smacks her.

Natalia's eyes fly open.

Barnes is his name. 

Last name, likely. 

It's more than a gut punch. It chokes her. Solid and real and true. Barnes. He said it, he told her...

God. How did she not realize? How could she have known?

The Asset doesn't remember things deemed unnecessary. Nothing unimportant would stick. Not like that. HYDRA may have built his mind from scratch, engineered it to their use, but he said his name .

What's in a name? Everything, and nothing. Asset was assigned. Soldier is a label, a project. And yet, beneath all that...

She's seen the scans, the data. That file is forever burned into her memory. His brain isn't human, they told her, it hasn't just been altered, it's been made.

So why the name?

Her mind runs, heart racing. Natalia sits up in bed and clutches her chest. Claws at it.

She's a doctor, she knows what makes sense to her. Science, the nervous system, cells, and anatomy.

The soul? She doesn't even... no. Nothing makes sense. Nothing. Nothing.

Information, memory, identity. It's all held in the brain. The left dorsolateral prefrontal cortex and posterior cingulate cortex—that's where autobiographical information is stored. Textbooks, professors, and the world all agree. That is what she knows.

The soul is a theory. Impossible to prove. Names, memories, they aren't stored in the heart. Natalia isn't a complete cynic. She doesn't think love and emotion are purely chemical, but all this is too much to wrap her mind around.

His name. The watch. The signs, how... how did she miss them?

Panic strikes. Hard and fast.

This reaction is chemical. A complete and total forced shutdown. A defense mechanism, she can feel it coming. Luckily, she's already in bed.

Her brain slams the door. Too much. Too fast. Too real. 

Natalia blacks out.

"Scalpel." Natalia's lips move, she hears her voice, but the movements are not her own.

The surgical room around her blurs... focuses.

The Winter Soldier lies face down on the operating table. Unmoving, unconscious.

The scalpel in her hand moves towards the back of his head. She's not a brain surgeon, but Karpov is watching. His teeth shine in the light. Wolfish grin.

"Cut." He says, " Cut ."

Dread grips her spine like a vice. It never really leaves, now it tightens.

Natalia's hands move, like her voice, unbidden.

The scalpel presses against the back of his head and slices downwards. Blood pools and spills on her hands. In the reflection in the glass cabinet, she sees the Soldier’s face. Eyes closed, the machine powered down.

Her voice again, "Beginning craniotomy." Her hand is out and waiting. "Drill."

Burr holes. She'd practiced in medical school, performed a few surgeries, but this is not her area of expertise. Someone else should be doing this.

It doesn't matter, her hands are moving. The drill whirs, it cuts through the bone in a perfect circle.

Someone takes the drill. Natalia knows the next step. The cut bone flap is lifted and removed. Before setting it down, Natalia flips it and looks at the inner part. She knows what it is supposed to look like. Blood, tissue, marrow.

The dread crawls up her spine. Makes her sweat. She already knows. It's clean, shining like metal.

His bone is stamped with the HYDRA symbol. The skull, the tentacles. The mark is unnatural, someone put it there. They've been in his head before.

"Retractors." Natalia hears herself say.

She needs to pull the dura back to see the brain.

Her hands work like they know what to do.

The first layer of membrane pulls back. Only one thin layer between her and the Winter Soldier's brain.

Retract, retract. Another voice, one she does not recognize. "Look closer."

Her head tilts a fraction closer. She retracts the final layer of the dura.

Screaming.

Screaming so loud it's all she hears. A sound she knows, a sound she's heard before.

Natalia stumbles back, covering her ears. Her body crashes into the medical tray, its contents slamming into the floor. She looks down to see the HYDRA stamp staring up at her.

The Winter Soldier is unmoving. His reflection reveals a still face, closed lips.

Still, she hears his screaming. It pierces her eardrums, it makes the whole room shake.

Karpov is moving closer. "Asset! Soldier!"

The screaming replies. Unmistakable. One word. A name. The thing that sticks.

Barnes.

The sound is deafening. All-consuming.

The Winter Soldier gets up, turns towards Natalia. Eyes still closed, lips still shut. The screaming remains. It comes from inside of him. His brain screams and screams even as he appears unconscious. His body moves, lunges. How? Why? He's not even awake, not really.

Her voice, drowned out by the noise. "Bar—"

The titanium hand wraps around her throat. The flesh one tries to pull it back.

Barnes. Barnes. Barnes. 

His name. His name. His name.

Desperate, angry cries make her ears bleed.

His name. His name.

When Natalia shoots awake, she's the only one screaming.

There hadn't been enough time between waking from that nightmare and showing up for work at the trauma ward.

After waking up, Natalia hadn't been able to fall back asleep. Fear had kept her rooted to the spot, in bed, head on the pillow, in a mockery of rest. Her body was tense, is tense still. Adrenaline forced her into consciousness as her mind ran itself in endless, HYDRA-shaped spirals. Her body craved sleep, needed it. Her brain did not let it happen.

What's in a name? What's in a name? What's in a name? An endless loop.

Questions with no answers.

She'd been asking all the wrong things. Does not know where to begin with the rewrites.

What's in a name?

The alarm went off. Still, movement evaded her.

Trudy stirs behind her, nudging Natalia's back softly. "We have to get up."

She should nod. She should say something. Luckily, all Trudy can see is her back. She thinks she's still asleep. Another soft shake, "Natalia, honey, wake up."

Forcing her lips open, Natalia sits up, keeping her back to Trudy. "I'm awake—sorry, stomach ache."

Before Trudy can say anything else, Natalia hurries into the bathroom, locking the door and mechanically stepping into the shower. The cold water doesn't help like she needs it to, but she holds herself under it until she hears Trudy leave.

An hour, less now, until she has to report for duty. An hour until the game begins, whether she wants it to or not. An hour and the mask must go back on.

A blink and she's in the trauma ward. The world is moving too fast around her. Getting ready, walking here, she hardly remembers.

There's a patient in the bed... muscle memory.

It's a small blessing he's one of the quiet ones. No forced conversation, no watching her words. She catches her reflection in the glass cabinet. For a second, she sees him from the nightmare. Face blank, mind screaming. Natalia squeezes her eyes shut, forces them open, and she's back. Dark bags beneath her eyes, messy ponytail.

Pain. It will sharpen her mind, it will ground her.

When no one is looking, Natalia grabs a needle and forces it deep into her pinky finger. Deeper. Her breath hitches.

Sharp pain. Immediate. Grounding. The somatosensory cortex lights up, dragging her out of the fog.

Okay, better, better. She hides the needle in her scrub pockets.

Next patient. Poke, again.

Better, better. Okay. Okay.

What's in a—. Stop it. Stop.

Poke. Blood. The jolt forces her breath back into her lungs. A chemical spark—endorphins, norepinephrine. Just enough to cut through the static.

Vogl walks by, distracted.

Focus, breathe in, breathe out.

Don't panic over speculation. It was just a nightmare. You don't know anything—just a nightmare.

Natalia forces herself to breathe, she treats her patients.

Later, she and Vogl eat lunch in Vogl's office. It finally looks like an office again. The medical equipment is gone. No more poison, no more antidotes, no more black stained fingers. On Vogl or Trudy. The M-Phase scanner has been packed away. A problem for the chemists now.

Another gameplay that worked.

Vogl is about to reveal the results of the second.

"I heard you gave Karpov some interesting ideas," Vogl says around a bite of a sandwich.

Natalia chews her own, she still doesn't taste it. Her finger throbs and grounds her. It was just a nightmare. Or at least that's what she's telling herself for now.

"On-field medics are common practice," Natalia says, voice too flat.

There's an easy nod, loose posture. It tells her that for once, Vogl isn't testing her. She's just talking. "Non-combatants out on the field is a risk, but... you're right. I don't know why we didn't implement an on-site medic system sooner."

Because you're monsters.

"It's a well-oiled machine." Natalia shrugs like she's not struggling to swallow her last bite. "It still has to be greased." She tilts her head in interest, "Does that mean they're doing it?"

"Mhm... Karpov liked the idea. The next time the operatives are being sent out, Romero's going with them."

Romero? Romero!

Natalia wants to scream. To punch something. In her head, a medical tray goes flying across the room. That is not what she wanted. Not really.

Yes, yes. It's ultimately a victory that people will be treated faster now, but it wasn't supposed to be Romero. It wasn't just supposed to be the operatives. Why not her? Why? Objectively, she is a better doctor than Romero, and not just because she possesses basic human empathy. Her instincts are quicker, her stitches are neater... she's better. Why send him out? HYDRA is a lot of things, but it always seemed like there were bigger issues on the table than sexism. As creepy as the dress code is, everyone here is dressed for the part.

Is it a personal thing for Karpov? He'd touched her hair, she'd never forget, but she thought things were different now. Why only half take her advice? She'd been clear. Both the operatives and the Soldier need an on-site medic. She'd emphasized functionality, efficiency. All the things she was supposed to.

Natalia smiles tightly. "How exciting for him."

The next day, Natalia is aware she's moving on autopilot—at least she's moving.

Thankfully, the nightmare was a one-off; she doesn't sleep much, in turn she doesn’t enter a deep enough sleep to dream again.

After that night, she still hasn't thought about the Winter Soldier, not really. Something beyond her control slams the brakes anytime her mind starts circling the subject.

She knows the term. Repression. Dissociation. Defense mechanisms her professors once outlined on chalkboards—now blooming behind her skull.

It's not forgetting. It's avoidance with a HYDRA stamp.

Aware of it as she is, it's working. It's enough to keep her in the game, enough to keep the mask secured that morning in the trauma ward.

A familiar face occupies one of the cots. "You again," Natalia says. The redhead. The author of her moniker.

It rolls off his lips with something akin to fondness, "Angel. Does that mean you missed me, too?"

The game board slides towards her, looming, enormous. Natalia has to step on it or it'll knock her over. She scans his chart. For once, he isn't here for a concussion. "Looks like you took my advice. Finally got a helmet?"

He smiles, "Broke my fall with my hand this time instead of my head." He holds up his left hand, slightly swollen. "Hurt like a son of a bitch but at least I can see straight."

"The good news is, it isn't broken, just sprained." She holds the injured wrist in her hands to wrap it. Her focus is back, not quite fully. Not enough to realize this is the kind of injury HYDRA usually considers too minor to warrant a visit here. The move in Karpov's office worked in more ways than one, and she doesn't even know it. "I just need to wrap it, and you'll be good to go. I'll show you how so you can do it again yourself."

"Will I still be able to use it?" His eyes flick to hers as he watches the wrappings tighten around his wrist.

"If you have to but..." Vogl passes by again, Natalia clips her words, "Consider this an opportunity to become better acquainted with your right hand."

"But I'm a leftie."

He's American, like Trudy, similar enough accent, probably from a different state. Natalia can't place it. She wonders if he remembers the same things Trudy does. Fourth of July. Barbecue evenings. Apple pie and Georgia peaches.

The Winter Soldier is American, too. Or was. Or... Well, his accent is American. Classic, were it not so cold. Like something from the movies. Natalia isn't sure if that's something HYDRA did. Her knowledge of the brain and memory storage is useless now.

There are other clues, though. The base is somewhere isolated in Russia. Russian is the main language here, spoken by all the higher-ups. Most know English, but this is what... USSR? In the past, Natalia never paid much attention to the news; from what little she did know, the USSR was falling. The red star stamped into his metal shoulder is confusing. Soviet ownership. Communist military branding. Is the Soldier Russian? Does he speak it? His English is too good, it's undeniably American, but that doesn't tell her much of anything.

Neither do his physical features. American, vaguely European. Barnes. Also, little to reveal there, it's a common name.

Natalia wants to ask the redhead his name, even as she knows it's not appropriate. Vogl never calls any of the patients by their names. Anyway, her time with him is done.

There are more patients, more unknowns. Accents from all over the world. Names she'll never learn. One she'll never forget.

Another day passes. It's the same. Autopilot, repression. The Winter Soldier and the name Barnes pound and pound at the back of her mind.

"You will train with the Prizraki team today. Report to the third floor."

The Winter Soldier nods once. Obeys.

Prizraki’s—The Ghosts. Special unit. Select few. Occasionally assigned to the field with the Asset.

The Asset does not know their names. He does not need to. Missions. Training. That's it.

He enters the third-floor combat wing. Three men prepare for training. The Ghosts.

The Soldier stands. Waits for it to begin.

The operatives talk. Russian. Not to him. His gaze is empty. Straight ahead. Listening. Not absorbing.

" Blyad . I'm always sore for a week after we train with the Soldat. You think we're being sent out soon?"

Irrelevant questions.

A grunt. "Either way, Orlov's going to make it bad. Like it's my fault I'm not serum enhanced."

The Soldier never asked for the serum—irrelevant thought. Ignored.

Unnecessary talk continues. The Asset does not speak. The Ghosts already know.

The tone changes. "Worst case, you pay a visit to the trauma ward..."

"Ангел" The angel . "She's the only reason I don't mind getting sent to medical. You know, I almost made her laugh the other day. Thought I'd pass out."

A scuffle. "No, you didn't. You can't even look the woman in the eye."

The Soldier blinks. Waiting. It's irrelevant. Just noise.

"I can't help myself. Angel’s got the softest hands I've ever felt. And that hair... I got a whiff of it the other day, like cookies or something."

"It's flowers."

"Debil" Idiot . Mocking. " Flowers ."

The men laugh. The Soldier does not. He's not listening, not really. But he hears.

More Russian. "Usually, I hate having to speak English with the doctors, but that accent."

Another grunt. Agreement this time. "You think all the girls in France are that pretty?"

The sound of footsteps. Boots. The Ghosts fall quiet. Orlov.

Training begins.

The room is steel and smoke. Simulated combat: flashing lights, live rounds, artificial cover. The air smells like ozone and gunpowder. A training scenario—complex, high-risk. One designed for failure.

The Asset moves first.

His bones are still healing. Fractures wrapped tight beneath the uniform. Ribs bruised. Left arm tested, reinforced. He feels the injuries but does not register them as pain. Only pressure. A variable. Nothing more.

The Ghosts follow. Three operatives. Fast. Skilled. Human.

One stumbles on debris—a minor error, but it slows them. Another misjudges a corner and exposes his side. The Asset adjusts. Corrects. Covers without pause.

A turret fires. One of The Ghosts takes a hit to the shoulder—flesh wound. He grunts, falters, regains footing. Still alive.

The Asset moves through the field like water. No wasted motion. No sound beyond impact. A twist of the wrist, a crack of the neck. A shot between the eyes.

He doesn't breathe hard. Doesn't blink unless necessary. The simulation counts every clean kill. The numbers climb.

Another operative hesitates mid-charge. The Asset steps in, knocks the incoming bullets off course with his forearm. Quick. Brutal. Efficient. No acknowledgment. No pause.

He moves ahead alone.

By the time the alarm sounds, the smoke is clearing. Bodies—fake and real—litter the floor. The operatives breathe hard. One bleeds freely from a torn bicep. Another clutches his ribs. There's no laughter this time.

The Asset stands still. No labored breath. No twitch of muscle. Just readiness.

From the door, Orlov clicks the stopwatch. "Soldat. S100. Now."

The Asset turns.

No hesitation.

Natalia has only been working in the trauma ward for a few hours when Vogl calls her into the office.

Earl the cat winds between her shoes the second she enters, demanding attention as usual. Natalia isn't able to indulge as much as she'd like, but she bends down to pet him. "Did you need help with research on something?" She asks Vogl, who demands attention in a much less pleasant way than her cat.

"Not today." Vogl says, "I just got a message, you have to go down to S100."

By now, Natalia knows not to let her hand go still, not to let her voice shake, "Now? Should I change?"

"Don't bother this time." Vogl says, "It'll just be a quick check."

As if Vogl trained him to sense fear, Earl suddenly gets bored with Natalia's petting. Like a typical cat, he lashes out. His sharp claw cuts a line down her arm before he crawls away. Despite the sting, Natalia is grateful for the excuse to wring her hands, rubbing the rising cut as she nods.

S100. The Winter Soldier...

Usually, that comes with a notification on her schedule. The specific, unofficial uniform. HYDRA perfection, neat clothing, jewelry. Usually, Natalia has time to prepare, physically, and more importantly, mentally.

Yes, every day here is a minefield of subdued reactions and carefully chosen words, but the Winter Soldier is a treacherous maze of his own. Especially now.

The nightmare. His name.

All that repression comes out and smacks her in the face. Or maybe it doesn't. Natalia is so frazzled that she isn't even sure if she'd be better off if she had thought about it all in depth.

Either way, she's about to see him.

For the first time, Natalia has no idea what to do.

Chapter Text

After the instructions from Vogl, Natalia makes her way to S100 quickly.

If she's moving, she's not thinking, and thinking is the most dangerous thing she can do right now. As she walks, she attempts to formulate a simple plan: treat the Winter Soldier like she always does. She's not a mechanic, she's a doctor. With or without the confusion surrounding the name Barnes, she'd still treat him like a patient, she doesn't have it in her not to. Even from the first day, when Karpov tried to make it explicitly clear that she was not healing someone but repairing a weapon.

What she won't do is what she did last time. Ask stupid questions or agonize about the watch and how he knew anything about it.

Maybe it's a good thing that the only thing on her wrist now is a fresh scratch courtesy of Earl.

Steeling herself, Natalia pushes through the door and goes to turn the lights on so she can prepare the room before the Soldier's arrival.

The lights come on, and she screams.

He's already here. Already waiting in the chair with that unnatural stillness. Natalia's hand flies to her chest instinctively, huffing out a breath. "Jeez, sorry—you scared me."

He blinks. Unaffected. "Mne prikazali priyekhat' syuda.”

Oh... Russian?

He knows she doesn't speak Russian. Or at least he did. Now he doesn't. Which means... what, exactly? By now, she's gathered that his HYDRA-built brain only stores information it deems necessary. Mission parameters, vague details of people.

The sudden Russian means he doesn't remember her—not really. All their past interactions, for her sake, have been in English. Unless he also speaks French… Natalia cuts the thought off before her brain can start forming more useless questions. Last time, she'd been more prepared, the power outage had supplied a perfect opportunity. Today, she hardly trusts herself to look him in the eye.

"I don't..." Natalia shifts nervously and steps further into the room. "I don't speak Russian."

Silently, Natalia wonders if there's a computer whirring somewhere inside his head. Recalibrating and recalculating. It's easier to picture than the nightmare. The screaming. The name—

Jesus. Stop, before you spiral.

This time, when he speaks, it's in perfect English. "They told me to wait here."

She nods as she prepares what she needs, having figured as much. Natalia drags out the portable X-ray even as she already knows that the results will show her. Impossibly fast healing. She can see it already. There's no more tightness in his jaw, no difficulty breathing.

Although... he does look like he's just been exerting himself. It wasn't a mission, she at least knows that much because she would have been told, but training? Yes. It's obvious now, the clothing, the slight dampness of sweat in his hair. More to herself than anything, Natalia mutters under her breath, "You're supposed to be resting. Two broken ribs and a broken arm require at least that."

Shockingly, he doesn't bother replying.

Studying him as the machine powers on, Natalia takes in the medical details. His shirt is already off, revealing the wrappings around his ribs, and the cast on his arm is gone. It's already a normal shape again, like it was never even broken. Impossible doesn't even begin to cover it.

"How are your ribs?" Natalia asks, "Any difficulty breathing?"

A short "no" is all he says.

"Okay. I'm going to take these off," She gestures to his torso, "Then I'll take an X-ray and rewrap if I have to."

She waits for a reaction, a response, but she doesn't get one. Narrowing her eyes, she asks, "Who took the cast off your arm?"

"A handler. Necessary for the combat simulator."

"Combat—" Natalia sighs, cutting herself off again and pushing through the twist in her gut, "They shouldn't have done that until I was able to take a look. Does it hurt?"

Natalia knows he's only answering because it's a necessary question, related to the training. "No."

Are you lying? Unasked.

"Okay," Natalia reaches for her gloves so she can get to work on the wrap around his ribs. "I'm just going to remove these now."

He shifts imperceptibly as she comes closer, but the second she reaches forward, his finger twitches. Her head snaps up to his eyes. Eyes that are focused wholly on her wrist.

It's not the first time he's done something like this. There was the time with the bruise on her cheek, his questions. What happened? Who did that?

Today, he doesn't ask, but he's looking. It's hardly a scratch, really. It burns, but it stopped bleeding on her walk over here, and she'd covered it with antibiotic before putting her gloves on. Even though he's not asking, Natalia gives him an answer.

"It was Earl—it was a cat." Natalia amends. If he doesn't remember her, he certainly doesn't remember a grumpy gray cat he met once in a hallway. Met, being a generous word.

Blue eyes flick back to her face. There's another question there.

He doesn't ask.

Natalia doesn't push.

The doctor's hands are soft. A contrast.

The cast on his arm had been yanked. Pulled by another handler.

Not like now. Different. A difference he has seen before. Yes. He knows. Remembers.

No—

Wrong.

The wipe. Days ago. It should have worked. Details should be erased.

He should not remember blue shoes. Pink nails, once blue. Long hair.

But then she said it. A cat. He remembers. The hallway. The smile. Her words: Oh, that's nice.

Wrong.

The Asset is still. Small movements as she removes the wraps. She shifts. Closer. It hits him.

Flowers. Jasmine.

And then—The Soldier knows.

Ангел

She is the angel. The one the Ghosts spoke of.

Words he'd ignored come back. Unbidden. Irrelevant, but he heard. He recalls.

You think all the girls in France are that pretty?

The accent. French. Hers: Does it hurt?

The Ghosts try to make her laugh. Irrelevant. Unnecessary. Then, why?

They spoke of more than just her skills. Someone familiar. Trusted. They know. Like him. Like the cat. They notice. Soft hands. Gentle.

Not mission talk. Not utility. Something else.

Unnecessary observations. He heard them. Ignored them. But he recalls now. How they spoke of her fondly.

Pretty .

It is not a variable The Winter Soldier is made to observe. It is not something he considers.

The Ghosts all agreed. He recognizes it in their tone now. 

Desire. 

A human trait. One he does not possess.

Weapons do not want . They do not remember.

She takes the X-rays. Furrowed brow. A familiar expression now. He knows her glasses will slip before they do.

He studies. Tries to categorize. Define. Sloped nose. Olive skin. Brown eyes. Dark lashes. Her lips. Pink. Pretty?

Irrelevant.

Not just that.

They were eager. Even when injured, the Ghosts wanted to see her.

The Asset knows why. The softness is not just physical.

Her voice had changed that day with the guard. Clipped. Sharp. HYDRA-coded. A performance.

The way she speaks to him now.  Soft. Even. Steady.

That's not an act.

Kindness, she gives it to the injured.

He's seen it. The operatives, him.

Not because they deserve it. Because they're in pain.

She shouldn't offer it to him.

Not here. Not now. Not again.

But she does.

And he shouldn't remember that.

Shouldn't recall her voice, her hands, her tone.

The way she'd unclipped the mask. The warmth in the frigid cell. How she'd gasped at his back.

But he does.

He does.

Irrelevant. Irrelevant. Irrelevant.

She looks up from the scans. "I guess... I mean—everything looks good. Healed. And you said you're not in pain..."

Doubt. He hears it.

Another memory clicks. The trigger pulled.

Her wrist. The ticking. Longines, 1939. His words. Irrelevant then. Irrelevant now.

But the ticking remains. Just in his head. She's not wearing the watch.

The Asset asks a question he should not. His training stops him. Reshapes it. "Gde tvoi chasy?"

"What?" Brows drawn. She does not speak Russian.

The Winter Soldier does not ask again.

He lies. "Dismissed?"

Disappointment. "Oh.. um. Yes."

The restraints release. He stands.

The Asset walks away.

Again, Natalia's processing is put on hold.

It's all too much, too fast, too obscure. Part of her wishes she could write it all down, but the risk of anyone reading her thoughts is too high. In her head, she mulls over the interaction. His words.

Gde tvoi chasy?

Natalia doesn't know Russian, but she's pretty sure all those words do not amount to just: dismissed? Language aside, the question was sudden, like it was an accident. Something that slipped out when it shouldn't have. The Russian was a defensive mechanism. A way to block it... at least that's what she suspects. Besides, why would he suddenly switch back to Russian in the first place? He'd done it at the beginning, which was one thing, so switching from English back to Russian didn't make sense.

But before she can think it over any further, Natalia is interrupted.

Vogl intercepts her in the hall. "There you are. Come with me."

No explanation. Not at first.

The walk is quiet, clinical. Natalia is too exhausted to ask questions, too wary to show surprise. Her mind runs through possibilities with quick, sharp turns—had she slipped? Was something noticed?

But then Vogl stops outside one of the conference rooms on the sixth floor. No windows. Clean walls. There's a phone on the table. Landline. Receiver in its cradle, light blinking.

Vogl steps inside first, gestures to it. "You have a five-minute call. Your mother has been informed that you're stationed at a secure military base. She's waiting on the line."

Natalia blinks. The sentence doesn't register right away. It feels like a hallucination.

"You'll press this when you're ready to begin." Vogl taps a small button on the monitor. "I'll be here the whole time just to make sure no details slip."

Of course she will.

Still—still. None of that matters.

Natalia steps into the room. The door closes behind her with a soft hiss, but she barely hears it. Natalia steps in slowly, as if moving too quickly might wake her up from a dream. Trembling hands as she reaches for the receiver and lifts it to her ear.

"Habibti." Her mother's voice crackles slightly from the speaker, but the warmth is unshakable. "Happy birthday, my love. Late birthday, I've been waiting a while for this."

Natalia's voice is too small. She's afraid that if she speaks too loudly, she'll ruin it. "I'm sorry. I got caught up with... a few things. But I'm here."

"You're working too much," her mother scolds gently. "They're lucky to have you, but they need to let you rest. You should tell someone that."

There's laughter in her voice. Real, soft laughter. Natalia almost breaks in half.

"I'll try," she lies, and it's the easiest lie she's told in a while. Small and white and harmless. "Thank you for the package."

"I was worried it wouldn't reach you. Did they deliver it in one piece?"

Natalia nods, still lying. "Yes, it's perfect."

Despite HYDRA never delivering the package, she already knows what would have been inside. She doesn't need to see it. Her mother sends the same thing every year: handmade date cookies, a recipe from home. Some stupid fridge magnet, an old inside joke. The fridge at home is littered with them, each uglier than the last.

"You're wearing the watch still?" her mother asks. "Your grandmother's?"

Natalia nods again, eyes glassy. "I never take it off." Half-truths.

"That's good. It's yours now."

The conversation drifts. Her mother does most of the talking. Little updates from Lebanon. The neighbors. Cousin Yasmine's engagement. The weather. The market. Mundane, human things that slice Natalia clean open.

She tells more half-truths. About the base. About the scenery. About the weather. About the friend she's made—Trudy. "You'd like her," Natalia says, blinking back tears. "Funny in a rude kind of way. My closest friend here."

Her mother laughs. "Then I already love her."

The tears spill before she can stop them. But she doesn't hide them. For once, she doesn't have to.

On the line, her mother mirrors the sound.

It's not enough. It never will be.

"I miss you," Natalia whispers, throat raw.

"I love you," her mother says.

"I love you, too."

The line ends.

Natalia stands there, tears still flowing.

Vogl doesn't say anything. She just opens the door again. "You're dismissed."

Trudy doesn't ask what's lifted Natalia's spirits, but she can tell she notices.

They talk back and forth over dinner, joking about lazy Americans and the snobby French. It's not a blazing fire or anything, but after the phone call, there's a warmth in her chest that Natalia hasn't felt for months.

It makes it easier to smile. Despite the circumstances of the call, just the sound of her mother's voice does more for her than anything could have. The letters are one thing. Being able to actually speak with her is like a shot of relief straight into her veins.

Trudy is rambling, energized by Natalia's improved mood. "I've never been to France, but I did have a summer fling with a Parisian once." Trudy says, "He had a moustache and chain-smoked like it was his career."

Natalia laughs, waving her hand. "Then you got the experience mostly. There's lots of moustaches and cigarettes."

"You ever had a fling with an American boy?" Trudy probes.

"A few. The tourists... they go crazy for the accent." Natalia turns to her. "Are cowboys real or is that just from the movies?"

Trudy gasps, choking on her water. "Oh, honey, you haven't lived until a cowboy takes you dancing. Denim, boots, the hat."

Natalia's nose crinkles as she laughs. "I'll have to take your word for it."

Later that night, squished beside Trudy in bed, Natalia remembers.

She turns over until she's facing Trudy, thankful that her eyes are still open. "Do you know Russian?"

"Picked up a little during my time here," Trudy supplies, "Why?"

Natalia fumbles over the words for more reasons than one. "What does... ' gde tvoi chasy' mean? "

Trudy's eyes narrow, "Hmm... I dunno. Something about um..." She frowns, shifts, repeats it to herself, "chasy..."

"You don't know?" Natalia tries not to sound too disappointed.

Then, she blinks. "Oh, watch! Where is your watch? That's what it means."

Oh. God.

Her watch.

He remembered.

Natalia knows she is going to lose another night of sleep before she even attempts closing her eyes.

Chapter Text

The File

For the first time in months, Natalia feels the gust of a breeze on her legs.

It blows in through the open window, icy despite her beliefs that spring is coming. The snow may be melting, but the cold remains. Fresh air for the first time in... ages. The office features a large window, offering a clear view of the surrounding mountains.

Karpov sits across from her, sucking the air out of the room. Natalia crosses one leg over the other, her skirt shifting with the movement.

Reflecting on her time here, since that first day until now, Natalia thinks she knows what is happening. Thinks. She's never sure of anything anymore. But this morning her schedule had been different—one line.

0800 - 9th floor - 901

It had all begun in the lab. A slow introduction, HYDRA syllabus week. Blood samples, DNA, bone tissue, each more impossible than the last. Then, her first reassignment. The trauma ward. Vogl's prying eyes, patients that needed quick treatment, the eventual stability. False stability. What came after was the real job.

A test passed. A new assignment. The Winter Soldier. The ultimate weapon, the Asset. A HYDRA-built brain designed for brutal, lethal efficiency. Natalia will never forget that first day when she met him. The questions that raged inside her head live on today.

She's the same girl she was when Fury approached her with an offer. The goal is the same. Help S.H.I.E.L.D. get information. She just goes about things differently now.

Or maybe she isn't the same person. She probably isn't. The things she's seen...

Natalia has seen death, and not the same kind she used to face while working in war zones. It is different here, intentional, cruel. Blatant disregard for human life in the name of experiments. She has seen impossible things, and she's not just talking about The Soldier. HYDRA plays by its own rules. While she may not know their exact goals, she knows it's nothing good, and she's been fighting the only way she can.

Face neutral, Natalia looks at Karpov.

Is this another reassignment?

She's unsettled, nervous, but this doesn't feel like a punishment. Karpov had told her to make herself irreplaceable, so she had. He'd listened to her idea, and Vogl likes her now. She's alive, which means it's working. S.H.I.E.L.D will know now, because of her, about the experiments and the Winter Soldier, and the secrets. 

But there's a file on Karpov's desk giving her an uncanny sense of deja vu. The breeze from the open window pushes at the edges, like it's demanding to be read.

Karpov breaks the silence. "The operatives seem to be quite fond of you."

Natalia holds still in the chair, tilting her head. Each word is considered, calculated, spoken evenly. "People tend to like the person who stops the bleeding."

"Not just the operatives. Vogl, Dr. Blane," Karpov lists them off. "They see the change, like I do. You're not the same girl who came here, are you, Dr. Haddad?"

Lies are only good if they're partly true. Natalia keeps this in mind as she weighs her next words, "The circumstances were unique, we both know that..." Natalia exhales. Thinks. She'd known this conversation was coming; she knows what to say. "Do you know who Dr. Edward Jenner is?"

Karpov's brows raise. "Enlighten me."

It's a name college professors liked to throw around. Natalia knows the story well. "In 1796, he intentionally infected an eight-year-old with smallpox. At the time, naturally, people thought him a monster. Who does that?" She shrugs, reminds herself not to fidget. "Today, he's credited with the implementation of the first successful vaccine."

Game piece moved, decidedly. Karpov is smiling.

Natalia continues carefully. Lines she's been building in her head for weeks. "HYDRA is a secret organization. The work you do is in the shadows, but... one day, it will be in the textbooks. You, Vogl, Dr. Blane. The public, they'll say it was controversial at the time, and still, they will be appreciative that someone made these discoveries for them." Her throat burns, it is harder to say aloud than she thought, this lie. 

Karpov nods, like they're in cohorts, like he is proud. The sentiment has been pushed onto Natalia the second she entered these sterile gray halls, and it's finally clicking. It's what she makes him see, it's what she wants him to think. He does not know that each word chips away at her because if he did, she'd be dead.

"I knew you'd get it eventually. You're tough, smart. I know you liked your old job, your life, but your talents were being wasted."

It was an accident! Natalia wants to scream. A horrible case of wrong place, wrong time. Her fate had been sealed the second that HYDRA operative had assassinated her patient back in Baghram. A butterfly effect of the worst kind. Fury, S.H.I.E.L.D., it all led to this. 

Medical breakthroughs, research... It's not ever what Natalia wanted. Her work had always been hands-on, in the moment. Save lives, as many as you can.

But she's not here to defend her character. Karpov doesn't even want her to. This is the version of Natalia he wants. HYDRA. Unscrupulous. Clinical. "I'll not lie to you, Colonel. I don't always sleep easily, but history rarely remembers the name of people who do."

"You'll get used to it." Karpov says simply, "You already have been." Then, he finally acknowledges the file. It takes everything in Natalia not to just snatch it out of his hands and rip it open. "Since we're being honest with each other—the truth, about The Winter Soldier Project."

Fuck. Fuck .

Karpov isn't just throwing a wrench in the works, he's aiming it right at her head, whether he means to or not.

The truth. The thing she's been searching for. The part she isn't supposed to question, "I did not realize I was being lied to."

Everything is off. Her heart pounds too loudly in her ears. Her hands are slick with sweat. She has to blink twice until her vision focuses and sharpens on the face across from her.

Karpov's right hand is raised, like it's an official gesture. I solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

He begins by saying, "Tell me what you think of the Asset."

And there it is. Him. It's all about him. The Winter Soldier. The project.

"I'm no military analyst, but I've seen the Soldier train and—"

"No, not that, I know that part." A flash of possessive pride. "I've molded that part. I mean... you're used to treating patients, I know you have a good rapport with the operatives. Tell me about The Asset."

An alarm bell rings faintly in the back of her mind, but she forces herself to focus. Despite the stiffness, the uneasiness coursing through her veins, Natalia levels her tone. Keeps it observant, clinical. "The word impossible is trivial now, and yet it still works. The Assets' healing capabilities are unlike anything I've ever seen. Nothing stops him, blood, torn ligaments, broken bones..." Natalia knows what he's really asking and gives it to him. "There are obstacles. Most patients tell you what's wrong, they react to pain. The Asset does not, so treatment is different. Faster, yes, but... strange."

"Strange?" Karpov clings to the word like it’s a bone he intends to gnaw clean.

"The Asset doesn't talk." Lie. Lie, lie, lie . He does talk to her. Even with limited words, he says a lot. It's a lie, but it's one she must say. "It makes it hard to tell sometimes if the damages are really repaired. The Assets brain is, like you said, a computer. I've adjusted how I go about treatment."

Something in her words makes Karpov straighten. Like she pushed a button, one he's been waiting for her to find.

He's charged with macabre intensity now. “About that. The brain…” His smile now is faint. Cold. Smug.“It’s not exactly what I told you that day.”

Natalia stills.

“HYDRA didn’t build it from nothing.”

The funny thing about truth is, sometimes you don't even realize how comfortable you were being kept in the dark until you're dragged out of it. The light of truth is harsh. Too harsh. 

"What?" Natalia says, stomach tightening, like it's preparing to drop.

Karpov tilts his head. Almost kindly.

“You believed we built him. From scratch. Cold steel. Synthetic pathways. Some miracle of science.”

Natalia doesn’t speak.

“We didn’t build him, Doctor.”

He opens the file with one smooth, practiced motion.

“We broke him.”

And just like that, Natalia's entire world shatters.

No redactions. No missing sections. Just the cold, hard, sickening truth.

James Buchanan Barnes.
DOB: March 10, 1917
Brooklyn, New York.

No. No. No. No. This. Cannot. Be. Real. 

Dread ties a noose around her neck, it tightens the more she looks.

Enlisted: January 1942
Service: 107th Infantry Regiment

It gets worse. There's a photo, paper clipped to the page like it's not ripping her apart from the inside out.

It's not him, not the Winter Soldier. Even printed and faded, the image is full of life. James Barnes smiles at her through a sepia-toned lens. A proud grin, crooked like the hat on his head. It's sickeningly charming. There's joy on his face. The kind that comes from being young and stupid and alive. A face that should have aged, should be worn down with smile lines and wrinkles.

1917. James Buchanan Barnes.

He should be seventy-four. He should be anything but this...

Alive today. But is he, really? The picture burns a hole in Natalia's mind. The Soldier is older than the boy in the photo, but only by a few years. Physically, it's the same face, but it's devoid of any of the warmth the photo displays. Devoid of everything. 

No grin, no warmth. Just silence and compliance. 

Barnes. He knew. He remembered.

She knew too. Subconsciously. Her nightmare.

It's not just dread stealing her breath, it's guilt.

Karpov tightens the noose around her neck with a satisfied expression. His words are muffled by the horrified ringing in her ears, but she hears them loud and clear. "In 1943, the Red Skull—Johann Schmidt—began development of the first Super Soldier Serum. His formula was imperfect. It enhanced him, yes, but left him disfigured. Violent. Unstable. An early draft, if you will."

He waves his hand, like the history bores him. "But HYDRA continued the work. After Schmidt's... disappearance, Dr. Arnim Zola took over. He had seen the serum work on Rogers—America's precious Captain. Zola didn't want to replicate the exact serum. He wanted something better. Something obedient."

The words, the names... she recognizes them vaguely. Steve Rogers—Captain America. Hale mentioned him, knew about the serum. But Zola, Schmidt, that's all new. Natalia tries to piece it together, but she has a feeling it doesn't matter. Not really. 

The truth is coming at her faster than a bullet to the head.

"They began testing." Karpov continues, like he's itching to get to the good part. "Prisoners. Volunteers. Soldiers. All failures. Subjects died. Rotted from the inside out. Or worse—they lived, but couldn't be controlled. They screamed. Turned rabid. It took years." A mockery of a grin, then. "Until him. James Buchanan Barnes. Taken from the Austrian Alps after falling from a train in April of 1945. He was half-dead. Frozen..." Karpov shifts in his chair. "Broken."

"Zola knew him immediately. A man who'd already been subjected to early testing in a HYDRA facility months prior as a prisoner of war, before Captain Rogers ever rescued him. Do you see? The serum was already in him. Just dormant."

Karpov looks at her. Natalia says nothing. There are no words she can clip and structure now. Nothing but cold, all-consuming terror.

"So we amputated first. The fall destroyed his arm anyway." Karpov says simply, like it’s a footnote. "A full replacement was installed—mechanical, then hydraulic, then titanium. Versions improved over time to the one you see today."

Natalia can't process. Can't function. She can hardly breathe. It's a small mercy that Karpov is too caught up in his own words to even notice her reaction. She's pale and she knows it. The mask is lost somewhere far away. In a distant past where Natalia thought the half truth she'd been given was bad. But this... this is worse.

"The serum was re-administered under controlled conditions. He survived. He healed. And he... obeyed. Zola called it the second coming of the serum. The perfect blend of strength and submission. Rogers may have been America's dream—but Barnes became HYDRA's reality." Karpov's eyes shine. "He was our first and only success. We stopped trying after that. Why waste resources when we already had what we needed?"

Eyes wide, vision blurring, Natalia can't even bring herself to nod, and Karpov keeps talking. 

"Of course, he wasn't the Winter Soldier right away. It took years—conditioning, reconditioning, training. Memory wipes. The Asset you see today was forged, made. Human weakness, emotion, memory." Karpov snaps his fingers sharply. "Erased. Pathways reshaped, instinct sharpened. Weapons don’t think. They execute."

Abandoning the noose, Karpov grabs a dagger and slams it straight into her heart like it's a gift.

"You know he screamed, at first. Cried. Begged. Not just for us to stop, for death. Pathetic. We had to make him better. Weapons don't feel, they don't think. They follow orders. The arm was an obstacle of its own. You've seen the scars—he broke skin multiple times trying to tear it off. Clawed at his body like he wanted out of it. Broke his own fingers trying to avoid compliance but eventually..." Karpov leans back, smug. "Eventually, The Asset learned."

"So he was a person." Natalia blurts before she can even consider stopping it. "Throughout all of it..?"

"Exactly," Karpov says. " Was ."

"I don't..." Natalia shakes her head like it'll clear the fog. "I don't..."

"You've seen it." Karpov says, "You know. This... it changes nothing. The Asset is a weapon. Obedience is all that exists. The Winter Soldier exists to take orders, to execute. You already know. He's not a man, not anymore."

The lie— the original lie —was monstrous, but manageable. A weapon built in a lab. A corpse retrofitted with programming.

But this?

Fifty years of this. Immortalized, captive, forcefully obedient. She knows what conditioning means. Even if she doesn't know exactly how they did it, she knows. Torture. Physical, psychological. Memory wipes. Training.

God.

His arm. His arm—

She had seen the scars that Karpov referred to and thought they were just part of an accident, but that's not true. Even with the memory wipes, that trauma clung. She'd seen it, the first time he was tense from just a dislocation. The way he'd only started to trust her when she showed him how to fix it.

James Buchanan Barnes did not want this. The Winter Soldier may not remember anything, but James? He's still in there enough for cracks to show through. Someone who fought. Who was afraid. Who felt pain. He was twenty-eight when they amputated his arm. She knows, without Karpov saying that it wasn't done the way it should have been. No anesthesia, nothing human, just cruelty.

James Buchanan Barnes. Twenty-eight years old. Tortured by HYDRA. The Winter Soldier is the result. They didn't just kill a man for their process, they obliterated him.

Karpov's words stab at her even after he's gone quiet.

It's in there still. That means everything else is too. Fear, humanity...

She can't—

Karpov is standing. "Come, see. You know the truth now, but I'll show you, it changes nothing.

The Chair 

For the second time, Natalia descends into the depths of HYDRA.

Not just metaphorically, physically, viscerally. This is deeper than the cell level, deeper than she knew was possible. If above was a prison, this is a crypt. A tomb sealed in steel.

She follows Karpov out of the elevator and down a narrow corridor that angles downward sharply. No windows, no light save for the flickering overhead bulbs that cast the walls in jaundiced yellows and grays. The air is colder here. Older, somehow. Like it’s been trapped for decades and learned how to rot.

They turn a corner. Then another. Then one more.

Karpov walks with purpose. Natalia is barely walking at all—her legs move, but they don’t feel like hers. Her pulse pounds in her neck. Her ears. Her teeth. Her breath fogs slightly in front of her face, the only proof that this far below the surface, oxygen still exists.

And then, they arrive.

The hallway ends at two enormous steel doors. Not like the sleek security checkpoints above—these are relics. Vault doors. Old war castoffs. Rust crawls up the hinges like ivy. The size of them dwarfs everything around. It takes both guards, straining, to rotate the lever and crank them open. Metal groans against metal. The noise is a creature all its own.

A second set, equally imposing. Reinforced. Darker. Embedded in the concrete like a coffin lid. Cemented into the architecture, industrial, and cruel. No key card access here. Just a recessed lockbox and something Natalia recognizes too late as sacred—HYDRA sacred.

Karpov steps forward. The sound of his boots echoes like a gunshot in the chamber.

He opens the box.

A small red book sits inside. Faded leather, cracked along the spine. A single black star, stamped dead center. The same mark she’s seen on The Asset’s shoulder. This isn’t just a file. It’s not data.

Natalia doesn’t know what it contains, but her chest hardens just looking at it.

The air shifts. Thicker now, like something is breathing behind the door.

Not someone, something.

She doesn’t feel her heartbeat. She hears it. In her ears, in her fingertips. Her body is screaming at her to turn around and run.

She doesn’t get the chance. The final door opens, her eyes adjust. 

Natalia doesn’t understand what she’s looking at.

A towering cylinder of blackened steel and glass, sealed like a sarcophagus. Condensation clings to its walls in thick sheets, opaque with fog. The structure hisses softly, alive with temperature regulation and humming power lines that slither across the floor.

Someone moves beside her—faceless in a lab coat, silent—and enters a sequence into a small terminal.

Click. Click. Click.

A mechanical lock disengages with a solid clunk.

The chamber breathes.

With a low hydraulic exhale, the metal casing begins to shift. Not fast. Slow. Torturous. A hiss of pressure releases, and the cylinder begins to lift off the floor, inch by inch.

Fog curls outward, cascading under the lip of the chamber like smoke from a fire. It spills across the floor in thick white rivers, coiling around boots and cables. For a moment, it’s impossible to see anything. Just sound. Machinery. 

Then the fog flees.

It recoils, like it’s afraid of what’s inside.

And now she sees him.

Still encased in the open pod, The Winter Soldier doesn’t move. He stands in the center of the chamber, upright, arms slack at his sides, shoulders bare and gleaming with condensation. A black suit clings to him. He looks more machine than she’s ever thought; wired—electrodes trailing from his skin to ports in the chamber walls. Frost glitters in his hair.

The muzzle he wears now is different, thicker. Something to administer chemicals. To keep him like this. 

The lighting and shadows obscure his face, making it impossible to see his eyes. It doesn’t matter if they are open or not. 

He is not unconscious, he is dormant.

A machine at rest.

Natalia’s stomach turns. It is ice cold in here—her breath fogs in front of her lips—but she hardly feels it. The chill is inside her now.

The quiet is what makes it unbearable. No orders. No screaming. No resistance.

Just silence.

The silence of an execution chamber before the switch is flipped.

Something inside her shifts, shatters.

The glass is lifted now, fully open. The fog gone.

And he doesn’t move.

Like he’s waiting.

They move him, hauling his body out of the chamber. 

Two guards flank his side, a visual Natalia has never seen before. The Winter Soldier does not need guards because he does not disobey. Their presence now tells her one thing.

This is the only place he puts up a fight.

There is no one physically forcing Natalia into the next room, but her steps are sanctioned either way.

One foot in front of the other until they reach it. 

It's not a room, it's a vault.

Massive. Frigid. Looming.

The ground falls away into a sunken stage. Men in lab coats and black fatigues prepare the area quietly, whatever sounds they might be making drowned out by mechanical hums.

There's nothing unassuming about it. The chair.

It doesn't need a spotlight, it's the clear focus of the room. It's not like anything Natalia has ever seen before, and for the life of her, she can't figure out exactly what it is. A machine of unforgiving metal bolted into the concrete floor. Thick cables, even thicker restraints. Thick enough that Natalia wonders if the restraints on the medical chair in S100 even do anything or if they're just there for show.

Karpov watches impassively from where he and Natalia stand behind the metal railing surrounding the area.

A man in a white lab coat gestures with his chin, "Sadís', Soldát."

Her Russian may be limited, but even she knows the man is telling him to sit.

But The Asset doesn't sit. He doesn't move. His back is to her, all she can see are the muscles in his body coiling.

Karpov's voice breaks the silence. Not loud, firm. "Soldat."

The Soldier just turns his head slightly in Karpov's direction. Even just seeing half his face, even with his hair falling forward, it's there, clear as day. Hesitation.

On his end, Karpov does not look as enraged as she'd expected. So Natalia's suspicions about the guards were correct.

Whatever happens in here, the Winter Soldier doesn't like it. Despite his blankness, despite the training. Forty years and this is the only place he hesitates. The guard's fingers rest on the triggers, guns not yet raised but prepared too. No one looks alarmed, this isn't unusual.

Swallowing down a rolling wave of nausea, the kind that won't stop, Natalia can't tear her gaze away from him.

"Obey, now," Karpov says sharply. "That's an order."

Seconds tick by agonizingly slowly.

The muscles in his back contort.

The Asset inhales once, twice, turns around, and lowers himself into the chair.

He's afraid.

Natalia doesn't even realize she's gripping the railing until she feels the cold metal beneath her skin, sees her white knuckles.

Restraints lock in place around The Asset, clamping down on his limbs, cementing the metal arm.

Through it all, the evidence of his fear is palpable, painful. The knife in Natalia's chest twists and cuts with each sharp rise and fall of his chest.

The large metal arms above the chair move, following the short path until the hands clamp down on either side of his head. Like the restraints, they click in place, concealing half his face behind panels of metal.

Eyes still locked on him, Natalia only hears a lever being pulled, the unmistakable surge of electricity. A harsh blue light glows from the slight gap where skin meets metal—

And then the screaming begins.

It's worse than the poison. She'd been distracted then, desperate. Half-drowning in the noise, half-focused on her attempts to inject him with the antidote. It is even worse than the nightmare.

It's all-consuming. It's human. It's pain and fear, and it's choking the life out of her. Torn from his chest like it costs him something vital, the scream rips through the room and carves itself into the walls. It's raw. Not anger, not even agony. It's fear . Terror given a voice.

She wants to look away—God, she tries —but she can’t. The chair is lit from underneath now, a sick blue glow casting shadows across his face. His mouth is open wide, shaking, trembling, and that sound is still going .

There’s no one reacting. No one in the room finds this remarkable.

Likely delusional, Natalia thinks she can feel the weight of The Soldiers' stare. Even as her insides crumble and break, she holds it. A silent message in her mind: I'm sorry. I am so, so sorry .

Every muscle in his body is tight, tense. He's bracing himself for more. She doesn't even feel her heartbeat anymore, her face is pale, her chest squeezes, and all cries of protest are locked up somewhere behind a wall of paralyzed fear.

She sees the muscles in his arms seize. His legs pull tight, his whole body arching against the restraints like instinct might save him. But it won’t.

The scream fractures. Cracks then shatters.

The electricity stops. This is not a mercy. As if even the machines are programmed to unnecessary cruelty, they release The Soldier’s head with a rough jerk. The machine pulls away, and his face twists. A flicker of something half-swallowed: fury, grief, something too human to be allowed.

Like he’s on the edge of breaking. But trained not to.

Karpov no longer stands beside her, he's moving towards the chair, that red leather notebook in his hand.

The book closed, but she can feel its weight. It's part of the routine, a ritual.

Karpov is speaking in Russian, but it sounds more like he's listing off words than actually talking. He recites them like incantations. Cold. Mechanized. Not meant to be understood—only obeyed.

Like before, The Soldier’s chest falls and rises rapidly. For a second, she sees him, James Barnes. An expression contorted in distress. But the Asset twitches, like there's a physical change happening. It's a decision he makes. That much is clear. Whatever it was guiding him is gone; The Asset turns it off.

By the time Karpov finishes speaking, The Soldier’s eyes are blank. He says something in Russian. This, too, is part of the ritual.

Then Karpov switches to English, making it clear this next part is for Natalia's sake.

"What is your name?" Karpov demands.

Pure panic has Natalia's ears working at only half function. The sound of his screaming broke something in her. As if it had a physical effect, there's a ringing in her ears.

Still, his answer is clear, concise. "Asset."

Karpov doesn't even nod, he just moves on. "What is your purpose?"

The Asset doesn't blink, doesn't hesitate, "To obey."

The Bloodshed

Natalia stands beside Karpov, facing the one-way glass of the interrogation room.

The fact that she's even still standing is a miracle of its own. It's purely mechanical. Survival instinct. The same one that makes her hold her tongue, keep her reactions in check. She feels Karpov beside her but doesn't look at him. If she does, she'll scream, cry, or something.

Her months-long act will shatter and fail.

The room beyond is stark and unyielding. No table, no chairs, just pretense. It's as cold and sterile as the rest of the facility, but there's something different, worse, Natalia can't place why. Four concrete walls, a single bulb... and then she sees it.

A stainless steel drain in the center of the floor.

Any blood that had made its way back to her head plummets.

The Winter Soldier stands in the middle of the room. Not waiting—waiting's too human—he's idle.

Technically, he looks no different than he did that first day she met him. Hands loose at his sides, chin level. His face is covered in faint bruises from a recent training session, although they're already fading. Like that day, his expression is empty. The day Karpov fed her a half-truth and she had no choice but to believe it.

But when she looks at him, she can see it, that picture. Vintage, like something that belongs framed on a fireplace mantel. A window to another time, but it's shut, bolted, locked. The world he knew is gone. Changed beyond recognition. He should be retired, old. Laugh lines. A porch. Not this. She can still see that photo—ghost's smile, frozen in time. A man long dead despite standing just a few feet away.

James Barnes... Natalia searches his face—all she sees is The Winter Soldier.

He's alone in the room, for now, but Natalia has a bad feeling it won't be for long.

Karpov made her say it. Factually. It had torn her up, but she did. The Winter Soldier doesn't feel pain, doesn't register it, not like a normal man. But that was when she thought his brain was a machine. 

The drain in the center of the room is for one thing: blood.

Maybe Karpov is going to remind her just how little the Soldier feels. Make him bleed.

But when the door opens again, the next man who enters doesn't walk in. He's thrown. There is a burlap sack secured over his head, hiding his features. 

With sickening clarity, Natalia realizes this is an interrogation. One that The Winter Soldier will be giving. About halfway through watching the events in that chamber, Natalia had realized Karpov isn't just telling her the truth about the Winter Soldier Project, he's making a show of it. An audience of one: a wholly unwilling and horrified Natalia Haddad.

Inside the room, the man lashes out, tries to fight, but it's over before it can begin. The Winter Soldier moves so quickly that Natalia isn't even sure what she's seeing.

Seconds later, the man crashes to the floor, coughing, gasping. Blood already stains the fabric of the bag. There will be more to come.

Across the room, the Soldier doesn't flinch. He tilts his head, just slightly, then speaks—Russian. Low. Even. A question.

Natalia can't understand it, but something in the tone makes her stomach twist. It's too calm. Too certain. It's not just the language that's different. She's heard him ask questions before, heard curiosity, it's gone now. So far gone that she wonders if she imagined it in the first place.

You know he screamed, at first. Cried. Begged .

That was years ago. What's left?

Karpov leans forward, voice casual. "An operative of ours went rogue. Traitor."

Natalia's eyes widen, the question is automatic. "And now—"

"Now we make sure it doesn't happen again."

Below, the man staggers to his feet, hands still thrown up for a fight. None of it matters.

The Winter Soldier moves. Lethal. Brutal. A weapon.

It's not fast—it's precise. Controlled. His hands land where they mean to, his grip unyielding. He doesn't beat the man. He dismantles him. A punch to the solar plexus, a knee to the ribs. One arm wrenched back, bone snapping with a sickening crack.

Natalia's breath hitches. She can't look away.

The Soldier speaks again. More Russian. Unrelenting.

The man screams. Tries to crawl. The metal hand grabs his ankle and drags him back.

"You see?" Karpov murmurs beside her. "No hesitation. No cruelty. No doubt. He doesn't question it. He doesn't fear it. He simply executes."

Natalia flinches, but it's not from the blood. Even as it splashes across The Soldier's face, soaks his hands. Blood, violence, it's all things she can handle.

You know he screamed, at first. Cried. Begged .

Natalia's heart pounds against her ribs like it's trying to break free. The scars on his shoulder… 

He. Tried. To. Claw. The. Arm. Off. 

Blood swirls down the drain.

The man crawls away, body language like he's begging. It doesn't matter. The Soldier doesn't stop.

At first, she wonders if part of him enjoys it. If, after years, the bloodshed became something so ingrained in him he'd start to like it. But it's not like watching a regular man in a fight. There's no anger, no cruelty, nothing. Nothing.

The Soldier is following orders, it doesn't matter what they are. The weapon has been fired. Guilt doesn't stop him. Exhaustion doesn't drag him down. Maybe it's good that HYDRA takes his memories. Living with this for years, it would have to take its toll.

The Soldier doesn't stop. It hits Natalia then, the knife twists, this is all he knows. Karpov said it took years to get him to this point. Conditioning and reconditioning. Years of punishments. They still happen today.

It's all he knows, he doesn't stop. Not until Karpov clicks a switch. A sharp buzz that seems to have a physical effect on him. Obedience programmed into the bone.

The Soldier freezes and stands slowly. When he turns away from the body, his breathing is steady.

Unbothered. Unchanged.

Karpov smiles. "Beautiful, isn't it? Moy Soldat."

Without a glance back in her direction, Karpov enters the room, stepping over the man's unmoving body like it's not a person. Natalia is relieved by the bag, she does not want to see his face. 

The Winter Soldier does not turn when the door opens. He doesn't even twitch.

Blood is still drying on his face. It streaks from the corner of his mouth, splattered up along his jawline, across the bridge of his nose, even his eyelids. Some of it's not his. Most of it isn't. And he doesn't blink it away.

He doesn't move at all.

Natalia's heart pounds. Her mouth tastes metallic.

Karpov steps in front of him with terrifying ease. He carries something in his hand. A plastic water bottle. Like the one she'd had in her medical bag that day in the cell. When she'd held it against his lips and silently begged him to drink.

Slowly, Karpov sets it on the floor, a few feet away from The Soldier’s boots. A test. An offer. A leash. "Thirsty, Soldat?"

The Soldier doesn't answer. His chin remains level. He stares past Karpov like the blood on his face isn't real. Like he's not still surrounded by the stench of iron and violence.

It's a question he's learned not to answer, she can tell. Punishment, reconditioning. Those marks on his back... Natalia's fingernails dig into her arms, trying to anchor herself. Trying not to scream. She watches from behind the glass, feels her body shake.

Karpov steps closer. He's shorter, smaller, but the way he moves is all power. He touches the Soldier's face like he owns it. Fingers brush along his temple, smearing blood as he goes.

He taps beneath the eye, where the skin is dark with bruising. Pressing, testing. "Still with me?"

The Soldier doesn't blink. Doesn't answer. It's a fresh bruise, she knows the pain flares, but nothing.

Then Karpov straightens his lapels, adjusts his tone. "Do you like hurting them?"

Natalia jerks back. Her shoulder slams into the wall. Her vision swims. This is more than just weapon control. It's sick. Possessive. Cruel.

Inside the room, the Soldier speaks. No hesitation. "I follow orders."

Flat. Immediate. Programmed.

That answer hurts more than anything would have. Years, years. It took him years to become the Soldier.

Karpov exhales, pleased. As if that's what he wanted to hear.

"Good."

The file... she thought that was bad. It was. That photo of James Barnes is an image she will never forget. The two perceptions she has of him play tug-of-war in her mind and threaten to split it open. James Buchanan Barnes, a classically handsome New York native. 107th Infantry Regiment, a boy with a crooked smile and obvious light in his eyes. The Winter Soldier, a face that stoic doesn't even begin to cover. HYDRA's Asset, a deadly weapon.

The truth about the serum, the amputation, the failed experiments until he succeeded, that was just the what . Step one.

This scene in the interrogation room, this is the why . Natalia had seen it clear as day in a way she never had before. The Soldier is a killing machine, and not just because he is stronger and faster. But because he is not weighed down by human emotion. Why go to all the trouble?

Because it worked.

Naturally, Natalia's first instinct upon learning the truth had been the stubborn insistence that somewhere, beneath it all, he was still human. That James Buchanan Barnes wasn't truly dead, just deeply buried under years of conditioning and training. Karpov had taken that thought, crushed it beneath his steel-toed boot, and let it drain along with the rest of the blood on the interrogation room floor. Man's actions are motivated by feeling; the Winter Soldier's actions are controlled by orders. Interrogate. Kill. Report. Natalia has seen war zones, not just when she fled, but as a doctor. Men always crack, whether it be guilt or exhaustion, or grief. But not the Winter Soldier.

The perfect weapon. The why.

He showed her what they made. He showed her why. When she watched as they made him scream in the chair, that was the how. 

The world slows, darkens.

Blue eyes meet hers like he was already watching. As if her collapse was written in the script long before she stepped into the room.

Natalia is unconscious before she even hits the floor.

"All due respect, Colonel..." The sound of Vogl's voice is unmistakable, even as Natalia lies there half unconscious, "You've got an interesting method of delivering news."

Eyes still shut, Natalia's heart pounds.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

She fainted. Fainting isn't part of the mask. Fainting doesn't paint the image of a loyal and determined HYDRA member.

Natalia has blown it. Months of faking it all at risk.

Not only did she faint, but Karpov and Vogl are already standing over her discussing it. A medical room, or something. Without opening her eyes, she can tell she's in a cot, fluid IV pumping into her.

"It works." Karpov muses, "I can't control how people react."

"If you recall, I fainted too," Vogl shifts, "And threw up. Hopefully, this one doesn't throw up."

Karpov huffs out a sharp breath. "Doctors. You all think you have stomachs of steel until you see something real."

Natalia's head clears sharply with relief. And confusion.

Okay. They expected this. 

As long as she can pull herself together and pretend everything she'd seen isn't the most horrific in her life, it'll be okay for now.

Through bleary, half-lidded eyes, Natalia sees Vogl turn to Karpov. "How about you let me handle the rest of this conversation, Colonel? Doctor to doctor."

Karpov mutters something. "Fine. Good." He says, and then he's off.

A few more minutes pass until Natalia's eyes finally open and she sits up in the cot, pushing her hair back from her face.

Vogl doesn't say anything, lets her get her bearings. The panic is already rushing back.

The truth.

The worst thing she's ever heard and seen.

James Buchanan Barnes. March 10, 1917.

Panic later. Panic later. Panic later.

At least the fainting spell wasn't a blow to her cover. Vogl had fainted too, once, and look at her now.

Natalia takes in her surroundings. Another medical wing, similar to the trauma center but quieter. When she moves her hand, the IV pulls at the needle and Natalia forces herself to sound exasperated, "Really?"

"Ah, you're back." Vogl says plainly, gesturing to the IV once, "Didn't want you passing out again."

There's a sheepish expression on Natalia's face. It's what she allows Vogl to see and not the ever-present horror. "I don't usually..."

"Yeah, yeah." Vogl sighs, "You're not the only one, trust me." After a beat, she tilts her head, "Do you smoke?"

Rubbing her eyes, Natalia shoots her a look, "I grew up in France. What do you think?"

They're back on the top floor. An almost normal office, big windows cracked open.

Full circle, right back to where this whole thing started. It's funny, in an awful way, how in just a few hours everything she thought she knew about the Winter Soldier had blown up in her face.

The file is still there, the one with his picture.

Natalia stares at it as the harsh smoke of a cigarette fills her lungs. The reaction her body has to it is automatic, habitual. Classical conditioning that's still there after years of winding down with a cigarette and a glass of something strong.

She's smoking. In HYDRA. With Vogl.

From the desk, James Buchanan Barnes smiles up at her with enough 1940s charm to make her sick. He’s been conditioned to other things. Awful things. 

"You're overwhelmed." It's not a question, it's a statement, but it's peppered with understanding.

Natalia scoffs. "Understatement."

Grabbing the photo, Vogl stares at it before setting it aside. There's nothing in her eyes but cold acceptance. The photo means nothing to her, it doesn't destroy her on the inside the way it does Natalia. "This person doesn't exist anymore."

The cigarette allows Natalia an extra few seconds to think. She keeps it between her lips longer than necessary before exhaling. "That doesn't... did that make sense to you right away?"

Halfway through her own cigarette, Vogl waves it once, explaining it all like it's technical. Pure science. "The serum—Karpov told you about the serum?" Natalia nods duly for Vogl to continue. "It increased neuroplasticity beyond anything naturally occurring. His synapses became... pliable. That allowed electroconvulsive reprogramming to take hold."

Electroconvulsive reprogramming: electroshock torture. Part of Natalia wants to tell Vogl to stop fucking sugar coating it but she knows her voice would crack.

Instead, she shakes her head, "In the 40s? ETC wasn't advanced enough then."

Flashes of old textbooks flood her mind. High dosing, cognitive side effects, broken bones... psychological trauma. Not that any of that was a concern.

"Even back then, HYDRA was years ahead in terms of medical advancements." Vogl shrugs, inhales more smoke. "Besides, precision wasn't the goal. The electricity wasn't just for wiping. It disrupted hippocampal encoding, then restructured the amygdala's response to stimulus: pain, memory, language."

Natalia frowns, tilting her head. Vogl is as factual about this as she thought she'd be. Natalia's playing the part of a confused student.

It's not a total lie. She needs to know, needs to understand.

"Standard ECT damages short-term recall. This was refined. Directed voltages were targeted at memory centers, specifically the medial temporal lobe. Not just erasure, but overwrite. That's how obedience was mapped over instinct."

"What's the notebook?" Red, leather, stamped with a star just like his arm. "What was Karpov saying?"

"Trigger words, activation," Vogl says it all simply, as Natalia recalls the way his body had a physical reaction to them. The way they snapped him into action. "Every time he was wiped, the voltage created a clean neurological slate. Then came reinforcement—repetition, operant conditioning, trauma loops. Now, compliance is reflexive."

Not a HYDRA-constructed brain. Not a man half computer. A real-life person, memories. Forcefully wiped, forcefully forgotten. Forcefully turned into an obedient, lethal soldier. The ultimate Soldier.

And it was painful. Horrifying. It still is. He hesitated today, had to be borderline threatened before he followed orders.

You know he screamed, at first. Cried. Begged.

She can't talk yet. If she opens her mouth, she really might vomit or say something worse.

"So brainwashing." She says around the smoke, "Through neurological reformatting."

"Precisely." Vogl nods, satisfied that she'd explained the deconstruction of someone's mind and life in an easy-to-understand way.

Pandora's box is already open. The truth will haunt her no matter what. So, Natalia forces herself to ask a question she's not sure she wants the answers to. "How long did that take?"

"Reconditioning started in '45, but I don't think the first official mission was until the 1950s. Over the years, adjustments were made. Plus, The Asset had to be trained, not just mentally, but physically." Vogl puffs out half a laugh. "I heard he was a decent shot before HYDRA even got ahold of him. Top sniper in his squadron, what are the odds?"

The words don't just sting. They burn. James Buchanan Barnes. 107th Infantry Regiment. Crooked grin, cocky eyes, good at what he did. Proud of it, probably.

He didn't know. What would happen to him. What he'd become.

Natalia ashes the cigarette, it finished too quickly. Like she can read her mind, Vogl slides another in her direction. She doesn't waste a second before lighting it and staring out the window. "Okay. Sure." Natalia walks herself through it clinically as she can. "How's he so young? He hardly looks like... thirty-ish?"

Vogl exhales, slow and easy. "He's probably thirty… thirty one. Biologically."

Natalia's brow furrows.

"Chronologically, he should be... what, nearing eighty? But he's been kept in cryogenic suspension," Vogl explains, "full-body freezing under tightly controlled conditions. No oxygen, no cellular activity, no aging. He only wakes up when we need him."

She says it like it's standard protocol. Like it's normal.

Natalia's eyes widen ever so slightly. The low body temperature before missions. How his skin felt like ice. Now that she's hearing it, the signs are obvious, painfully so.

And still, Vogl continues."He's awake for missions. A few days. Sometimes a week. Never long enough for the body to register time. Then he's wiped—neurologically—and frozen again. It's a perfect loop. Minimal wear. No aging. No memory retention."

Vogl glances sideways, clinical curiosity in her tone. "You've never studied cryo, have you?"

Natalia just blinks.

Vogl smiles, too knowingly. "Of course not. Not in your field. But it's all real. And effective. It's not just preservation—it's a pause. Hitting freeze on a film reel. And when we press play, he starts exactly where we left him. No time lost, because he doesn't know time is passing at all. Years can pass in cryo, but when they wake the Asset up, he's ready like he's been training the day before."

"I'm not gonna pretend I understand that but..." Natalia takes another deep drag. "So, he's essentially thirty-one in terms of how long he's been actively awake—seventy-ish? In terms of actual existence?"

Vogl just nods in confirmation like she knows Natalia isn't done. It's true, she's not, because something is different now. It's oddity upon oddity, and Natalia is walking through the minefield as carefully as she can. "But... now, I mean, I've been seeing the Asset. Consistently. No more year-long freezes?"

"Correct. The Winter Soldier Project is running an experiment. Project Active Reserve." Vogl settles into her chair, lights a second cigarette of her own. "Eighteen months. We've adjusted the cryogenic chamber—less depth, reduced cellular shutdown. Think of it as shallow cryostasis. Enough to preserve biological age and suppress cognitive processing, but not so deep we need days to reverse it."

Natalia stares. "So it's like sleep?"

"Not quite. Closer to hibernation—but more artificial. More controlled. He's placed in stasis each night and brought out each morning. Unless he's deployed. Then, he operates without sleep. He isn't programmed to rest under mission conditions."

Natalia exhales through her nose. "And this is better than full cryo because...?"

"Full cryo requires time—too much of it. Days to stabilize vitals. Adjust blood flow. Reverse stiffness. There's always a window where he's technically offline. This model keeps him functional. Alert. A few minutes after thaw, he's operational."

Natalia says nothing. She just takes another drag, lets the silence stretch.

Vogl doesn't mind. She leans back, exhales smoke. "We're testing the threshold. How long he can run before memory degradation begins. Right now, he's still being wiped—but we're spacing it out. Three days, five, more—we're watching for the signs. When the clarity fades. When recall kicks in. When hesitation starts."

That lands. There's a ticking time bomb going off in her head. A countdown. That's what this is. A live experiment.

If she'd been taken here some other year—some other era—she might've treated him once, maybe twice, before he was dropped into ice again for another decade. But now...

Now she sees him every week.

"Just imagine," Vogl says, smoke curling at her lips. "A weapon that never sleeps, never tires. Ready, constantly, for whatever HYDRA needs."

It was random. That day in Bagram, the patient, her bad luck. Wrong place, wrong time.

If she hadn't witnessed it, she wouldn't be here. Wouldn't know about cryo, about the chair, about James Barnes.

Wouldn't be counting the days she's treated him, talked to him, seen him try.

But she did. Maybe it wasn't bad luck, fate laughing. Maybe Natalia needed to be here. 

Because now, she's the only person alive watching the Winter Soldier wake up.

Chapter Text

Two Weeks Later

Natalia stares as Trudy shuts the duffel bag by the foot of her bed, packing it tightly.

The irony isn't lost on her, though it isn’t all that funny. It's the second time an old woman has packed her bag for her in the name of HYDRA. Although Trudy is much nicer about it than Magda was all those months ago. A few pairs of scrubs, winter clothing, and her toiletries. Her wallet with her favorite photos is tucked in her pants pocket, the letters from her mother folded in where money used to be. She does not want to be parted from any of it. Not now.

It's sunrise; faint light cracks through the window of her room. Natalia has fifteen minutes, likely less, to be ready.

Her plan worked, half-baked and risky as it was.

The Winter Soldier and an elite strike team are being sent out on a mission—a few days in a repurposed Soviet military base. Natalia is going with them.

This will be her first time seeing the Soldier in two weeks. The first time since she learned the truth. And they will be alone. Technically, they are usually alone; this time, it will be different. Outside of this facility. Six days, no ice, no wipes, no Karpov. She will find his humanity. She will. Now that she knows it is there, Natalia will be looking even closer.

It worked, her plan. She never got a chance to tell Hale, and is itching for her chance to share the news. When she returns and he delivers the intel to S.H.I.E.L.D., it will be worth it. All her fears, all the uncertainty. 

Back home, Natalia had two winter coats. One orange, striped, with mismatched buttons after years of repairs. The other is deep purple and fur-lined, equally girly and slightly less ridiculous. Magda had packed the purple one.

Natalia slips it on now, gathering as much warmth as she can before she has to meet the team on the roof. It'll be cold; this time, she'll be prepared. Standing across from her, Trudy wraps the now completed scarf around Natalia's neck. The pink and red stripes serve to make the jacket look even more ridiculous. "Thank you," Natalia says with a slight laugh.

Trudy sighs as she steps back, patting Natalia's arm once, "What am I going to do while you're gone?"

"No more knitting." Natalia jokes, her throat tightening. "I'll be back." She can't leave, not really. And she'd never leave Trudy behind. This is temporary. Just a few days. Gather intel, keep your head down.

Three sharp knocks at Natalia's door interrupt their goodbye. Trudy quickly ducks into the bathroom as Natalia opens the door to reveal Vogl standing on the other side.

The two of them blink at each other in mirrored surprise. Vogl had already briefed her the previous day, which Natalia assumed would be all the goodbye she would get. Vogl's shock seems to be more directed at Natalia's outfit. Purple, red, pink. Brown snow boots that are mostly unused. Natalia is going to stick out like a sore thumb, and she knows it.

Shifting in the doorway, Natalia clears her throat. "It's my only jacket. The other one is—never mind."

"You look ridiculous." Vogl blurts, like even she cannot help herself.

Natalia's lips tighten into a thin line as she nods over Vogl's huff of amusement. Over the past few weeks, Vogl has let Natalia get closer. Her disapproval from day one is long gone. Every few days, she allows Natalia into that upper-level office with the windows, and the two of them smoke and talk.

It's not like how it is with Trudy. It is all an act, one she has to commit to. Natalia will do anything to cement herself in the good graces of HYDRA officials.

And now, Vogl extends two packs of cigarettes in Natalia's direction, clearing her throat. "Didn't want withdrawals to hit you."

Staring down in surprise, Natalia accepts the offering and laughs in that sharp way that Vogl approves of. "Two packs? I'll be gone for less than a week."

"You're French," Vogl says simply. "I've seen how you people smoke."

"Thanks," Natalia says, shoving them in her bag along with the lighter Vogl tosses in her direction.

Vogl looks like she is about to leave when she hesitates in the doorway, "Be safe, out there."

"I'll be on the base the whole time." Natalia reminds her, trying not to raise her brows in surprise.

Once she leaves, Trudy steps out of the bathroom with a small snort. "Emotional, that one," she jokes.

The two of them hug goodbye before a guard comes to escort Natalia to the roof.

Sun. The sun. Shining directly on her face for the first time in ages.

Natalia wants to soak it in, close her eyes, tip her head back, and feel it, but she restrains herself. Eyes are everywhere; her behavior must be regulated. Still, she has her chin tilted up so she can feel it. Even as winter's chill remains, the golden light wraps around her like it is a physical thing.

The roof is mostly empty. A few guards, a helicopter sitting idle and waiting, similar to the one that brought her here. Her bag is packed away as people around her rush to prepare for take-off.

The second Karpov steps onto the roof, they all turn to face him. The Soldier walks beside him, dressed in his leather armor. A few guards rush forward to speak with him, and the pilot gives him a quick report.

Natalia cannot look at the Soldier, not yet, so she looks at the sun.

She does not belong here, his doctor.

The Soldier always knew this. Today, he sees it even more.

She looks... out of place against the snow. Too bright. Too soft. Color. Lots of it. More than he has ever seen anyone wear.

The Soldier follows the path of her eyes. What is she looking at? The sky is empty, nothing to see. And then he remembers.

She likes the sun. Turns her face up towards it. He watches until he remembers not to.

Minutes later, they board the helicopter. He is usually alone. The doctor sits across from him now. Karpov nods once as the door closes. 

The mission is a trial run with the Prizraki Team. Out of the combat simulator.

With her.

The helicopter takes off. Their knees brush—useless detail—his mind catches it anyway. Like the colors. The jasmine. Her voice. She does not notice. Neck craned, eyes locked on the window.

When she shifts forward, they bump again. The Soldier never stares out the window. Does not care to. This time, he looks.

A few hours later, they land somewhere colder. Even more snow and ice. They transition from the helicopter to a vehicle designed for the terrain. Modified tank. No windows this time.

Beside him, the doctor falls asleep. Her head rested on the wall. Again, he watches her until he remembers not to.

When she wakes up, she looks at him. Looks at the driver and looks away.

The Soldier knows why. She saw it.

That day, he'd been in the chair. She'd watched. Sad eyes. Like she'd been in pain. Not HYDRA. 

Neither of them says anything.

The tank stops, door opens. He knows from before that there is a short walk from here to the base. The Soldier climbs out first, feels the sharp wind.

He turns and sees the doctor struggling to exit the tank. The distance from the ground is too high.

An old instinct makes him move. Hand outstretched, metal glinting in the sun as he holds it out for her. She looks surprised, nervous, he cannot tell. The Soldier is about to offer his flesh hand instead when she grabs the metal one. Climbs down with his help. He drops her hand quickly once she is on the ground.

The driver shoves a large bag into her arms. Before he can consider why, the Soldier grabs it, throws the strap over his shoulder.

"Thank you." The first words she has spoken in hours. No one thanks him. She has done it twice now. That day in the hallway, before she knew who he was. She knows now, and thanks him still.

She speaks to him more than she should. He watches her more than he should.

He should stop, and he knows it. He cannot. The Soldier is aware now, her name flickers in the back of his mind.

Alone, the two of them walk forward against the wind. He keeps her behind him, a human shield against the snow. Every few minutes, he checks that she is still there.

Less than a mile later, they reach the base.

In comparison to the main base they'd left, this place is tiny. Two stories only, Natalia is told that everything she needs is on the second floor.

A man shows her around quickly. There is a hall of bedrooms to the left, where her bag is placed. A kitchen with a large dining table leads to a common area, and the medical room, where she will be working, is located to the right.

The man disappears down to the first floor. Natalia was told that a group of men known as the 'Prizraki Team' arrived earlier and were prepping downstairs before the mission actually begins tomorrow. The details of the mission weren't shared with her, and Natalia knows that her whole plan to come here is useless if she doesn’t find anything out.

Left alone, Natalia uses the time to familiarize herself with the medical room. It's HYDRA standard, all things she's accustomed to. What she is not used to is the lack of supervision. There are no guards, no keycards, and no one watching, so she explores the space some more. Unpacking her bag in one of the rooms, Natalia makes her way back out.

It somewhat resembles a smaller version of the eighth-floor common area: couches, a television, and bookshelves. The thing that truly captures her attention has nothing to do with televisions or books. 

The far wall of the central area is mainly composed of rigid metal walls, with a glass door that overlooks an observation deck wrapping around the exterior of the small base. Natalia knows its intended purpose is not meant to be a balcony, but it has a regular lock, no electronic keycard access necessary. Natalia grabs the cigarettes and lighter Vogl gave her, snags a mug from the kitchen, and steps outside.

The building is made to combat the wind so Natalia hardly feels it as she steps outside, sucking in the cold air deeply. Although she hardly felt the wind even as they walked here. The Winter Soldier had positioned himself perfectly so that his body blocked hers from the wind and snow.

That is the kind of thing that is considered unnecessary. That is James Buchanan Barnes, and Natalia is determined to use the next few days to see exactly how much of him is left.

Leaning against the railing of the observation deck, Natalia smokes slowly, taking in the view.

Outside, she's outside. It is the kind of win that matters only to her. Being outside doesn't help advance S.H.I.E.L.D.'s goals, but Natalia lets herself take it in anyway. Ten minutes in the sun and she is refocused, clear-headed. She has seen more horrors than she thought she could fathom, and yet the sun shone outside. One day, this will be over. She will be out, HYDRA dismantled, her role in the whole mess put behind her.

The door behind her opens, and a man whistles casually, "Purple."

She knows that voice, the heavy Russian accent. Natalia turns in surprise and comes face-to-face with one of the men from the trauma ward. The very one who'd flirted with her long ago. She blinks once. "You're the 'elite strike team' sent out with the Winter Soldier?"

The man nods like he is proud, introduces himself for the first time. "Melnik. That makes you... elite doctor then, yes?"

Her head tilts, calculating. Natalia assumed the elusive Prizraki Team would be strangers, men she did not know who did not know her. However, if it's people from the trauma ward, those who already like her, this could work in her favor. If she gets them to warm up enough, they may even give her details about the mission without realizing they aren't supposed to.

"I guess it does." Natalia shoots him an amused smile, and before she can say anything else, more men join them outside.

Natalia recognizes all of them, not by name, just faces she has seen often and treated. They already like her; they have been calling her 'angel' for weeks. In a twisted way, she wonders if her luck is turning. There are six of them in total, each with a name harder to pronounce than the last. Natalia tries her best, which seems to amuse the team of elite assassins to no end.

They crowd into a tight but non-threatening circle around Natalia, teasing her about smoking, the purple jacket, and the scarf. So she plays along, plays the long game. Tonight, as the sun sets behind them, Natalia lets herself blend in as part of the team. She laughs at their jokes, surprised by the obvious look of victory on some of their faces when she does. The odd group of them linger on the observation deck for a while.

Eventually, the Winter Soldier makes his way upstairs with another operative at his side, sweat soaking the front of his shirt.

There is only one way to describe the look on his face as he takes in the sight of Natalia outside, surrounded by the Prizraki team, and it is utterly confused and entirely human.

The next morning, Natalia stands in the kitchen once again surrounded by the Prizraki Team. The sound of them waking for the morning had dragged her out of bed and to the common area where they eat a quick breakfast.

The Winter Soldier is nowhere to be seen, and for the first time, Natalia realizes she doesn't even know if he eats. From the files, she knows he has an enhanced metabolism, and even with the serum, his body still requires calories; however, his absence now confuses her. The other men eat a lot. They're planning to be out in the cold for hours tonight and raid the kitchen noisily.

Denis leans against the counter, inhaling eggs and sausages while talking to Natalia. "Pree-zra-kee." He says slowly around a mouthful of food.

Apparently, Natalia's shoddy attempts at Russian pronunciation have not gone forgotten. For the past fifteen minutes, Denis has been teaching Natalia how to correctly pronounce a few Russian words, despite various interruptions from the other men.

One by one, they all stop by to ask if she will be here upon their return in case they are injured. Each time, Natalia has to smile and assure them that, in fact, that is the entire reason she is here. Everyone seems pretty pleased by this development. The days of quick patch-ups and minor treatment are behind them now. Everything is changing. Natalia has played her role perfectly. She doesn't ask about mission details, not yet. While she may already feel bad about it, she knows that lips are looser with the help of pain medication that she is sure will be inevitable.

"Pree-zra-kee," Natalia repeats as Denis nods along, earning her a chorus of laughter.

Before she can try again, the man who'd given her the tour yesterday hurries past, and Natalia has to chase him before he makes his way downstairs.

"Excuse me." She calls out, catching him in the hallway. "Where is the Asset? I usually check vitals before missions. Shouldn't I be doing that?"

He pauses, turning to face her with less impatience than Natalia is used to being treated with within HYDRA. "Just... do it after. It's a waste of time in the mornings. Plus, it's feeding and debrief time."

"Feeding," Natalia repeats with a frown, just then noticing the tray in his hands. Her brow sinks even lower. It looks vaguely like the military rations she'd seen before, somehow, even less appetizing. Metal compartments, colorless. The protein bar is dense and gray in color. The drink thick and chalky, like reconstituted vitamins. No seasoning, no salt. Just fuel.

"Standard for the Asset." He explains with a shrug. "Not like he's got preferences. This has been designed for proper caloric and nutrient intake."

Natalia's stomach twists as she nods, needing the conversation to end. "Okay." She swallows, "I guess I'll just see him after."

Soon after, the rest of the team makes their way downstairs, leaving Natalia alone and staring at the fridge.

Against her better judgment, she wonders what James Buchanan Barnes liked to eat before HYDRA essentially killed him.

For the next few hours, all Natalia can do is think about him.

It's the same cycle she's been stuck in for weeks, ever since the truth shattered everything. And like before, it gets her nowhere. While her tears may have dried entirely up days ago, the same questions remain.

Where does James Barnes end, and the Winter Soldier begin? Is there even a line anymore? She's seen him flinch. Seen him hesitate. Help her. Look at her like he was trying to remember something. She's heard him speak with a voice that wasn't blank. Tense, maybe, but not empty. If he's a weapon, then he's one with splinters.

So what does that make him? Broken? Alive?

S.H.I.E.L.D. will want answers. How much of the original Barnes is left? Can he be saved? Should he be? Is there a recovery process? What would that even look like? What does years of cryo and memory wipes do to a human brain long-term?

And then there are the other questions. The quieter ones. The ones she doesn't want to say out loud, even in her head. All the small things she's noticed. HYDRA considers him a weapon. Thoughtless, obedient, lethal. It's almost true, almost. And yet, she has seen the cracks. Seen memory fighting to surface. He said his name, remembered it. Yes, the haze of poison-induced delirium brought it on, but he remembered. And he isn't supposed to remember anything.

Perched on the edge of her bed, Natalia stares at the place on her wrist where her grandmother's watch usually sits. It was a wedding gift, given to her in 1939 by the man who would later become Natalia's grandfather. Natalia was young when they'd passed; she only remembers them vaguely. Old photo albums that captured them side by side, suspenders with trousers, neat dresses, and pinned curls. She remembers some of the old songs they used to listen to. Sweet and jazzy, the kind of thing meant for swaying slowly, arm in arm, with no urgency at all. Music made for people who believed they'd have all the time in the world.

When he'd seen the watch, the Winter Soldier—James Barnes—had mistaken it for something from 1942. Not far off, really. Styles didn't change much during wartime. Maybe that tiny overlap is what let the memory slip free.

That year, he would have been 25. From the files, she doesn't really know anything about him other than the year he'd enlisted, so her brain runs in circles with no end in sight. The same spiral she's been going down for days. He would have worn the same clothes. Now, when she pictures him in suspenders, trousers, she can see it so clearly it hurts. Did he like the same music her grandfather did? The watch, did he buy something like that for a girl, too?

No matter how many times she asks herself, the question stays unanswered: What was he like before?

Who was his family? To the public, he was presumed dead, likely buried in his hometown in New York. In her head, faceless mourners visit his grave, a father with no answers to his son's fate, a mother who left flowers for a son who never came home, never knowing that he was still breathing, trapped halfway across the world. Does he have brothers, sisters? They could be alive, still. Old and alive and missing him even now.

He'd outlive them, outlive everyone he ever knew before. HYDRA turned him into something essentially immortal. The antithesis of life. Trapped, controlled, in every aspect.

Running her hands over her face, Natalia shoves the grief into a corner of her mind. There's no room for it right now. She forces herself out of her room and back into the now-empty base.

Again, she checks the medical room, memorizing its layout so that nothing can surprise her in case of an emergency. Spending a few hours in the room, Natalia pulls out all the things she'll need to treat six elite assassins and one super soldier.

She forces down an apple and a slice of toast out of pure necessity. Eating hasn't been easy for a while, and it is even worse now that she has seen the Winter Soldier's 'rations'. The idea of food reduced to pure function—no taste, no choice—makes her stomach turn harder than the hunger does. Tossing her apple core in the bin, Natalia glances around.

Every part of her is tempted to look around, gather whatever information she can for S.H.I.E.L.D. and Hale. She has to be smarter than that. Patience is a weapon of its own. Logically, she knows she has to wait. Use today to see who comes in and out of the base and check if anyone goes downstairs before she dares to explore. Right now, she is entirely alone, at the risk that it won’t last; she has to make sure it stays that way before she explores. So she grabs a book off the shelf, drags a chair out to the observation deck, and reads while watching the door.

A few hours later, Natalia hears their return before she sees it.

The crunch of boots on snow as seven very large men make their way back to the base pulls her out of her seat, and she watches from above as they trek up the hill to the front door. Most of them look up and wave, pointing almost excitedly to the minor injuries littering their bodies. Waving back, Natalia scans them quickly and is relieved to see nothing too urgent.

The Winter Soldier looks almost untouched. He glances up at Natalia once before disappearing through the door.

In the med-bay, his absence feels heavy.

The Prizraki Team crowd the small space, chatting easily as Natalia checks their minor wounds and patches them up. She keeps checking the door to see if he will show up. She waits in the room long after nightfall, and still there is no hint of him.

Eventually, she marches out to the door that leads to the lower level and goes to open it. Locked. No keycard or anything, locked the old-fashioned way, which is still an obstacle because she can't exactly break the door down and demand to see him.

Down the hall, she can hear the other men preparing for sleep, so Natalia steps back onto the deck and stares at the night sky, waiting. Too antsy to even smoke, she settles on pacing back and forth, jacket thrown over her scrubs. Until there is a knock on the glass. Turning, Natalia sees the Winter Soldier watching her with that same confusion from yesterday.

The second she steps back inside, Natalia wishes she had taken more time to prepare herself mentally.

Interacting with him was one thing when she thought all the cracks in his training were a computer glitch. Now that she knows the truth—his name—just looking at him threatens to reopen the floodgates. They are silent as they step into the med-bay, as he sits on the edge of the cot, unrestrained, and lets Natalia take his vitals. Her jaw clenches as she realizes he is in the same armor that he'd left in this morning. The smell of leather and snow is sharp in the air. The cold clings to him like punishment. It hits her all over again—HYDRA doesn't just control him. They strip him of every comfort, even basic ones.

The rest of the men had shed layers of thermal clothing, peeled off gloves and balaclavas, and sipped hot broth to warm up. With HYDRA's advanced technology, the things they offer to fight off the cold are likely highly effective, yet James Barnes still gets nothing. It isn't just mind control, it's the complete denial of any humanity.

Looking at him, Natalia can see that the hours out in the cold are having a physical effect. Already, the skin around his nose and cheekbones is slightly red and chapped. If they are here for the full six days, it will only get worse.

"You should be wearing gloves," Natalia says as she writes down quick notes, "or something."

He is aware of the cold, trained or not. Aware enough that he'd shielded her from it yesterday. But like it doesn't matter, he says, "that's not standard procedure."

Meeting his eyes, Natalia's heart twists. He means it, believes it. She can hear it in his voice. This is what over fifty years of electrocution and conditioning look like. It's not just HYDRA operatives denying his humanity; the Winter Soldier is suppressing James Barnes, too.

Crossing her arms, Natalia glances at the closed door once before asking a question. "Do you like the cold?"

No.

The answer is silent. Automatic.

The Asset does not have likes. Dislikes.

But when she asked, his brain knew. It should have been irrelevant. He is functional. The mission has been successful so far. Still—no.

The cold, he doesn't like it. Never has. Never ? Never—

Old familiar static crackles. Nothingness floods in as it should.

The doctor is looking at him like she can read his mind. Like she knows something.

"That doesn't matter." The Asset says.

She frowns. An expression he has seen on her face before. Concern. Care. 

Unfamiliar and unnecessary. 

Her chin raises. "Can you remove the armor, please?"

The Soldier is not made to question. His hand quickly unclasps the reinforced leather armor. She takes it, sets it aside. "This needs to dry. You'll get it tomorrow." One glance. "Is that shirt dry?"

The one he wears underneath. There are more like it downstairs. This one is still wet and cold, later, he'll be allowed to change. The Soldier nods once.

"Did you eat? Tonight, I mean, not just this morning."

The Soldier nods again. Away missions have a different standard procedure. Changed again now that the doctor is here.

Mission review in the morning. Standard meal. Ship out. Return and debrief. Second meal. Medical check. Shower—cold water, four minutes. Overnight cell.

This, the medical check. It's different, new. He knows she is responsible for it.

She scans him again. Blinks. "Okay, I'm done."

Not dismissed. Not an order. To her, this is standard procedure.

The Soldier rises, walks out the door. Halfway out, she speaks again. "Goodnight."

He goes still. Turns, half a glance. The word sits strangely in his head.

One second, two. The Soldier walks downstairs.

Moving quickly, Natalia grabs his armor, a thick needle, and thread for sutures.

Stepping into the kitchen, she grabs hold of one of the discarded thermal shirts from off the couch, practically running back to her room and locking the door.

Medical skills have equipped her with the ability to sew. Sitting on her bathroom floor, Natalia cuts the thick material of the shirt into the shape she needs before inspecting the armor. There is a thin inner lining that she can see does nothing against the cold. And, like she'd thought, it is still damp.

Desperately, she opens the cabinet beneath the sink, equal parts surprised and relieved to see a hair-dryer tucked in the far corner. The oddities of HYDRA bases are something she will never understand; for once, Natalia is grateful.

As the only girl in the base, Natalia sincerely hopes no one will question the sound at the late hour as she plugs in the dryer and puts it on full heat, waving it back and forth over the Soldier’s armor until it's bone dry.

Once that is finished, she takes the cut-up thermal shirt and begins sewing it to the inside of the armor. Luckily, it's black, so unless someone is looking for it, they won't even notice the extra thermal addition she's added: no one besides James Barnes, who will at least be slightly warmer tomorrow. If anyone were to catch her doing this, it would be a problem. Not fatal, maybe, certainly enough to crack the trust she'd built. She does it anyway, unable to stop herself.

She'll take it out before they go back. There is a lack of surveillance and observation here, which contrasts with the main base, where everything is closely monitored.

With trembling hands, Natalia hurries back down the hallway, places the armor facedown on one of the medical cots, and tries to sleep.

The next morning begins like the last.

At breakfast, the Prizraki team lingers around Natalia. To her relief, they either didn't notice or don't question the fact that the blow dryer was running after midnight.

She's less talkative than she was yesterday. Knows more now. The new information makes most attempts at conversation lock deep in her throat.

Never in her life has the sight of hot food, gloves, and heat packs angered her so much. She knows circumstance can turn warmth into a luxury. She never considered it a privilege. One that can be taken. 

Unlike yesterday, the Winter Soldier actually makes an appearance this morning. For a second, the rest of the men quiet when they see him. A few uneasy glances in his direction before they go back to their usual talking. One of them tries to say something to Natalia, but she's already moving to meet The Soldier at the med-bay door.

He follows her in, letting her shut the door behind them. Again, Natalia attempts something she's not sure will work. "Good morning."

He blinks once, like the words go straight through him.

With a small sigh, Natalia grabs the armor and hands it to him wordlessly. This time, he breaks the silence. He doesn't put it on right away—his fingers trace the inside like he's trying to find something. 

Then, voice rough: “What did you do?”

"So you don't like the cold?" Natalia counters with a question of her own. She knows it's not the kind the Asset is used to answering, and that's precisely why she asks. It's a question not just directed at the Soldier. She’s asking James Barnes.

"Why aren't you answering?" He meets her eyes.

Tilting her head, Natalia asks, "Why aren't you?"

His jaw ticks. He stares at the wall behind her, and for a second, Natalia is concerned that the blank stare will return. When he does finally speak, it’s curt, borderline reluctant. "The cold is uncomfortable."

When she realizes that is all she can realistically expect to hear, she nods. "I added a thermal layer—"

"You shouldn't have done that."

Both of them look equally surprised by his interruption. He's never done that before. Usually, she's coaxing each and every word out of him. Well, they don't look equally surprised. His emotional regulation is much higher than hers, but his mouth snapped shut like he knew it was an irregularity.

"Well, I did," Natalia says shortly, worried that if she keeps talking she'll say more. Something dangerous. The game is long as it is fragile. Natalia cannot just undo years of targeted brainwashing and erasures. "And I'm the doctor, not you."

The entire time he clicks the armor back in place, his eyes are on her.

Thank you.

Two words he does not know how to say. Should have said.

Should. The things he should do. The Asset. The Soldier. Follow orders. This is what he should do, what he is made to do.

But, The Soldier thinks, he should have thanked her. 

The thought stirs beneath the layers of static in his mind. 

Because now, even hours in the snow, the sting of the cold is not as harsh as yesterday.

Whatever she did to his armor, it brings warmth. The cold snaps at his face and hands. His chest is warm. Strange. His body recognizes the difference before he does. Warm. Not mission parameters.

Unnecessary.

Warm and—

No. No . Unnecessary.

The words won't leave his head. Even with the static.

As the mission goes on, they stay.

Damage to the metal arm. A rough grind. The kind he now knows how to fix.

Quick motion, circular rotation. It snaps back in place. She taught him.

His other handlers never did. His other doctors were rough. Faint memories. Weapon maintenance. What he deserves.

The warmth lingers longer than it should.

He thinks about her hands.

The Winter Soldier knows this is wrong.

Chapter Text

"Dr. Haddad," Agent Lukas says, rapping on the med-bay door frame, "small change of plans. You're coming with me today. We've got a tent set up near the site, it's looking like we might need you close."

There goes Natalia's plan to look around the base today. However, she'll likely find out even more if she is closer to the mission site.

"Okay," She says, "let me just get changed."

Even though Natalia thought she was moving quickly, Agent Lukas came not once, but twice, to rush her. The second time, he at least brings a thick black jacket that she zips on over the layer she already has beneath her scrubs. Gloves, a hat, and Natalia is still tying her boots on by the time Lukas comes to usher her out the door.

It's about an hour's drive to wherever they're going.

The snow has only thickened. Through the slats of the tank window, Natalia can see little else but white. When they finally stop, it's to park beside a structure she hadn't noticed at first—a large, temporary tent, dark green and weighed down against the wind with heavy sandbags.

Inside, it's warmer than she'd expected, heated by portable generators that hum softly in the background. The second tank, the one they'd sent ahead earlier, sits just outside, its treads partially buried under the snow.

Lukas helps her out, guiding her through the makeshift command post. Maps are spread out on folding tables. One man huddles around heaters, checking equipment. A radio crackles in the background, carrying steady updates in clipped Russian.

"Settle in," Lukas says, handing her a thermal flask. "One of 'em could need help any minute, could be a few hours."

Natalia takes the flask, letting herself look around carefully—memorizing without making it obvious. "What's the target exactly?" she asks, letting the question sound casual, almost curious. "I wasn't briefed much."

Lukas shrugs like it's no big deal. "Small installation. One of the last outposts from the old days. Rumor is someone's been using it to stockpile tech. Stuff that doesn't belong to them."

"Tech?" Natalia echoes, tilting her head.

"Hard drives. Schematics. Maybe even early Stark prototypes." Lukas says it like gossip, not mission-critical, but the words spark immediate alarm bells in Natalia's mind. 

Stark… as in Tony Stark? As in the guy who built himself a suit in the name of saving the world, or something. Naturally, HYDRA would be after that, seek to destroy it, steal the technology for their own purposes.  

"Who are the people guarding it?" she asks, pretending to be more concerned about medical triage than intel.

"Private mercs mostly. No official government attached. Paid to protect whatever's inside."

Private mercenaries. Not a formal military. That could explain why HYDRA wants to move quickly—grab the tech before anyone notices.

"And the Winter Soldier?" she asks lightly, "he's part of the extraction team?"

Lukas nods. "Extraction and neutralization, if needed."

Neutralization. A sanitized word for something bloodier. Natalia keeps her face neutral, sipping from the flask and memorizing every word.

Hard drives. Schematics. Stark-related tech. Private mercs. Remote outpost.

S.H.I.E.L.D. will know what to do with this; Hale will appreciate it when she gets back.

As promised, an injury comes less than two hours later.

The second it begins, it's pure chaos.

Unaware, Natalia had been standing near the tent flap when the bodies flew through it, nearly knocking her to the floor. Denis, the Winter Soldier following closely behind with Melnik thrown over his shoulder.

"What happened?" Natalia pushes forward urgently, reaching them just as the Soldier sets the heavily bleeding Melnik down on the cot in the center of the space.

The rest of the Prizraki team clamours into the tent. They’re mostly yelling in Russian, yelling over each other, and making a lot of noise, which is absolutely no help to Natalia. Neither is the crowding. "Hey—step back, give me some room."

She can hardly even reach Melnik until the Winter Soldier grabs two of the guys by their shirts and jerks them out of the way. It doesn't completely stop all the chaos, but it slows it slightly.

Kneeling by Melnik’s side, Natalia tears open the blood-soaked fabric with shaking but sure hands. The shouting around her continues, getting louder by the second. Melnik is half unconscious, which is an issue, one that at least makes him easier to work on for now.

"Shut up! Shut up or get out!" Natalia yells, harsher than she'd intended, and somehow still doing little to shut them up.

The second she loosens the wrap to assess the damage, a powerful spray of blood jets upward, catching her square across the face. Warm, metallic, immediate.

Wiping her face on her shoulder, Natalia clears the blood from her eyes and keeps working. The femoral artery. It's either torn or fully severed. There's no time for surgical precision, just action.

In one motion, she shoves her hand deep into the wound, fingers clamping down hard. She feels the slick pulse of the artery slipping beneath her gloves and presses until the blood flow sputters, then slows.

And just like that, the tent goes silent.

Natalia keeps pressure steady, sucking in a breath. "I need more gauze and a clamp." She works with brutal speed, jamming thick wads of gauze around her grip to maintain pressure until someone slaps the surgical kit into her free hand.

In one quick, practiced move, she releases her fingers just long enough to clamp the artery shut with metal forceps. Blood beads but doesn't spray. Stabilized.

Melnik gasps in pain, but the worst of the bleeding has stopped.

Natalia sits back on her heels, chest heaving, blood dripping from her chin. The men stare at her like they've never seen her before.

Wrapping the area, it's clear there's not enough she'll be able to do here. "Someone go tell Lukas he needs to be sent out to an actual surgical facility and to prep for transfusion."

No one in the room moves. The Winter Soldier, likely the only person who'd actually listen to her, is nowhere to be seen. "I said go!" Natalia snaps.

With Menik stable enough to wait for the helicopter to come get him, Natalia can get a look at the rest of the men.

There's nothing too urgent, not like what she'd just dealt with, but the team isn't in great shape, and Natalia is rushing back and forth between them in the small tent. After all the chaos, it's hot enough that she's shed her jacket, sleeves rolled up as she sutures one man after the other.

Jesus. If she hadn't been here, Melnik would likely be dead, and at least two of these guys wouldn't be functional tomorrow. Pain, infection...

It's the same ethical question that has plagued her since day one. Do no harm.

Is it worse if she helps HYDRA, or if she turns a blind eye and lets these men die? The work she's doing increases their chance of mission success, missions Natalia does not want to be helping with. The HYDRA objective is not good for the rest of the world. Still, she can't watch people die. Her own survival aside, saving their lives, helping them... It's not a choice. Not really.

One by one, the Prizraki team files out of the tent. Only one person is unaccounted for.

Stepping out of the empty tent, Natalia's mouth instantly flies open in frustration. "What the hell are you doing?"

It's snowing, windy, freezing, and the Winter Soldier is sitting outside like it's nothing.

His head twists in her direction, face impassive as if they didn't have a conversation about the cold just this morning. Lingering adrenaline makes her shout. "Get in the tent!"

Natalia is too overwhelmed to realize it's her first time giving him a real order. To realize how quickly he listens, marching into the tent and taking a seat on one of the clean cots.

She crouches beside him, gloves stripped off for better dexterity. Her fingers brush the inside of his wrist. Cold.

"Checking perfusion," she murmurs out loud, so if anyone's listening, it sounds routine. Under her thumb, his pulse is steady—but the skin is too cold, too tight. Frostbite imminent. She lifts his hand higher. "Looks like a sprain waiting to happen."

He flexes his hand easily. "What—"

"You're still not a doctor." Natalia reminds him quickly, reaching for gauze to wrap his hand with.

Carefully, she peels a chemical hand warmer from her pocket, palming it so it's hidden between them.

And as good a liar as he is, the second the warm pack hits his hand, his fingers close around it. That's human, it's James Barnes. Seconds later, his hand uncurls, but he's looking down at it. Jaw tight, eyes almost curious. Shocked by his own human reaction. He doesn't move again. But his fingers, after a moment, flex almost imperceptibly. A man anchoring to warmth he isn't sure he's allowed to feel.

When she wraps his hand in a bandage afterward, she knows no one will notice the slight bulge inside.

Later, with the rest of the Prizraki team already on their way back to base in the other tank, Natalia, the Soldier, and Agent Lukas sit in silence for the drive.

Tired as she is, Natalia can't fall asleep.

She's too wired. Not just from the injuries, from the lies. From the cracks.

More than anything, she needs a shower—a hot one. Dried blood is still on her face, in her hair. Even in the tank, with the thick black jacket, cold clings.

The Soldier helps the doctor out of the tank again.

She grips his arm easily. More comfortable with the metal than others.

Her foot slips on the ice. His other hand on her back. Catching. Steadying.

The whole time, she doesn't let go. Small hand gripped tightly for the short trek.

The other agent is ahead. Unseeing.

The Soldier looks at her shoes. The brown boots.

He remembers things about her. Too many things. Blue sneakers. Flats, with a bow. Pink nails. Red glasses. Purple coat, ugly scarf.

Ugly. Objective. Why does he think it?

He is thinking too much. The static too quiet.

Natalia.

Her hand on his. It's rare that he can help in this way.

The Soldier cannot remember the last time...

They reach the base, the door opens. They step inside. Loud noise. Cheering.

The Soldier steps back, away.

Natalia. Surrounded by the Prizraki Team. He tenses, watches.

More cheering. Clapping. Patting her back.

One of them speaks, shaking her shoulder. "Doc! Badass. Very badass."

The Soldier's brow ticks. He wants to step forward. Wants . Wrong.

"Doc." Another says, close to her. "If we had beer, I'd be drinking to you."

"I'd drink vodka cause I'm not a pussy."

Laughter. Not just the men. Natalia laughs.

A needle pricks his chest. Twists. When he looks down, there's nothing there.

He does not understand what is happening to him.

Freshly showered, in pajama pants and a sweater, Natalia still cannot sleep.

The insistent celebration from the men had tired her out a bit, and it's still not enough. The difference in their behavior isn't lost on her, though. The second that blood splattered on her face, the old nickname died. Tonight, no one called her Angel. Sure, they still attempted slight flirting, but she was 'doc' now.

For the better part of an hour, the group had replayed the details of the mess over and over. Laughing about the chaos, the way they'd fallen silent at all the blood. The fact that it had dried in her hair. And Natalia let them, she continued playing her role. The entire time, the Winter Soldier had lingered in the shadows. Watching.

It had all been... a lot. Not just the injuries, but also the newly revealed mission parameters she needs to remember so she can report back to Hale. Internal questions about her morality. Yes, she needs to get in to be an effective undercover agent, but how deep is too deep?

There is only one thing now that will help Natalia quiet the noise.

Grabbing her wallet, Natalia walks silently into the common area. Thankfully, it's empty, and she takes the seat where she knows the heater vent blasts strongest.

Crossing her legs and emptying the contents of her wallet on her lap, Natalia reaches for the first photo. Graduation day. A smile so big it's hard to remember what that kind of joy felt like. The other picture she can't look at, tucks it back inside. If she looks at her parents' faces right now, she'll crack.

The letters she can handle, there are only a few, so Natalia leans back and rereads the words her mother wrote, letting them wrap around her like a blanket. Comfort that isn’t just a want, it’s a need. 

Setting one aside, Natalia is reaching for the next when her hand freezes at the sound of footsteps behind her.

"Thank you."

All day, the words stuck in his head.

The armor. The heat packet. Everything before that.

Two words. Foreign on his lips.

She turns, meets his eyes in the dim light. She does not ask, she knows.

Everything she does is intentional. Wrong but...

The words cannot be taken back. He said them. He meant them. Warm hands move quicker. The mission objective—

That's not why he said it. It should have been. It's not.

Nothing is as it should be. Errors. Thoughts that are erased. Behavior that is punished. An unnamed thing in his chest.

"You're welcome." Damp hair. Loose clothing.

Jasmine. Natalia.

The Soldier is stepping closer before he can consider why. "You should sleep."

Small smile on her lips. Tired. "So should you."

"I don't sleep." Not a confession. Not really. His handlers all know.

She looks down. Back up. Glances at the couch. "You can sit."

It's not an order. Not standard procedure. The Soldier does not move.

A small shift. "Doctor's orders."

A moment passes. He moves. Not obeys, but sits beside her. Warm air and jasmine. Faded letters on her sweater. Damp hair already curling.

"So... if you don't sleep, what do you do all night?"

Without the cryo, the time just passes. Static takes over. Review mission parameters sometimes. When necessary.

Better not to answer.

Papers spread on her lap. She tucks them away, hands him one.

Slowly, carefully, he takes it.

A photo. Three girls. Smiling, happy.

Natalia is in the middle. A grin like nothing he has ever seen.

"Graduation day." She says. "From med school in France."

The Soldier stares at it until he remembers not to. Until training kicks in. But the static is quiet.

Photographs, cameras. Not always this clear. Colorful.

A long time ago. A long—

A different time. His photo was taken. His hat didn't fit right, but he'd... smiled. He'd...

His head hurts. Slight twitch. One he hides quickly. She stares at the photo, did not see. Good.

The Soldier gives the photo back.

She yawns, head resting on the couch. Inspects her nails. Pink paint chipped on the thumb. Then she looks at him. "What color should I do next? There are only two, pink again, or blue."

Strange question. Irrelevant and wrong. He answers. "Blue."

Heavy blink, slow nod. "I agree." Small laugh.

"You should sleep." He says again. She's tired.

"Okay... only if you answer a question." She sits up, legs crossed. Her knee brushes his leg. Like in the helicopter, she does not move away. "What's your favorite color?"

His mind goes blank. A faint crackle of lightning, the ghost of pain. He shakes his head. "I don't—don't have one."

"I guess that counts as an answer." Brows raised. Tone casual. Even more than she'd been with the Prizraki team. She stands up, starts to walk away. Then she turns. "You should pick one."

"What's yours?" Irrelevant question. This time from him.

Wrong. All wrong.

But she's smiling. "Green."

Green.

The Soldier nods. She says it again, "good night."

This time, she does walk away.

The Soldier almost said it back.

Almost. 

Despite last night's relief that their friend did not die, the mood of all the men is much more subdued this morning. 

They were a team, and now they're down a man. No one is happy about it. 

Upon Natalia's insistence, the Winter Soldier is sent to the med-bay before the mission to check his sprain. It is an injury they both know does not exist, another lie they share. 

The Soldier sits and watches as she unwraps his hand and removes the heat packet she'd placed beneath the bandages yesterday. Before anyone can come into the room, Natalia replaces it with a fresh one. 

He knows, and she knows; this definitely falls under the 'unnecessary' category. The Winter Soldier's body does not succumb to frostbite the way a normal man would. He doesn't need anything to prevent the cold in the scope of functionality. Still, he'd said in his own way that he doesn't like the cold. That isn't the kind of thing she can ignore. 

Later, Natalia is once again transported to the medical tent on site. Agent Lukas communicates with the team through a small headpiece and a radio set. There's no emergency today, which means Natalia has been wasting hours away, freezing cold. The only work she can do is file away the mission parameters she overhears, planning to report them back to Hale. 

The real trouble begins back at the base. 

What she expects is gauze. Maybe a mild concussion. Another bloodied arm.

What she gets is him.

Recognition hits her instantly. Violently. The shape of the man, the exact hue of his red hair. 

The assassin from Bagram. The one who had killed her patient. Who, with the single pull of a trigger, had derailed the path of her life and sent her down the tumultuous, dangerous road she finds herself on. 

She hadn't thought of him, not really. But the second he steps into the med-bay, Natalia's heart drops to her stomach. It's his fault, all of it. Were it not for that day—the assassination she'd witnessed—none of this would have happened. She'd be working a job that did not make her question her ethics. HYDRA would mean nothing to her. In the spring, she would have visited her mother. Mrs. Hamzeh, the goats. 

Despite the open door behind him, Natalia feels trapped in the room. Cornered and shaking. 

The red-haired assassin, harbinger of her misfortune, is here. Now. 

There is a harsh scar cutting across his chin and lips. It curls when he bares his teeth in the same inhuman expression she's seen Karpov wear. Heavy accent, Russian like the rest of them, and far less friendly. Natalia knows—God, does she know—that her camaraderie with the Prizraki team does not make them innocent. She knows that every time she heals their injuries, a piece of her innocence chips away. They are soldiers in a nefarious cause. But none of them have ever looked at her the way this man does. 

Predatory. Mocking. 

"Natalia Haddad," he takes a step closer, eyes glinting with amusement when she takes a step back. "Heard you got curious after what you saw. Guess you have me to thank for your new job."

Fight or flight kicks in. Flight isn't an option; there is no way to escape this conversation without stepping around him. Neither is fight, one look at him made all her fears come flooding out. There isn't any fight left in her, not now. 

Eyes wide, voice strangled, she asks, "What are you doing here?"

"Someone had to replace Melnik," He shrugs. Then, as if it's amusing, "you remember me," he says, arms crossed, getting closer and closer. "You climbed the ranks pretty quick." He sucks his teeth, eyes traveling in a slow, slimy path up and down her body. "Personal doctor to The Winter Soldier." 

Shaking, Natalia scrambles for anything—anything to say as she stands there, paralyzed. 

It is not just the mention of him that makes The Asset listen. 

The tremble in her voice. Nerves. Fear. 

But The Asset has orders. Wait outside the med-bay until the doctor calls him in. 

The new agent went first. Prizraki replacement. With the doctor now. 

The Asset stands outside the door. Unseen, listening. Cataloguing. History there, a previous encounter. 

The agent speaks. "You know. They've tested him before, with girls, pretty ones too. But you..." low whistle, "you are something else."

The words bring a memory of training. Unwanted. 

Strong perfume. Too sweet and wrong. Whispered voice. Fingers brushing his jaw. 

A woman, a test. One he'd passed. No desire, no reaction or preference. No deviation from orders. They taught him not to want. Not to say no. 

A twist in his chest. A jolt that's not pain. Something wrong .

Back to present day. Her voice. Still afraid, but sharper. "I'm a doctor." 

"Lucky me." The Agent says. 

Similar to the Prizraki team. Not the same. 

They want. From a distance. They do not make her afraid. 

The agent taunts. Two sets of footsteps. Advancing and retreating. 

Natalia is afraid. The Winter Soldier wants it to stop. 

Want. A forgotten concept. Erased. 

And yet. 

Something pulls him. An old, foreign urge. One to protect. 

Against orders, against protocol, The Soldier steps into the room.

Her eyes on his. Surprise. Relief. Her short exhale. 

The Soldier disobeyed. Punishable act. No regret. Not for this. None. Not when she looks relieved. 

The agent turns, standing too close. The Soldier's jaw is tight until he steps back. 

Natalia looks at The Soldier. "Good, you're here. I need to check your hand." 

A lie. They both know. His hand is wrapped, but fine. Concealing the warmth. He lied. Another forgotten concept. Cracks in conditioning. Because of her. 

Only for her. 

"I'll be seeing you, doctor." The agent leaves. 

The door shuts. 

She's shaking, still rooted where she stood when Redhair said her name like it was something dirty. When he reminded her exactly how she landed in this mess. It was hardly the worst thing that happened to her within HYDRA's walls. In just a few months, Natalia had been thrown into a combat simulator, watched men die from cruel experiments, and let her own hands go red with the stain of blood. 

But the culmination, the reminder of the passage of time between that fateful assassination and today… It threatened to shatter all her resolve. 

And then he walked in.

The Winter Soldier.

She hadn't called for him, didn't even know he was outside. But he came anyway. And that —that is what makes her legs go weak.

He doesn't say anything. Of course he doesn't. But he's standing between her and the door now, and the air feels different.

And she realizes—he's not just waiting. He's checking on her. 

 This isn't the first time he'd helped her. In the combat simulator, he'd snapped her out of old flashbacks, stood between her and Orlov. Helped her trek through ice, shielded her from the snow. That day in the cell, when he broke a guard's arm, it was the one who'd pushed her. The truth of it all slams into her like a physical force. There is a lot more of James Buchanan Barnes still in The Soldier than anyone knows. 

Decades of torture and conditioning and punishment. And he'd lied, disobeyed, for her. Guilt tears at her insides for not seeing it clearly before. She can't believe she was ever afraid of him. 

Her hands are trembling, so she says, "Sit, I'll change your wrap," just to have something to do.

But he doesn't sit, he says, "Natalia." 

The sound of her name on his lips shoots right through her. If she doesn't pull it together, she'll be bleeding out, and everyone will see. More than anything, she wants to say his name back. James Buchanan Barnes is right there on the tip of her tongue. Indecision chokes her. What if it's a trigger of some kind? The most personal thing about him, it could easily make everything snap, and that isn't something she can handle right now. 

So instead, she looks at him. Really looks at him. "Why did you do that?"

There's no need for elaboration; he knows exactly what he did. 

"You were afraid." Three words tear her right open and knock everything off axis more than any file could. Human. 

Buried deep, sure, but human all the same. 

"You're not supposed to care,” she says. 

This time, when he replies, his voice is hoarse. It's more than just misuse like it was that first day. It's weighted with emotion he isn't supposed to have. "I know." 

Natalia's exhale is shaky. Overwhelmed. The fear is gone because of him. "Thank you... I—I don't—" She shakes her head, trying to put the words together. They refuse to come in a way that allows her to express everything she means. 

Thank you isn't all she wants to say. Not even close. 

Two other words have been gripping her for weeks. That formed when she read his file and saw his photo. Heard the way he screamed in the chair. 

Nothing stops them now. They come out of her like an exhale. "I'm sorry."

Again, he says, "I know." 

Confusion furrows her brows. Makes her heart pound too hard and fast. "What?"

"I could tell." He says it all so simply. "Your eyes, you looked sorry." 

That day, in the chair. He had been looking at her. He understood what she'd silently tried to convey. Not a weapon. Not a machine. A man. One who cares. The ice isn't cracking, it's hardly melting, but it hits her like a tidal wave. 

Someone knocks on the med-bay door.

Natalia turns and looks, but the Winter Soldier is still looking at her. "One second!" She calls out before facing him once more. "I'll rewrap it in the morning so it's warm for longer." After a second, she adds, "and I'll be awake tonight again, if—when you are."

The base is silent, wrapped in the thick quiet of post-midnight hours. Natalia sits on the couch, waiting. 

Wondering if the Winter Soldier will show up, wondering how much of James Buchanan Barnes he'll be bringing with him. 

The invitation had been clear, or at least she hoped it had. They'd talked last night; Natalia hoped they'd do the same today.  Her hair still damp and braided, jacket waiting beside her, Natalia nearly jumps to her feet at the sound of his approaching footsteps. As usual, he's dressed in all black, wearing a long-sleeved shirt, cargo pants, and boots. 

Careful to keep quiet, Natalia gestures once with her head towards the door leading to the observation deck, which leads them both outside and into the brisk air of the makeshift balcony. 

They stand side by side at the railing, close enough that she can feel the warmth radiating off him. 

The purple jacket probably looks even more ridiculous now that it's buttoned over pajama pants, but it's too cold for her to care. Wordlessly, she hands the Soldier another heat pack. Nerves drive her to fumble for the pack of cigarettes, lighting one clumsily with a desperate inhale. 

"You smoke." The Soldier says, sounding about as surprised as she thinks him capable of being. 

"It's a bad habit." She stares down at the small glow. One Vogl had thrown her back into in the name of camaraderie. 

Temptation to ask him if he's ever smoked toys at her mind. Then again, everything is fragile. Questions about his past are too dangerous to ask. Even with the humanity cracking through, Natalia isn't sure what he actually remembers, what he knows. 

Instead, it's him who speaks. "I picked one." 

Again, his clipped sentences bring nothing but confusion. At least until she remembers their conversation from last night. Her chest goes warm for reasons other than the jacket. "A color." She realizes, "Which one?"

His eyes flick up to the night sky like that's an answer. Natalia follows his with her own before looking back at him. "Black." She says, a smile twitching at her lips. A non-color color. 

He shakes his head, though. "No. Blue. Dark blue. Before it's black."

And then, she is smiling. She can't help it. "Twilight." Which technically isn't a color either, more a state of time. Either way, she understands what he means. 

Turning away from the sky, The Soldier looks at her. "Twilight," he repeats. 

As Natalia raises the cigarette to her lips, her hand brushes the metal one. Cold enough to make her flinch away. He notices, metal hand tightening around the railing like he's ashamed. 

"Can I ask you a question about the prosthetic? Your arm." She glances down at it. 

He nods once. Natalia doesn't think he knows how to say no, so she clarifies that it's not an order. "You can tell me no."

Then, like he's considering it, he stares down. Metal wrapped around metal. The silence hums, electric. When he finally does look back up, he blinks once. "Ask."

She would have let him say no. 

Not a word he's said in a long time. Choice. 

But he told her to ask. 

It won't be about how he lost it. That question is a test, and she does not test him. The answer is always the same. The Soldier does not remember how he lost his arm. All he remembers is the pain. 

"Does it have sensation?" Her head tilts, hair falling over her shoulder. "Do you feel it?"

Jasmine and smoke. A scent he wants to breathe in. 

The metal first uncurls. Open palm facing up. "Less than the flesh."

Her hand comes forward, halfway to his. A glance up. For permission. Foreign concept. 

The Soldier gives it with a nod. 

Her finger traces a line across the metal palm. Too slight to feel. He shakes his head. 

Gaze down, she pushes harder. Two knuckles. He feels it. 

Faint, but he feels it.

Everywhere. 

Sensation shoots up his arm. Through his chest. Something more than physical. Somewhere long forgotten. 

Grips him by the throat. 

Her head tilts. "Did you feel that?"

He can't—

The Soldier inhales. Stares at her hand on his. Wrong. Wrong. 

Warmth. Everywhere. Everywhere. 

Her question repeated. "Do you—"

Eyes met. Silence. Quiet and heavy. There is something wrong with his chest. With his head. The static is too quiet. 

"I feel it." He says, hand open to her touch. "I feel it."

Days pass. Mission successful. 

Tank. Helicopter. Back at the main base. 

Natalia walked off hours ago. 

Debriefs. Many. With Prizraki team. With Karpov. 

The Soldier knows what is coming next. The chair. The ice. They will wake him soon. Days instead of years. A change in standard procedure. 

They push him into the chair. He knows what will happen. 

And, he remembers what the doctor told him. Their last conversation on the deck. 

"We're going back tomorrow, to the main base." Cigarette in her hand again. 

"Yes. The mission is over." 

She sighs. Hesitates. "They... wipe you, once we're back?"

Clenched jaw. The kind of thing that doesn't matter. So why does it now? "Yes."

More hesitation. Voice low, quiet. Secret. "You should try to remember something." 

Dangerous words. She knows. He knows. 

The Soldier blinks once. Remember... 

Ice and bodies. Gunfire. Mission parameters. "Remember what?"

She smiles. It's a sad one. "Pick something. Just try."

The metal chair holds him. Restrained. 

Rubber gritted between his teeth. Harsh metal framing his face. 

Lightning strikes. Old and familiar. It will bring static. It will erase. 

The way it always has. 

Time does not exist, not for the Soldier. Memories are taken. Errors corrected. 

He does not fight. Not anymore, not for a while. 

Today, The Winter Soldier holds on. Seven things. Seven secrets. He chooses. 

The smell of jasmine. An old melody, hummed. Her ticking wristwatch. The night sky, dark blue—twilight. Hidden warmth she put in his hands. A photograph. The curl of cigarette smoke. 

Lightning strikes and attacks. It cuts and takes. Some things, he gives; the dead bodies, men he killed, mission parameters, and ice. 

Other things, The Soldier holds tightly. Secretly. 

Jasmine. Melody. Wristwatch. Twilight. Warmth. Photograph. Smoke. 

She asked him his favorite color for a reason. 

For the first time, he thinks. Wonders. 

He was someone before this. Wasn’t he? 

Chapter Text

The leaves of the tree above their heads block just enough sun to make sitting outside bearable in the summer heat. 

Lazy, drowsy, Natalia runs her hand through the green grass they sit on. Beside her, her mother peels an orange, handing Natalia the first slice the way she always does. Fresh juice drips down their fingers, dribbling onto Natalia's sundress. Two figures approach from a distance. The first is Mrs. Hamzeh, a pitcher of tea with lemons balanced on a tray. Natalia's father follows closely behind. 

It's a dream, and she knows it. Her father died before they ever made it here, to the farm with orange trees and sprawling hills. For a minute, she lets herself pretend it isn't, smiling as her dad sits on the grass beside her mother. Mrs. Hamzeh sits at Natalia's side, passing down cups of tea and bowls of sunflower seeds. 

"You'll crack your tooth," her mother warns, the way she always does as Natalia attempts to break open a seed. 

And like she always does, Natalia rolls her eyes, "Baba's doing it." 

"His teeth are already cracked beyond repair." Her mom says, familiar soft look in her eyes as she does. They’re holding hands, her parents, the way they used to. 

From around her mom's head, her dad shoots her a secret wink. His mustache is shorter in the summer, skin brown with a tan. There are slight wrinkles around his eyes from years of smiles. In her dream, Natalia can't see them clearly. She remembers them being there, though. 

"I saw that." Her mom says without even turning around. 

"Mama!" Natalia groans, and at the same time, Mrs. Hamzeh chuckles in amusement. "Eyes in the back of her head." 

Still laughing, Mrs. Hamzeh pushes her tray towards Natalia again, encouraging her to eat more. Reaching for another seed, Natalia's hands go still. The usual contents of the tray are gone. One pastry sits in the center. With a frown, Natalia leans in closer. 

Apple strudel. 

It wrenches her out of her dream with a cold sweat, throwing her back into the four gray walls of her HYDRA quarters. 

The dream is ruined now, and even if she wanted to, Natalia wouldn't be able to fall asleep enough to reenter it. Careful not to wake Trudy, Natalia turns over in the small bed and stares at the lamp beside the bed. 

At the foot of the bed, Earl the cat stirs slightly. Vogl had been gone a few days on an undisclosed assignment. In the meantime, she'd asked Natalia to cat sit. Of all the assignments Natalia had been given since coming here, watching Earl has been her favorite. His litter-box and bowls sit in a corner in her bathroom, and he seems to like the arrangement enough. Trudy has been thrilled; the two of them have taken to sitting in here and playing with the cat whenever they can. As nice as it's been, Natalia can't fully enjoy it. And it's not just because the cat's owner is a loyalist to an objectively evil organization. 

Almost two weeks have passed since she returned from that mission in a place even colder than this—two weeks of nothing. 

Well, not nothing. 

The most dangerous thing Natalia had ever done was daring The Winter Soldier to remember. Their list of lies is growing, but this one... It's a fatal offence, and Natalia knows it. Memories get wiped—methodically, clinically. HYDRA keeps him blank because the perfect weapon does not have history. It’s what keeps him merciless, compliant. 

Natalia’s methods of treating him have always been a risk. She asks questions she should not, does not treat him like a weapon the way they expect her to. But all of that could be written off. Yes, Karpov made it clear that her assignment was considered weapon maintenance rather than treatment, but there was no specific rule book on how to do that. 

Memories, though, there are rules there. Clear and simple. Wipe him if he’s showing signs of retention. Put him in the chair. 

She's still alive, which means either The Winter Soldier remembered nothing like he is supposed to, or that he's keeping secrets, too. 

Not that she has any idea. Natalia has only treated him twice since they returned. The first time, there had been some technician in S-100 with them, repairing a faulty X-ray machine, and the second hadn't even been in S-100. A few days ago, halfway through her shift in the trauma ward, Natalia had been sent to where The Soldier was training with Orlov and some of the uninjured Ghost Team. The injury was minor, a disconnected joint in the metal prosthetic that required a quick repair with a tool. 

Both times, Natalia had no idea if the blankness of his stare was due to a successful wipe or the fact that they were not alone. 

The bigger issue is Hale, or rather, the lack of him. 

Three times, apple strudels had come and gone. Yes, their covert meeting schedule had been thrown off by Natalia being sent out with no warning, but surely that should have encouraged him to attempt meeting with her sooner rather than later. All the details of the mission sit stagnant in her mind, the specifics threatening to slip away with time. With the constant surveillance and HYDRA operatives entering her room, she doesn't dare write anything down. The sooner she tells him, the better, but sooner passed days ago and there has been no sign of him. 

It keeps her up at night, it haunts her dreams. Natalia knows, without a doubt, that something is wrong. 

Before she can even think about it, Natalia is shaking Trudy awake. 

Bleary-eyed, Trudy frowns at her. "What is it? Are you okay?"

"I need to ask you a question," Natalia whispers in a voice so low it's nearly inaudible. 

"Okay, okay," Trudy rubs the sleep from her eyes. 

"Bathroom,” Natalia says. 

Silently, the two of them climb out of bed and huddle in the bathroom. Hesitantly, Natalia turns on the sink. 

All pretense of sleep gone, Trudy's eyes widen, voice low and careful. "Honey, I don't think the rooms are bugged, but... what's got you so freaked out?"

Paranoia has already killed Natalia's exhaustion, so when she runs her hands over her face, it's more to ground herself than anything. "You work in the morgue, right?"

"Yes. Autopsies and cremation." Trudy says, expression tense. "Why?"

"The names of the deceased," Natalia takes a deep breath, "do you see them?"

"No. Um, not usually. If it's an operative that passed and their identification badge is still on, I know, but that's rare."

"Do you remember their names?" 

"Of course I do," Trudy says with a rough swallow. 

Fuck. Fuck. The next question, Natalia doesn't want to ask. If the answer is yes, she'll have no idea what to do. Less than no idea. It'll be the worst-case scenario. If there's anything she's learned here, blissful ignorance gets her nowhere. "Did anyone... Was one of the dead men called Gregor Hale?" 

"No." Trudy's answer is firm. 

"Are you sure?" Natalia asks desperately. 

"I remember their names, Natalia." She insists with enough conviction that Natalia believes her. The horrors witnessed here are not the kind that are easily forgotten. "Why? Did you know him?"

Staring at the running water, Natalia shakes her head once. "I can't tell you."

Trudy nods, exhales sharply. "Natalia..."

"Trudy." She interrupts, "Don't ask. I'd tell you if I could." 

And then the two of them are staring at the sink wordlessly. 

Until Trudy breaks the silence. "About a month ago, they sent up a dead operative. No identification card, face too messed up to see any features. And there was this burlap sack over his head before I started—"

"What?" The one-worded question is followed by bile crawling up Natalia's throat. 

Her knees buckle, and Natalia hits the floor. 

She doesn't black out. Awake but weak. Panicking. Panic like she's never felt before. The kind that crashes in her ears and makes her see white. 

The floor is cold, the water still runs. Trudy’s voice is distant. Far away. 

"Natalia!" She whispers loudly, crouching to her level with concern. 

The fall was minor, it is fear that knocks the breath out of her lungs, hard . "Tell me. What you saw. Tell me." 

Trudy reaches for her cautiously. "Are you okay?" 

"Tell me!" Natalia snaps, barely remembering to keep her voice quiet. 

Each word that follows lands like a blow. 

"The... dead man, from a month ago. Blunt force trauma, like a beating. I took the burlap sack off for the autopsy, but I couldn't make out his face. I remember that he was bald." 

Automatic instinct has her crawling towards the toilet less than a second before the vomiting starts. 

One month ago. That day, when the truth of The Winter Soldier was revealed to Natalia. A three-part show that began with a file and ended with a kill. She'd watched it happen, the interrogation turned execution. The man with the burlap sack over his head.

The only other S.H.I.E.L.D operative, bald and asking her about Elvis. 

Gregor Hale is dead, and The Winter Soldier killed him. 

Natalia thought she'd be shaking. Or crying. Or something. 

Instead, she's motionless in her bed, hardly noticing Trudy's attempts at comfort beside her. 

Hale is dead. Hale is dead. Hale is dead. 

Hale was the one who could communicate with S.H.I.E.L.D. Hale had been training for this for years. Natalia was only ever sent here as a spy because Hale was already here and trained, and in charge of the operation. Fury's old friend, who had a life before this, one that he did not know would end here. 

Dead. 

Natalia is completely alone. Hale is dead. 

"I know you can't tell me," Trudy says softly, rubbing Natalia's back, "just try to sleep." 

Natalia can't move, can't look at her. Trudy says her name again. For the past hour, she has been trying to get Natalia to say something, and for the past hour, she has been unsuccessful. Other than letting Trudy guide her off the bathroom floor and back into bed, Natalia has not moved or said a word. 

Around her, the room distorts into a gray blur. The passage of time slips past like water. At some point, Trudy falls asleep. Natalia is still there, sitting up in bed and staring at nothing. 

Earl meows, as if attempting to snap her out of it, too. 

A few minutes pass, and he meows again. 

Slow motion, Natalia lifts her head. Stares at him. 

Vogl's precious cat is in her room, on her bed. 

Natalia thinks she knows exactly what the fuck happened to Hale. 

Chapter Text

The trauma ward finally goes quiet. 

Dr. Romero comes in for his shift as Natalia and Vogl prepare to leave for the night. 

Natalia looks unhinged—barely holding it together. No effort to hide it today. 

She hadn't slept since she realized Hale died. Or more accurately, was brutally killed. The Winter Soldier's hands, Karpov's orders. 

Vogls involvement. 

Potential involvement. Natalia is ninety-nine percent sure her suspicion is correct. The issue is that the last time Natalia felt this sure about anything, it seemed like a good idea to infiltrate HYDRA for S.H.I.E.L.D., and look where that landed her. Complicity in horrors and experiments she would have never been able to imagine before, aiding and abetting in the long list of HYDRA crimes. And that's not even taking into consideration her involvement with The Winter Soldier. A lie she believed for months, a truth she can't stomach. 

Through it all, Vogl. 

Vogl and her crooked olive branches. Her dislike for Natalia had been clear in the early days. When things started to change, Natalia had written it off as a natural progression. Until now. 

Maybe she never ended up proving herself to Vogl the way she thought she had. 

Crooked olive branches. Earl offered up as a makeshift therapy cat in her office every time something bad happened. Reassignment to the Winter Soldier, and Vogl was there, putting the cat in Natalia's lap. A dozen men dead because of a poison with no antidote; here you go, Natalia, pet my cat. Surprise! The Winter Soldier doesn't actually have a robot brain like we told you he did; let's go have a smoke. Guess what, Natalia, your only connection to S.H.I.E.L.D. has been caught and killed. You don't know it yet, but here, take my cat for the next few days. 

Vogl opens the door for Natalia to find out. "I'll stop by your quarters tonight. Pick up Earl and all his things?"

Maybe she's being paranoid. Maybe she's right. 

"Oh," Natalia says with an exaggerated pout. Her heavy eye bags probably ruin the illusion of casual conversation, but she is too wired to care, "I was hoping I could keep him for a few more days." 

With a sigh, Vogl turns to her as they make their way toward the elevator. "I suppose I can spare him for a while." 

Okay. Natalia may not be paranoid. Vogl knows something. 

"Really. You don't mind?" Natalia looks at her with a surprised frown. 

"It's fine, Haddad." Vogl glances in her direction. "Stop asking before I change my mind." 

"Fine. Actually, one more thing. I could use a smoke break." Natalia says, like it isn't loaded. 

"Sure," Vogl says, hitting the button for the upper floor where they usually go to smoke in the office with windows. And then, she gives Natalia a disapproving once-over. "Are you not sleeping?" 

What Natalia wants to do is slam her into the elevator wall, grab the collar of her shirt, and ask her what the hell she knows. What she wants to know is why Vogl is going to such great lengths to be nice. Cigarettes for an away mission, cat sitting for presumably no reason. 

"I'm sleeping just fine," Natalia doesn't bother making the lie sound convincing as they head into the office, door clicking shut behind them. 

Vogl hands her a cigarette, starts her own before tossing the lighter to Natalia. 

They sit across one another at the desk. On her end, Vogl looks slightly put off by Natalia's odd behavior. As expected, she responds with snark. "What? You want to get all weepy about The Winter Soldier again?"

Natalia smiles, a sharp scoff around cigarette smoke. "I never did get weepy though, did I?" 

Leaning back in her chair, Vogl frowns. "What is it, then?" 

"I'm having nightmares." Natalia begins, "About that guy he killed."

Vogl gives her a condescending look. "The Winter Soldier kills a lot of people. Don't let it keep you up at night, it's what The Asset was made for." 

The Winter Soldier. The Asset. Vogl sounds just like Karpov. 

"I mean that guy, specifically. He was a HYDRA operative." Natalia says, wondering if she should be trying to sound more troubled about it all. 

She's pretty sure she's right. If she's not, she just gave Vogl every reason to be suspicious of Natalia's supposed support of HYDRA. 

"He was a traitor." Vogl isn't smoking anymore. Also, for the first time today, she won't look Natalia in the eye. 

"Yeah, Karpov said that already." Natalia isn't smoking either. "What did he do, exactly?"

Shifting in her seat, Vogl replies. It sounds just as practiced as Natalia expected it to. "Somehow, he managed to hack the system and adjust his keycard to grant him access to medical floors. A guard caught him snooping around, trying to steal files."

Natalia's heart thunders in her ears. Liar . 

Hale didn't mess with keycards. He'd never be that stupid to go snooping around. For three years, he didn't go looking. Explicitly warned Natalia not to. Power outages, messages sent to S.H.I.E.L.D., if Hale really did get caught, that's what he would have been caught for. 

There's only one reason Vogl would be lying. 

Feeling more cornered animal than human, Natalia bites. "Bullshit." 

One word, and the room goes deathly quiet. 

There are no weapons in the room, nothing but subtext. And yet, the air feels electric enough that the two of them might as well be pointing guns at each other. Vogl meets her eye, expression flat now that they both know. 

Two liars. 

Glancing around, Natalia touches her ear once and points around the room. 

Face hard, Vogl shakes her head. "The room isn't bugged. You can talk." 

"I'd rather hear what you have to say." Natalia blinks at her, not taking any chances. 

Vogl sucks her teeth, shakes her head. Finally, she says, "You think you're the only two here with a plan?"

Natalia’s pulse spikes at the confirmation. 

"Get. To. The. Point." Her patience is at an all-time low. Besides, if she were wrong, she'd be dead already. 

"I had to have Hale killed—"

"Fuck you." The words are out before Natalia can tell herself to be more concise. 

"I had to," Vogl repeats, leaving no room for argument. "I don't know who he was working for. All I know is... he caught me. Hale. Saw an outgoing signal that wasn't his and tracked it to me. Almost. I framed him before he could. There isn't room for two inside jobs. Not here. I had to do it." 

Natalia nods, staring at the table before looking back up at Vogl. "So, what does that mean? I'm next?"

"You..." Vogl laughs. "What the fuck are you other than a misguided girl acting as Hale's messenger? I'm not going to have you killed, Natalia. Whoever thought it was a good idea to send you in here, that's who killed you. You don't know anything. Hale was in charge; without him, you're just a HYDRA employee with bad luck." 

"Bad luck," Natalia repeats. "You knew what Hale was doing and you had him killed, that's not bad luck. That's you being a coward." 

"Without Hale, you have no plan," Vogl says plainly. "No ties to whoever it is you're working for. You and I can't rat each other out. If one of us goes down, we're sure as hell taking the other down with us. I was in deeper than Hale ever would be. I am more valuable." 

Natalia holds her stare, doesn't back down. "You've been here for eight years. What the hell have you been doing this whole time?"

This hit a nerve. 

"Project Active Reserve? That's me. Me ." Vogl points a finger at her chest. "Do you know how long it took to get Karpov and his team of scientists to even consider keeping The Winter Soldier awake? Fine, maybe I'm wrong and your luck is really damn good because at no other point in time would an inexperienced trauma doctor who saw the wrong thing get assigned to treat the fucking Winter Soldier. All that intel you've been getting, I placed that brick.” 

Unbidden, the stupid chess metaphor comes back. Natalia thought she was playing. The truth is harsh. All along, she’d been a pawn on Vogl’s board. 

Even worse, Vogl is right. Not in killing Hale, but in the layers of their involvement. Hale, and therefore, S.H.I.E.L.D., hadn’t even known about The Winter Soldier until Natalia found out. Vogl has been playing this game longer than anyone. Better, too. 

It’s an overload of information, and more than anything, Natalia needs to take a breath. 

The second she rises to her feet, there is a flash of movement, and Vogl is on her. The woman moved so quickly, Natalia hardly understood what was happening until she is pinned to the wall with Vogl holding a small knife against her throat. 

The words, “what the fuck?” Come out, strangled and shocked. 

Not letting go, Vogl gives her a warning glare, looking nothing like the person she’s come to know. Sounding entirely different. “What do you think you’re doing?” 

“I needed a breath—who the hell are you, really?” Vogl had moved just as fast as the best HYDRA operatives Natalia had seen. Practiced, precise. Not Winter Soldier level lethal, but elite strike team lethal. 

Vogl’s arm presses hard against Natalia’s windpipe: “If you think you can beat me, think again.” Her voice has changed. Gone is the bitter, smug supervisor.

This one sounds like a command. Like kill-order clearance.

“Vogl.” Natalia tugs desperately at her arm, realizing that Vogl is likely not even her real name, and everything she thought she knew about the woman is a carefully constructed lie. 

The pressure lets up. Not enough for Natalia to break free, just enough to breathe. “You can’t beat me,” Vogl says again, “I was trained by The Asset. Me and three other girls. I am the best of them.” Her whisper is harsh, biting. “And I was chosen to bring him back. Here, The Asset is nothing but wasted potential. Whatever you think you need him for, forget it.” 

With that, she steps back. Gasping for breath, Natalia clutches her throat, wide-eyed and staring. The Winter Soldier trained Vogl? And somewhere other than HYDRA? 

Natalia knows nothing, less than nothing. 

Parallel infiltrators, entirely different goals. 

Vogl said she wants him back. Back for who? Training who? 

Like she is an open book, and Vogl can read it all on Natalia’s face, she laughs. Short and humorless. 

“You want advice, you want to live?” Vogl straightens her clothing. “You are being sent on next mission in the States. HYDRA has eyes everywhere, but America is large.”

“What?” Natalia can’t find anything else to say, she’s still gasping for breath. Head spinning, mind reeling. 

Vogl meets her eyes. “Get out while you can.”

Chapter Text

1965 - Ukraine, Orphanage - 6 years old

Zoya Mirova isn’t sorry. Even when they tell her she should be. Even after hours spent locked in the room they put her in whenever she does something bad.

That girl deserved it when Zoya hit her hard enough to draw blood—she shouldn’t have tried taking her food. It’s not the first time Zoya has been sent in here, it probably won’t be the last. The other kids at the orphanage don’t like her, nor do the adults. Because she doesn’t cry, make friends, or play.

She doesn’t want to. 

Zoya doesn't remember her parents dying. All she remembers is feeling afraid, and she never wants to feel that way again. So, she hits back. She hits first. Let everyone else be afraid of her. It's better that way. 

The door opens to an unfamiliar face. He crouches in front of Zoya, black glasses, graying hair. 

"Hello, Zoya." He wears a suit, nicer clothes than the people in the orphanage.  

She won't let him scare her. Zoya lifts her chin, "I'm not going to say sorry."

The man smiles. For the first time, someone looks at her with pride. Pats her head. "Good."

1970 - Red Room - 11 years old 

Training. Zoya is always training. It starts with ballet. Madame B made their feet bleed, made the other girls cry. Not Zoya, never her. She does not cry. They learned grace and etiquette. Perfection wasn't just a goal—it was a demand. 

Madame B watched with a switch in hand. If your arabesque dropped, you got the switch. If your toes bled onto the floor, you kept dancing. Ballet wasn’t art. It was obedience, elegance under agony.

The blood dried on her slippers. She didn’t care. Weak girls cried, strong ones didn’t. 

Zoya never cried.

She wants to be perfect. Six days a week, she spends extra hours with Madame B in the studio. 

Punishments push her to be better; discipline makes her stronger. Food deprivation, cold showers. Hours in silent isolation. 

She will be better. She will be perfect. 

No one here tries to be friends. The other girls are not a team. They are competitors. 

When they turn twelve, the real sparring begins. 

Hand-to-hand combat. Twice a day. Zoya is the only one who takes extra hours with Oksana. Oksana is flawless, strong. The other girls are afraid of her, shrink back while Zoya looks up with admiration. Determination. 

The trainers are cruel. It is necessary for perfection. 

The blades come next. At first, they trained with rubber knives. Then dulled steel. Then real blades and the real threat of stitches. Sparring sessions ended in broken ribs, dislocated jaws. They were told to incapacitate, not hesitate. Zoya learns how to fight in silence, how to breathe shallow and strike deep.

When another girl slit her arm to the bone, Zoya does not flinch. She wins the match.

She trains until she is the strongest, the fastest. Four girls and Zoya beats them all, every time. It is worth the bruises and the blood. Fear is foreign, forgotten. Cut out with the surgical knife of discipline. 

By thirteen, Zoya is familiar with human anatomy. Where to put a knife to inflict injury. How to cut if she wants to kill. It fascinates her—all the ways to manipulate flesh. The handlers take note of this, they take note of everything. 

There'd been another girl, her name forgotten. Fifteen years old, a year older than Zoya, inches taller. If she'd been focused, she would have won. She is the first person Zoya ever killed. 

Again, Zoya sees pride. She is the favorite. 

1973 - 14 years old 

Loyalty. It is the only thing that matters. Morality is subjective, loyalty is permanent. 

Red Room saved her, molded her into something formidable and strong and unafraid. Whatever they say, Zoya believes as true. 

They have graduated from just fighting against weapons. Chemicals are injected into their veins to test their ability to fight under duress. Blindfolds, limbs tied down—until they can beat their enemies under any circumstance. 

And then, a test. Two of them are sent out into the field for the first time. A simple assassination, poisoning. Get in, get out, do not be seen. But they get caught, government officials put them in a room, promise safety and escape in exchange for information. The other girl cracks, Zoya does not. She would never betray Red Room. 

This was the real test, not the assassination. 

The other girl, the one who defected, is never seen again. If they did not kill her, Zoya thinks they should have. 

Zoya moves forward, a small group of girls with her. Their given title is official. 

Widows . 

1975 - Red Room - 16 years old 

Four of them are selected for special training. Another girl joins them. Younger, top of her class. Everyone is competition, everyone. Even the young girl with red hair, Natasha. Zoya pays her no mind, she will be better. 

Dreykov comes to oversee the training, which means it will be important. They talk of another Soviet organization—HYDRA. Scientists, wardogs. HYDRA says they created a weapon, something even stronger than the Widows. Less attached, deadlier. 

Zoya doesn't believe them until she sees him. 

They call him The Winter Soldier. 

Cold as his name suggests, large, impossibly strong. 

The Soldier obeys like a machine, in a way Zoya can only hope to accomplish. Obedience, precision, and total control. It's... beautiful. Horrifying and perfect. He has no name, no identity. A blankness that the Widows were not able to accomplish. 

When he steps up to the Widows, one girl flinches. The Soldier breaks her arm without a blink. Face blank, Zoya watches him, studies everything about him. Every word of Dreykov’s praise burns into her. Zoya wants to be him. 

He moved like a thought made flesh. Clean. Sharp. Inevitable. 

Their seduction tactics are tested. Tricks that always work, methods that can trap any man, instilled in them by a series of handlers. For the first time, they fail. The Soldier is miraculous, inhuman. He is perfect. 

They train with The Soldier. He doesn't talk. Only acts.

Grabs. Slams. Disarms. He demonstrates a hold. Then waits, eyes blank, for a girl to try.

When she moves wrong, he breaks her wrist.

Zoya studies him the way others study textbooks. His weight distribution. The way he moves his shoulder before a strike. His breathing, or lack of it. She lands a blow once. Just once. Her reward is a cracked rib.

She starts moving like him. Beating the other girls with his tactics. To the other girls, he is terror, but to Zoya, he is the future.

Not a man. A weapon. One that taught her how to become one, too. He doesn’t look at them like people. That’s fine. She doesn’t want to be one. She wants to be like him. 

One day, he nods at her. She feels high for a week. 

Dreykov has plans to take The Soldier, bring him into the Red Room permanently. But The Soldier learned loyalty, too. To HYDRA, an unnamed colonel. 

They do not see him again. 

1977 - 18 years old 

Dreykov does not give up on his plan to acquire The Winter Soldier for himself. 

Zoya is chosen for the job, a plan that could take years, but will be worth it. Her studies of human anatomy extend beyond the basics of killing. They make her learn how to heal. She is still sent on missions, kills with precision, but her training changes.

False identities, one after the other. Personalities and backstories she learns until the Red Room is convinced that she will be flawless. Until she is given one that will stick. 

When Dreykov sits her down, Zoya already knows what is coming. His plan: infiltration and extraction. 

"We are sending you to Switzerland. The identity you will adopt will send you into the medical field until you are notable enough to be contacted by HYDRA." Dreykov says, "Until that happens, you forget your name, forget everything."  

Zoya nods. Loyal and obedient, and everything she should be. She was chosen because she is the best, the only one trusted to retrieve The Winter Soldier. To bring him back. "What is my new identity?"

Dreykov pushes her a thick file. The papers contain years of history and background, all of which must be memorized and adopted. On it, there is a photo of a woman with the same hair color, a few years older. "She has been working in an isolated lab in Svalbard, Norway, working on cryogenic sleep. Her only other human contact is the two other men on her research team." 

"A real person?" Zoya looks up from the photo. 

"Soon, you will be sent out," Dreykov says, "Infiltrate the lab, kill everyone, leave no witnesses. And then, you will become Dr. Anika Vogl."

They give her surgeries, many. Nose and jaw alterations, they change her teeth, and her cheekbones, until her old face is forgotten and replaced. Until she looks like Dr. Anika Vogl. 

When Zoya infiltrates the Norway lab, none of the scientists see it coming. The two men fall easily. The first, knife to the jugular, exactly one and a half inches lateral to the windpipe. The second takes a knife to the heart, two inches left of the sternum, beneath his third and sixth ribs. 

Zoya lets Anika Vogl live to see it. It is not until their blood is pooling on the floors that she faces the woman she will become. Now, they look nearly identical. The doctor screams, scrambles backwards. Already a dead woman walking. "Oh my God—what are... why do you look like me?"

"What is your name?" Zoya steps over her, bloodied knife still in hand. 

"Anika... Doctor Anika Vogl," she gasps like it might save her. She does not know that mercy is a forgotten concept in Zoya Mirova's mind. 

"Anika... Doctor Anika Vogl." Zoya says back, mimicking her exact tone and accent. A skill she has been learning since her youth. Anika Vogl speaks Russian and near-flawless English; now, Zoya does too. 

Tears run down the woman's face. "I don't understand what's happening."

"Get up." Zoya juts her chin forward. When Anika hesitates, she flashes her knife again, still dripping with blood. "You're dead either way. If you want me to make it slow, I will. Your fingers first, then your hand... I like drawing blood, I can kill you very slowly. Or," Zoya shrugs easily, "I'll go under the rib, I'll be nice. Straight to the heart, you'll be gone before your brain realizes you're dead." 

"Who are you?" Anika's voice shakes and trembles, which is no help to Zoya. She needs to know how she sounds. The way she walks, talks, and moves. 

"Option one, or option two." Zoya holds the knife over her hand. 

"Two! Option two!" She scrambles back again, finally climbs to her feet. 

"Speak. Now." Zoya commands, "Explain it, your project." 

"Is that what this is about? Take it, all the research, just take it!" There is snot on Anika's nose, she does not look like the person Zoya needs to become. 

"Speak or die slowly," Zoya says calmly. "Say anything and try to act like you're not about to die. Remember your two options."

Finally, Anika straightens her posture, walks like a doctor who knows she is important. Zoya mimics it, the tilt of her chin, the gait of her steps. 

Anika speaks in a detached way. Good, easy to replicate. In a few short minutes, Zoya doesn't just look like her. She is her. 

Brushing her hair back the same way Anika Vogl does, tilting her chin, Zoya says in another voice, "My name is Anika Vogl. I was born in Finland, near the city of Turku. I got into the medical field because my father died slowly from ALS, and my mother passed shortly after. I'm an only child and have been isolated from civilization for five years... Was that good?" 

"Please, please..." The real Anika's voice cracks like glass, "You don't have to kill me. I won't tell anyone, I swear. I’ll go into hiding—"

"Was it good?" Zoya interrupts her crying, "Be honest, Anika." 

She sniffles, wraps her arm around herself. "I speak slower, usually."

Zoya repeats the phrase—the name, the backstory—until Anika nods once. 

Zoya smiles the way Anika Vogl would were she not about to die. "Thank you." She says, and then slams the knife into her chest. 

1983 - Switzerland Medical Conference. New Name: Dr. Anika Vogl. New age: 27 years old

For the first time in years, Red Room contacts her. Another Widow climbs into Anika Vogl's apartment and nearly dies for it. Despite the new identity, Zoya—now Vogl—has not forgotten her origins. 

The other Widow dusts herself off, and the two of them put their weapons on the table between them. The code they both learned exchanged quickly. "Was it twelve or thirteen steps?" 

"Twelve. Thirteen was for the failures." Zoya says easily. 

The Widow scoffs, they'd trained together years ago. "You looked better before the surgery." 

"You look ridiculous as a blonde." She replied. Earl, the cat she'd adopted, is too friendly for his own good. He meows at the Widow's feet, but at least he brings his claws out when ignored. The only reason she has the silly creature is because prior to her isolation, Vogl had owned two. 

A beat passes. "The general sent me." Dreykov. "Tonight, when you speak at the conference, a man will be there, Dr. Blane. HYDRA official, potentially looking for a new recruit. If you're not recruited, you'll be terminated. General's orders."

Zoya gives her a saccharine smile. "Blane will hire me."

Chapter Text

1988 - HYDRA Facility

Zoya, under the name Anika Vogl, has been with HYDRA for four years. Two of them, she'd spent trying to convince a team of know-it-all scientists to consider her plan. The cat came with her—he'd grown on Zoya. 

They don't listen easily, and all her knowledge of seduction gets her nowhere here. Still, Zoya pushes, plays the role of a focused doctor, and embeds herself so deep into HYDRA that no one looks at her with suspicion. 

It took her a year of loyalty and healing their operatives before they even showed her The Winter Soldier. Colonel Karpov was the man with complete control of The Asset. It was he who decided Vogl was loyal enough. Ready to meet HYDRA's greatest weapon. 

The details had bored her: memory erasure, electrocutions, and trigger words. James Buchanan Barnes was irrelevant; all that mattered was who came after. The Winter Soldier owned Zoya's focus, drove her determination, and made her better. She was here for him. She would leave with him. Bring him back to the Red Room. 

But then, what Karpov showed her was not the weapon who has trained Zoya all those years ago. 

They had him in a chamber, similar to the kind of thing the real Anika Vogl studied before Zoya killed her and took her identity as her own. Seeing him again made Zoya's breath stick in her throat. Not from fear, not the guilt that plagues his weaker handlers. 

From wasted potential. 

HYDRA had reforged him into something magnificent. A weapon with no past, no history, no feelings. He is flawless. Perfection she could only dream of. The deadliest man Zoya had ever seen, and she'd seen a lot. 

And they were wasting him. The world's greatest Asset was sitting in some chamber and collecting dust. It made her sick. Red Room would utilize him as he should be used, rather than letting him remain stored away for years at a time. It took everything in Zoya not to kill Karpov right then and there. It'd have been easy; he'd never seen it coming. But she needs to learn more: how to wake The Soldier up and how to activate him. 

Anger makes her shake, sharpens her mind. It reminds her that she has a role to play. Feigning shock and fear, Zoya lets the body of Dr. Anika Vogl collapse to the floor. 

She thought she'd be here to switch his loyalties, extract him from HYDRA, and bring him back. 

Instead, she had to adjust, reformulate. 

And so, Project Active Reserve was born. 

The idea was first pitched to Blane. He'd been the easiest to manipulate. A good doctor, but not sharp enough to be in charge, unlike Karpov. Zoya knew how to make that kind of man listen. The other Widows would’ve laughed at Blane, or gutted him. Zoya used him. 

Lingering stares, false shyness, until late nights ended in Blane's bedroom on the upper floors. Zoya kept him satiated, happy. Their pillow talk turned into discussions about The Winter Soldier. She started with praise before sprinkling in seeds on how he could be even better. 

"Why waste The Soldier?" She'd say as she let her towel slip just low enough to distract the man on their shared mornings. "Think about it... No more time wasted on waking him up, unfreezing him. Resetting his brain." 

Blane had given her a curious look. "The whole point of cryogenic sleep is long-term maintenance. If we wake him up for good, how you suggest, he'd age out of prime functionality in give or take," he waved his hands, "ten years."

For the first time in years, time becomes her enemy. Every wasted month robs her of him. According to the records, the last time The Soldier was awake was five years ago. If time like that continues to go to waste, it will be Zoya who ages out of prime functionality. She needs to execute Dreykov's plan. She cannot sit by and watch The Asset continue to be used only a few times a decade. 

"What if I can adjust his cryogenic chamber? What if he can remain awake and active and still not age?"

Blane chuckled, pulled her back into bed. "Then you'd be considered a Goddamn miracle worker."

1989 - HYDRA Facility 

He took credit for her idea, Blane. 

Zoya let him, picked her battles, and silently promised herself that the second she got The Winter Soldier back, Blane would be the first to die. 

She's assigned a team, ten people, all highly proficient in cryogenic sciences. For a year, they built a new chamber, adjusted temperatures and gases. They lose sleep bringing it to completion. Invisible hands and whispered words. Her plan unfolds smoothly. 

Project Active Reserve is taken into consideration. The prospect of having The Winter Soldier ready for deployment at any given moment makes Karpov's eyes gleam. Sometimes, she thinks, they are the only two who care about The Winter Soldier. No one else appreciates the value of it—the art of a weapon made. 

1991 - HYDRA Facility - Project Active Reserve, Day One

Eighteen months. 

That's how long Zoya has to extract The Winter Soldier. 

For the next eighteen months, The Winter Soldier would be awake for the longest stretch of time since his initial creation. The serum is irrelevant; the science behind it is not essential. Not to her, all she has to do is use the time to get him out. Take him for Dreykov and Red Room. 

Awake by day, altered cryogenic chamber by night. Constant reconditioning and wipes. 

She could work with this. Vogl would be assigned to the case, track his memory retention, and lie just enough to keep him malleable, allowing her to sink her own nails in. 

When they finally wake him up, Zoya feels the same as she had when she'd first seen him back at the Red Room; utterly fascinated. 

HYDRA had made him into a weapon so perfect they'd never be able to do it again. Not just a blank canvas—the ultimate soldier. 

She is familiar with the history of the serum. Steve Rogers, America's precious captain... he's nothing. He pales in comparison to The Soldier. Unfocused, too moral, flaws that ultimately killed him. The Soldier isn't blank, not really—he is modable and obedient. Bloodthirsty. 

But then, a wrench in her plans. Natalia Haddad. 

Another case of wasted potential. 

Pretty, young, and focused enough that in another life, she might have even made a good Widow. Ultimately, her upbringing failed her, this Dr. Haddad. 

Everyone else may believe her story. Supposedly, after witnessing a HYDRA assassination, Natalia Haddad's curiosity had driven her to take a blood sample and fall down the rabbit hole of HYDRA medical miracles. Just like that, HYDRA recruited her. What had taken Zoya six years, a new face, and a stolen identity, Natalia accomplished in a week with nothing but a fluke of luck. 

Admittedly, she plays her role well enough. Zoya was the only one who could tell she was lying the entire time. At first, Zoya hadn't planned to deal with the Natalia problem. The girls' mistakes would get her caught and killed. But they didn't. 

First, with Dr. Aubert. Weeks in the lab, enough horrors to make the average person slip, and against all odds, Natalia was promoted. Zoya was still the only one who knew she was lying. 

Then, Natalia was assigned to work in the trauma ward for her. She hid it well, but to Zoya, the cracks were obvious. All that unease, all that guilt, she wasn't HYDRA, not really. Weak. Too weak for her misguided attempts at espionage. Just when Vogl had decided to take matters into her own hands and kill the girl, she lost her chance. 

Karpov, of all people, was interested in Natalia Haddad. One day, in his office, he'd asked Vogl, "What are your thoughts on the new doctor… Natalia?"

Jaw clenched, face impassive, Zoya gave him the answer he needed to hear. "Focused but... green. Her inexperience is a hindrance. In a few years, she'll be more valuable." 

Zoya can't kill her now. It would be too suspicious. 

Karpov nodded, as if he thought the same. "We are running out of doctors that The Asset does not try to injure. We could sedate him for treatment, but even that doesn't always work against the serum. We need someone consistent to treat him both before and after missions. Do you think Natalia could handle that?"

"Colonel," Zoya said, careful not to let her voice waver—Karpov couldn’t hear just how badly she wanted to get close to The Soldier. "If you need a doctor for The Asset, fear won't send me running for the hills."

He shakes his head, making Zoya's anger spike. "Your knowledge of cryogenic sleep is too valuable to risk. If The Asset were to snap and kill you, Project Active Reserve would be at risk, with key knowledge lost. We need you, we do not need this Natalia."

Her posture stiffens before she can remind herself to act like Vogl. "If you're asking me, I don't think she can handle it. She is good but too soft." 

For some reason, Karpov smirks. "Maybe a soft touch will be good for The Asset, maybe it'll be the thing that keeps the young doctor alive." 

No. No. 

She's seen The Soldier. Softness, gentle hands, it is not in his vernacular. But nothing she says will change Karpov's mind without raising his suspicions. 

Again, her plan adjusts. "Test her first. If she passes, let her treat The Soldier. If not..." Zoya shrugs, just as Vogl did, "We'll find someone else."

It was supposed to kill her. The test, the poisoned operative, Natalia should not have lived. 

To Karpov, it would have appeared to be an accident. Not a significant loss, an easily replaced doctor. But Zoya's plan backfired, and Natalia Haddad was selected as the doctor for the Winter Soldier. 

The same softness that should have gotten her killed is what keeps her alive. 

Three doctors, one dead, two injured beyond functionality, all because they tried to treat The Winter Soldier. Somehow, Natalia outlasts them all. It's beyond reason. 

For weeks and then months, Natalia floats in and out of the trauma ward, coming back alive each time. She should be dead; she should have slipped. That backstory of hers is real. She is untrained and sloppy—likely a last-ditch attempt at infiltration by another organization. For months, Dr. Anika Vogl is pushed to the back burner—no more face time with The Soldier. Natalia sees him while Vogl studies the data in the name of Project Active Reserve. 

Fine, she could be valuable to Zoya, to the Red Room’s plan. 

So Zoya lets her live, lets the girl pull at years of conditioning and training. Perhaps Karpov is right. Natalia’s soft touch will crack The Winter Soldier open enough for Zoya to be the one to put him back together. Zoya works to keep her calm, focused. She can handle Natalia, so she will keep her around until her usefulness fades. 

She'll let her live long enough that by the time The Asset is broken open, Zoya will be the one to claim him. 

When Natalia is eventually told the truth, when the horror of it all makes her pass out, Zola covers for her. Reminds Karpov that years ago, she, too, passed out upon learning the true identity of The Winter Soldier and James Barnes. 

Hale had to die. Natalia's partner, the trained one. He was a good spy, good enough that Zoya hadn't even noticed his presence for years. Good enough that no matter how deeply she looked into him, Vogl couldn't find out who he was working for. 

At the end of the day, it didn't matter. The Winter Soldier belonged to the Red Room. All obstacles would be removed.

When Natalia finally pieced it together that her only connection to the outside world was dead, it had its intended effect. 

Although her tying Hale's execution to Vogl had been an unwelcome surprise. 

Zoya hadn't even seen it coming when Natalia had thrown the accusation her way. No matter. Natalia is insignificant, the fact that she'd sniffed Vogl out meant nothing. Her ties were severed; she was a fish out of water. 

Both of them knew that Natalia's only option was to run. It'll probably get her killed. Either way, she'll be out of the picture. 

So Zoya threw her a bone—her impending mission in New York. 

If the girl knows what's good for her, she'll get the hell out or die trying. 

Chapter Text

It's officially Natalia's second time being sent out as an on-site medic for HYDRA's next mission.

As they wait to board the jets that will fly them out of the mountains, the Prizraki team engages in none of their usual pre-mission chatter. Not even the red-haired assassin who'd taunted Natalia weeks ago has anything to say.

Karpov is on the phone, speaking tightly with a man named Pierce.

Using the distraction, Natalia chances looking over at Denis. Of all the Prizraki team members, he seemed to respect her the most. Ideally, she has garnered enough trust to get him to answer her questions. And hopefully, the whir of the jet engines is loud enough that no one else can hear her. "Denis," she steps up beside him, just loud enough to get his attention. "Why is everyone so... quiet?"

He grimaces, "Let's just say you should be ready to treat a lot of injuries soon."

For a second, Natalia's eyes flick to where The Winter Soldier stands beside Karpov, stoic as ever. "Care to elaborate?"

But then Denis shrugs at her, as if she's an idiot. "We're going to New York... All the Stark Tech we nearly killed ourselves extracting." He looks at her like this is enough of an answer, like she should have put together an obvious truth. Again, Stark is a name she only vaguely recognizes. Tony Stark, some tech genius and weapons manufacturer. She's seen the photos of the suit. At her blank look, he chuckles, "You never heard of an Avenger?"

In all her time here, Natalia had not been given access to a single piece of news from the outside world. There has been... a lot occupying her mind. Thoughts of worldly events and political affairs haven't even occurred to her until this instant.

"Avenger?" She frowns up at him, trying not to look too irritated that he won't get to the point.

"Battle of New York—alien attack. Superheroes," he says mockingly, "with stupid nicknames. Iron Man, Thor... Captain America, Black Wid—"

"Captain America," Natalia repeats in shock, blurting it out louder than she'd meant to. There is a name she does recognize. Hale had mentioned him: Steve Rogers—the only person known to have received the Super Soldier Serum. Unlike The Winter Soldier, Rogers worked with the U.S. military. But according to Hale, he'd died back in 1944. "Captain America as in..."

This time, when her eyes find the Asset, Denis follows her gaze and nods. "Yes. Another should be dead Super Soldier. Lucky us."

"How... how is he alive?" Natalia shakes her head, tearing her gaze away from The Soldier.

Denis shrugs, "Some freak accident. Kept him frozen until a few months ago. Guess they somehow thawed him out. Never thought we'd have to go up against him. But if the Colonel is talking to Pierce, this is big. Pierce handles foreign missions, trained the Soldat a few years ago. Only emerges for high-profile jobs."

A commotion near the jet brings their conversation to an end.

Ahead of them, the Prizraki team begins boarding the jet, Denis already pushing forward to do the same. His words replay in her heiad, too much information at once. Tony Stark, superheroes… Avengers.

"Wait," her eyes widen as she tries to catch up with Denis, "Did you say alien attack?"

There are, somehow, more pressing matters than aliens.

Denis hadn't even heard her last question over the jet engines, and as Natalia takes her seat for the long flight to New York, she doesn't dare ask it again.

The most reasonable explanation is that she misheard him. Ever since Vogl's warning last week, Natalia has been functioning on low levels of sleep and high levels of stress.

Vogl, unlike the mention of aliens, is a very real and very pressing threat. And she's ten times more dangerous than Natalia even thought she was.

Another spy, an infiltrator. Not for anything good.

It wasn't just that Natalia had underestimated Vogl—she'd missed just how similar the woman is to Karpov.

Both of them want to possess the Winter Soldier, own him.

Vogl didn't reveal much, forcing Natalia to piece together what she could.

I was trained by The Asset. And I was chosen to bring him back.

Vogl has some kind of history with the Soldier, something other than within HYDRA. She hadn't spoken of James, and there'd been no mention of bringing HYDRA down and righting some great wrong. No, Vogl's focus is singular: The Asset. Wasted potential, that's what she called him. Years of infiltration, Project Active Reserve, all in the name of taking him back. Becoming his new owner. Not only that, she'd assumed Natalia's goal was the same.

Between the two of them, Vogl could win any fight easily.

For one, the woman had incapacitated Natalia and held a knife against her throat in the span of two seconds. More importantly, she'd survived within HYDRA for eight years—an amount of time that Natalia knows would have made her crack. Whoever trained Vogl, whatever cause she's working for... Natalia can't compete.

Since that day, the only words she and Vogl had shared have been clipped, spoken only for the sake of performances. The last real thing she said to Natalia—half mercy, half threat—had been heard loud and clear.

Hale is dead, Natalia is alone. There's no way for her to help S.H.I.E.L.D. without him. If New York is her only chance at escape, she has to take it.

As the city skyline comes into view through the jet windows, Natalia knows what she has to do.

She just doesn't know how.

Three of them sit in silence in the SUV that drives them across a busy New York highway to wherever HYDRA's base is.

Sitting across from The Winter Soldier and Denis, Natalia isn't sure where to look.

Seeing the outside world for the first time in months should have been a relief. Instead, Natalia is overwhelmed. By all of it. The crowd, the loud sounds of traffic, the harsh light of the sun. It is as if her mind had gotten so accustomed to gray hallways and eerie silences that she's forgotten how to function. The other mission had been different—silence in the snow, a small base. Whenever she does look out the car window, all she feels is nausea.

This is the world she's supposed to escape to. Loud and messy and foreign.

Glancing at Denis is no comfort. One, he's a member of an elite HYDRA strike team. Two, he's cleaning a pistol that has likely ended more lives than she can count.

Looking at The Soldier is worse.

Today, it's nearly impossible to find any hint of James Buchanan Barnes. He's in his tactical gear, all black, combat boots and formidable leather armor. There is an arsenal of weapons strapped across his body—a gun at his back, smaller ones holstered around his waist. Overkill, in her opinion. None of it is necessary; he'd be just as terrifying without it all.

The metal arm glints darkly, a promise of violence.

Nearly half a century of existing purely as a weapon. Fifty years of conditioning. Honing him into something emotionless and deadly.

Whatever Karpov did to prep him for this, it worked.

Of course it did. They're in New York. His birthplace—hometown of the Winter Soldier. The last place he was before getting shipped off to a war he'd never return from. She can't imagine this is something HYDRA would be careless about. While she may not know exactly how the wipes work, she knows they wouldn't have sent him here with a flicker of humanity left in him.

As aware as he'd seemed in their last conversation, Natalia feels the shift like it's physical.

Karpov owns The Soldier, controls him. Twisted and true and written all over him now.

Rigid, tense, and ready for action.

Primed for violence. 

Natalia notices Denis's unease reflects hers. Even the elite assassin is disturbed.

Part of it is due to the mask. The muzzle.

She's seen it before—it is worse today.

This time, it's not just the lower half of his face concealed behind the mask. Thick black goggles wrap around his eyes, reflective lenses.

All Natalia sees when she looks at him is her own terrified reflection.

Earlier, on the jet, before they'd put the mask on, Natalia tried to meet his eyes once. Desperate, she'd been searching for something... anything. He'd looked right through her like she wasn't even there.

But now, as if he can read her mind, The Soldier is looking at her. Two words, a sharp warning. His enhanced senses picking up a threat before it even lands. "Get down."

Pushing past her shock, Natalia doesn't waste any time, ducking in the seat as she throws her hands over her head. Less than a second later—impact.

The force that slams into them is too intentional to be a regular car accident. Denis and The Winter Soldier move in unison, jumping to action even as the car flips and skids. Before she can blink, the two of them are diving out of the vehicle, guns already raised.

The car slides to a rough stop, armored enough that Natalia doesn't feel much impact and is still secured by the seatbelt by the time she registers that she is alone. And upside down.

Fuck.

Using one hand to grip the headrest, the other scrambles to unbuckle her seatbelt. Despite her hold, gravity sends her falling gracelessly onto the inner roof of the car. Her palms scrape across broken glass. Her knees hit the ceiling—no, the floor? She can't tell anymore.

Grunting, she sits up and attempts to assess the situation. Both doors are crushed, but she manages to kick one out enough to crawl forward and squeeze her body through right before the hard metal groans and collapses in like it's holding her.

She's stuck. Really stuck.

The upper half of her body is at least out, throwing her into the chaos of the street. And just when she's contemplating tearing her legs through the metal trap, what she sees makes her freeze entirely.

The sound hits her first—metal shrieking against metal, the panicked blare of a car horn. Then: a crash.

When Natalia twists, half her body still wedged in twisted metal, she sees the blur, a dark shape launching through the air. The shadow making people scream is more familiar to her than anything else she has seen today. 

The Winter Soldier lands on top of a moving car like a monster dropped from the sky. His boots slam into the roof, leaving a deep dent.

In an attempt to throw him off, the driver slams on his brakes. Anyone else would be dead, but The Winter Soldier lands smoothly on the asphalt, metal arm sparking as he slides to a stop and walks towards the car with renewed energy. 

He moves like a hunter. A weapon. Prowling and sure. 

She’d never noticed it before—not like this. Now, it’s impossible to miss. 

The way the metal arm pulls at him when he walks, shifting his balance just slightly. Not enough to stumble. Just enough to feel wrong. Forced. Every movement compensates. Every step a quiet negotiation between the man he was and the weapon they made him into. His body never got the chance to adjust. Never got to choose. Years later, his gait is uneven. 

From behind, another car slams into them, allowing The Soldier to jump back onto the roof.

He's crouched low, weapon drawn, black goggles gleaming. His fist punches through the roof like it's tinfoil.

It's too far to see clearly, but Natalia is pretty sure The Winter Soldier just ripped out the car steering wheel.

The vehicle swerves. Screams. The Soldier leaps to the HYDRA vehicle following behind, holding on as it slams into the car he'd just attacked.

Three bodies dive out a split second before the car skids and crashes. Natalia watches it all happen as if she's underwater. She was wrong, the people in the car aren't civilians. Their movements are too practiced, fast—a man in green rolls to safety as the other two steal her attention.

One man, one woman, pulling themselves up off the car door. The girl, dressed in black with dark red hair, moves fast. The blonde man beside her moves even faster. His arm flies out, pushing her to safety just as he raises a shield. It's red, white, and blue. Despite the chaos, Natalia can read context clues.

The Avengers Denis mentioned, Captain America, the other super soldier. Before she can absorb it, The Winter Soldier launches something heavy and fast at the shield. The force of it throws Steve Rogers' body off the bridge and into the road below. She hears the sound of a loud crash but is too distracted to wonder if he survived or not.

The Winter Soldier is moving. Not even running, just stalking down the highway as he fires his weapon. The Prizraki Team a wall of gunfire behind him. They are a force of their own, the Prizraki Team. Seeing them in action… it is hard to believe these are the same men who attempted to teach her Russian. Cutthroat, violent, and unstoppable. And they chose this. Chose HYDRA and the fights. No brainwash necessary. 

Horrifying as they are, they do not compare to the figure leading them forward.

This is not a man. This is a nightmare in human skin.

And it's only just begun.

Firing back, the girl with red hair flips off the bridge like she's done it a thousand times, even with The Soldier in pursuit. He moves with devastating, deadly purpose. Each step a chaotic calm. Every pull of the trigger focused.

For a while, the gunfire is too chaotic to follow, renewing Natalia's efforts to free herself from the metal and glass trap. Around her, people flee their cars, screaming as they duck for cover. No matter how hard she pushes, the metal around her won't budge. From her peripheral vision, she sees The Winter Soldier launch himself over the bridge, the rest of the Prizraki team following after. The explosions and gunshots make it nearly impossible to focus, but she strains as hard as she can, trying to do anything to wrench herself out of the car.

This might be her only chance at escape. No one is looking at her, watching her. The only thing keeping her trapped is an upside-down car and the risk of breaking her legs. With each passing second, Natalia feels freedom slipping away.

And then she can see him again, The Winter Soldier fighting off the red-haired woman. There is no hesitation. No mercy. Just a storm in black armor. A metal arm raised not in defense but as a weapon in motion.

He doesn’t block the hits that come at him. Has not been taught to. The Asset fights through pain. Pain is irrelevant. This is the most she has ever seen him in action and it is just as bad as seeing him in that cell. 

Punishments, conditioning. She knows what it looked like to make James Barnes into a ruthless killer. She knows what they do to him when he fails. 

She knows the consequences, has seen it. He was never just getting trained. The Winter Soldier isn’t some prized and praised assassin. They told him he is something inhuman, an instrument. This is what that looks like in action. 

Natalia can't decide whether the woman is incredibly brave or just reckless as she flips onto him, getting herself thrown to the floor.

Even this doesn't stop her, just before she runs, a small object flies from her hands, a metal disk that incapacitates The Soldier's prosthetic. There's a split-second moment of surprise as his arm is knocked out of place until he recovers quickly. Ripping the disk off, he recalibrates his arm in a motion Natalia recognizes. Swinging it in a sharp circle, the machinery snaps back in place as the joint reconnects.

It's the move she taught him, and as Natalia watches him fire a bullet into that woman's shoulder, for the first time, she regrets it.

She’s still struggling to force her way out of the car when a large body slams onto the bridge beside her, shaking the overturned car. Not falls, lands.

Steve Rogers.

Seconds later, The Winter Soldier is there, both feet cracking into the pavement.

The goggles are gone, which is somehow worse. His eyes are even blanker than she'd remembered.

They aren’t ocean blue. They are glacial. 

Natalia is forced to watch as the two super soldiers battle it out right in front of her. It's more than just the car that traps her—it's the fact that she isn't sure who she wants to win.

Steve Rogers barely has time to raise the red, white, and blue before the first impact. 

A punch so hard it shakes the road beneath them. Steve stumbles, shield taking the blow. But he's already pivoting, swinging the shield in a wide arc. The Winter Soldier ducks, leg sweeping out to knock Steve off-balance. It almost works—almost.

Steve rolls with it, rises fast. Another punch, another block.

They trade blows like weapons.

Steel against serum.

Natalia's breath catches as The Soldier pulls his knife.

He spins it effortlessly, flipping it from grip to grip with a speed that defies logic. In one fluid motion, he swings it toward Steve's ribs. Steve jerks back just in time. The blade grazes his suit, sparks flying.

Another hit lands—The Soldier drives his elbow into Steve's throat.

Steve staggers.

A quick recovery, shield ramming forward. It hits The Soldier in the side, sending him skidding across the pavement—but he doesn't fall.

He never falls.

Instead, he turns, slams his metal fist into a parked car. The hood caves in. The windshield shatters. Glass rains around him as he pushes off the wreckage and launches himself forward.

Momentum like a missile.

Steve intercepts, and both men slam into each other, a tangle of limbs, each fighting for dominance. The Soldier has him in a chokehold, arm locked around Steve's throat.

But Steve twists, drives his elbow back into The Soldier's stomach, once, twice—then flips him over his shoulder.

He lands hard, but rolls into a crouch.

The knife skids across the pavement.

The Soldier doesn't go for it. Doesn't need it.

He lunges bare-handed now, swinging low, jabbing high. The black mask hides his expression, but Natalia sees his body language, the brutal efficiency of his strikes. Every movement is practiced. Designed to kill.

Steve's punches grow desperate—more force, less finesse.

The fight is close. Too close.

A moment—Steve has the upper hand. The shield crashes into The Soldier's shoulder, giving Steve the momentum to flip him clean over his shoulder.

The motion makes the mask fall off. It hits the pavement with a loud, final, almost hollow clatter. The sound of something mechanical coming undone.

Natalia sucks in a breath, frozen halfway out of the wrecked car.

The Soldier pauses, turns slowly in Steve's direction.

That's all it takes.

Steve freezes. 

He stares at him—stares hard. Like he’s forgotten where he is. The fight, the bridge, the chaos… none of it matters. There is something in his expression Natalia doesn't understand. 

Grief and shock all at once. Recognition like it hurts. 

His following words are loud enough to carry over the stillness:

"Bucky?"

Silence. The Winter Soldier goes still.

A flicker. A hesitation.

A face. Not The Asset. Not The Soldier. Just—

A man.

Dirt-smudged, bloodied, hair half plastered to his forehead. But his eyes—

They aren't empty.

They're confused.

Haunted.

Lost.

"Who the hell is Bucky?"

His voice is gravel. Low. Sharp enough to cut through steel.

For a second, it's just the two of them. Steve Rogers and The Winter Soldier. Bucky. 

A nickname that made everything stop.

Natalia must be imagining things. She thinks she sees a man with metal wings flying overhead. 

Someone throws a smoke bomb, and the last thing Natalia sees before the world disappears is the tortured expression on The Winter Soldier's face.

Chapter Text

Different facility, same chair.

Steel beneath his bare skin. Chest exposed to the sharp air. 

The Winter Soldier sits as a white lab coat repairs the metal arm.

He's seeing things. Images. Flashes that won't stop. Memories.

A man with round glasses. Sergeant Barnes—

It flickers. Static.

More images come. A train in the snow. That man from the bridge and a long-forgotten name. Yelled out and anguished: Bucky, no!

His own scream. Falling. Dragged through the ice. Dark red trail of his blood on the ice.

Lab coats and syringes. Zola's voice. The procedure has already started.

Bone saw. Strapped down to a table. An operation. They took his arm.

His breaths come out uneven. Brow low. Chest tight.

More memories. Zola. You are to be the new fist of HYDRA.

They work on it now. The arm they made to replace his. Anger.

Anger. 

Anger.

Rage.

The metal arm flies out, throwing a white lab coat into the wall.

Three guns loaded, pointed at him.

The Soldier doesn't move. Not just rage. Confusion. Desperate. 

The room door opens. A man he knows. Another handler. Pierce. Pockets his glasses.

Behind Pierce, his doctor. Natalia. Watching. Eyes wide, sorry written plain across her face. 

She tried to tell him. To show him. 

Someone. He was someone before this. 

Guards fill the room. 

"Mission report." Sharp demand. Not obeyed.

He stares ahead. Unseeing. 

Images in his mind. Racing. Before this, before The Soldier. 

Firmer. "Mission report, now."

Pierce bends in front of him. Angry. The guards' fingers on their triggers.

The Soldier doesn't answer. Can't. The memories are crawling too fast to keep up. Static flares. That voice in his head again. Not Zola’s. Not Pierce’s. A name. Bucky.

Pierce hits harder than Karpov. Strikes. Fist cracking across his face. A familiar, expected blow. The Soldiers head snaps, hair falling over his eyes. Teeth rattle. He drops his gaze. 

Does not react. He has been trained not to. Defiance is eliminated. Punished. 

They do not restrain him. They do not have to. 

Like she did on the first day, his doctor flinches.

A warning. It will get worse if he doesn't stop.

He cannot stop.

"The man on the bridge." The Soldier says. He can see him. Blonde hair, blue eyes. The static freezes. World quiet. "Who was he?"

A beat. Pierce. "You met him earlier this week on another assignment."

The doctor looks up. Brown eyes meet his. Wide. Readable. Sending a message.

Lie. That's a lie.

A lie, and he knows. Does not know why they lie. Does not understand the memories in his head. 

"I knew him." He knew him. He knows. He can feel it. Feel something. Wrong, but there. Sharp.  

That face. That face. Familiar. Ingrained deep. Not a memory. A knowing. Muscle-deep. A scar beneath the skin.

Pierce sits. "Your work has been a gift to mankind. You shaped the century. And I need you to do it one more time. Society’s at a tipping point between order and chaos. And tomorrow morning, we’re gonna give it a push. But if you don’t do your part, I can’t do mine. And HYDRA can’t give the world the freedom it deserves."

His purpose. A reminder. The Soldier is made to follow orders. 

Irrelevant. Irrelevant. Words that usually work.

Irrelevant because only one truth remains. "But I knew him."

Instinct makes him flinch. Words he knows will be punished. Voices belong to people. Weapons stay quiet. He was been taught. 

The Asset is a weapon. 

He shouldn't have said it. It is the only thing that feels real. Because the man on the bridge gave him a name. 

Pierce sighs. An expression that promises pain. Rises from the chair. "Prep him."

"He's been out of cryo freeze for too long—"

"Then wipe him, and start over." A decided command. Firm. 

The Soldier's chest twists. Shoulders tense. He knows what is coming. They'll take it away. Him—the man on the bridge.

The words hit harder than the slap. 

Dread. Heavy and futile. 

All he wants is an answer to his question. Something to explain the tightness in his chest. The noise in his head. 

He can't fight. Doesn't know what he's fighting for. He knows what is coming and cannot stop it. 

The Soldier used to fight. Used to resist. Each time, he lost. Submit, and the pain stops. His value is in his obedience. 

Control is not The Soldier's. It never has been. 

The white lab coats move. Hands push him back into the chair. The rubber bit, held near his mouth. Anger lingers as the body obeys.

Mouth open. Teeth bite. 

Bone deep obedience. Too fast too question. Shame chokes him. It tastes like metal and electricity. 

The men who control him watch with satisfaction. 

Tries to slow his breathing. They always notice when it picks up. 

The chair claims him.

Clamps down on his limbs. The first jolt. Not just anger—fear. His chest rises and falls. Too harsh, too fast. Metal encircles his face—the crackle of blue light.

He shakes. It bites down.

They'll take it all, and he will let them. They have taken things before. He'd let them. They won’t kill him. Just melt him back down to metal and silence. And he’ll let them.

Obey. He is made to obey. The Soldier follows orders. Executes. Accepts. 

For the first time in a long time, someone else is in the chair. 

Not just The Soldier. Someone with a name. Someone who knew the man on the bridge. With him. In him, always. Buried deep, but there. 

Bucky. His name was Bucky, and they cut it out of him over and over. 

They carved him down until all that was left was steel and silence. They will do it again. His eyes dart. Something physical. Something to hold on to. 

Find her in the room. The only one who would do something. The only one who can’t.  

The screaming begins. Tears out of him. 

Pain. Intentional. Familiar. Fix the malfunctioning weapon. 

Identity stripped. Rewritten. Reshaped. Just like always. Just how they like it. 

And still, somewhere beneath the screaming—

Bucky tries to hold on.

Something inside claws. 

But they’ve done this before.

They know how to win.

But I knew him.

Grief, like it's a physical thing, slices Natalia's chest clean open. It leaves her paralyzed before the bathroom mirror, praying no one comes in. 

Her reflection warps. Distorts. Identity feels precious and fragile  

She’s never been a religious person. Now, she thinks, if there is a god, it’s a cruel one. One with a horrid sense of humor. Because every time she thinks things cannot possibly get worse for him, they do. 

It's all she can see, he is all she can see.

The blankness in his eyes was replaced by raw desperation. Clarity and memories snuffed out with the snap of that man's fingers.

Natalia wasn't even supposed to be there. She'd been just waking up from the effects of the smoke bomb, getting her bearings within yet another HYDRA base, when Alexander Pierce had walked in.

The funny thing is, he'd been the best at faking pleasantries. In not knowing her, he'd been the one to treat Natalia most like a HYDRA employee. "Haddad, you stable enough to walk with me? I'll show you where you'll be working."

Given no other choice, Natalia nodded, following him down what appeared to be another underground hallway until a guard had sprinted forward, trigger-happy and nervous. "Sir. It's The Soldier, you need to come."

Pierce glanced at her like she had an answer. So she played the role, "I swear, if someone shot him for no reason..."

"Come with me, in case." He says, and then they're changing direction.

Like the main base, the room with the chair is heavily protected by metal walls and a series of mechanisms that Natalia does not understand. A bank vault, maybe. Another guard meets Pierce just before they enter. "He's unstable..."

Paying him no mind, Pierce walked steadily into the room, his hand raised in a signal for the guards to lower their guns. They did, but their fingers lingered, ready to fire if needed.

Natalia scanned The Soldier. Other than the damage the disk caused to the arm, he looked unharmed.

This is the type of routine she has known to expect. The casual dehumanization. Scientists and technicians moving around him, treating him like the machine they’ve expected him to be. It makes them feel better, she thinks, if they tell themselves they aren’t torturing a person. 

Or maybe they just don’t care. Either way, he obeys, complies. 

But Steve Rogers had done something on that bridge.

With one word, he'd cracked the impenetrable wall of years of HYDRA conditioning.

Bucky.

The catalyst, the unraveling.

Not just a name, a nickname.

Buchanan. Bucky.

She'd seen the shock on Steve's expression. The second The Soldier turned, and Steve saw his face, it was like the world stopped. Wide eyes, shallow breaths. Haunted recognition. Steve hadn't just been sad, he'd been devastated.

Captain America and The Winter Soldier fighting one-on-one was even bigger than Natalia thought.

Not just the only two super soldiers in the world, but friends. Old friends. Familiar and timeless.

The kind of thing that made all the fight go out in one man and shatter something else in the other.

The Winter Soldier had once been called Bucky. It shouldn't fit, not anymore, but it does. Bucky. The man in the photo with a crooked smile. The man who made Captain America freeze in his tracks. 

One word, one name. It hit The Soldier like a gunshot. Made him disobey in a way beyond little lies and slight memories. Emotion drove him to ask those questions. Emotion he isn’t supposed to feel. The type of thing they thought they programmed out of him. To look at Pierce like he knew something was about to be taken. 

But. I. Knew. Him. He said it, knowing what would come. Knowing he’d be punished for it. And still, he said it. Because for one brief moment, it mattered more than anything else.

And Natalia... she had to just watch.

In a way, she'd made it worse. Pulled him towards memory with no explanation and left him defenseless. 

A hit so hard his head snapped. A lie so blatant he'd shaken. Piece adjusted his tie while The Asset sat there, half naked and shaking. Cruelty protocol. The strike was less about pain—it was a reminder of who holds the leash. 

There was a kind of anguish in his eyes that didn’t belong on a weapon. It made him look young. Not innocent—never that—but stripped down to something raw and human. He looked like someone waiting for a blow he’d taken before, like he already knew no one was going to stop it. Like he wasn’t asking to be spared—just to remember. He just wanted an answer. 

Even as he opened his mouth for the bit, too much emotion flickered across a face that wasn’t supposed to feel. Fear. Desperation. Something heartbreakingly close to sadness. The screaming was horrible. Haunting and raw and awful. A smaller sound before the pain even began. Cracked. Afraid. 

It hadn't even been the worst part.

The worst part was everything that came before. A deeper look into his past as The Soldier. She'd seen the scars, she'd heard him scream. Karpov was one monster, Pierce was a different-shaped beast. 

His method of torture was casual. Mental manipulation. Psychological warfare. 

The man knew what he was doing, and he did it well. While Karpov worked to erase any hints of The Soldier's humanity, Pierce twisted what remained to his will. 

Your work has been a gift to mankind. 

A simple enough phrase, a purpose for a weapon. It didn't work today due to Steve Rogers and his singular word of destruction. But Pierce only said it because it must have worked before. The title—The Winter Soldier, isn't just some ominous warning meant to inspire fear. When HYDRA calls him the perfect soldier, they aren't just discussing lethality. 

Obedience. A complete lack of agency. Easily, The Soldier was the strongest man in the room. If he'd stood and decided to fight physically, he'd have won, even against all the guards and their guns. Natalia was wrong. So wrong. The levels of her misunderstanding cut deep. 

For half a century, HYDRA turned him into someone they could control. 

Rinsing off in the sink, Natalia is hardly given a second to gather herself when there's a knock on the door.

The sight of the injury wipes her mind clean. 

The man lies sprawled on the table—Redhair. An abdominal wound so deep she sees exposed muscle, Dark red blood pooling out of him like it has no plan of stopping. Jesus. 

"Why didn't anyone call me sooner?" Natalia snaps, rushing to action as she makes her way across the med-bay. 

The facilities here are significantly less well-equipped than the operating rooms at the main base. No nurses, no tour of where everything is kept. Nothing but blood and chaos. 

Denis is hot on her heels. "We couldn't extract him, and The Avengers..." he spits, "gunfire the entire time we tried to lose them."

Just then, Natalia notices the other person in the room. A paramedic, looking like he'd been pulled off the street mid-shift. Dread twists her gut, face going pale. "Who are—"

"We made him help," Denis says quickly, like he hadn't just handed the kid a life sentence. 

The paramedic is shaking. Bloodstained hands held up in defense. Natalia can tell his words are more automatic than anything. "He flatlined. I got him back with epinephrine and a manual cardiac massage, but—he's circling the drain." 

Meeting his wide eyes, Natalia nods once. "Okay. You did good." 

"You know what to do?" Denis asks, his gaze firmly on Natalia. 

She looks back at Redhair. Bleeding out and dying. Whatever she does, it has to be fast. "Yes. I just—"

Gunshot. 

A scream tears out of Natalia, and she turns just in time to see the paramedic's body crumple to the floor. Natalia thought she suffered from a bad case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. That guy just died for it, and Denis is putting the gun down like he just swatted a fly. 

"Get out," she grits between her teeth. When Denis frowns, she's yelling again. "Get out before I fully lose my focus and he dies too!"

No one argues. They file out, the doors hissing shut behind them.

Natalia grabs gloves, gauze, clamps, and adrenaline. Her hands move fast. Trained. She leans over Redhair. His eyes are fluttering, open, unfocused.

She pulls back the blood-soaked compress. It's worse than she thought—shrapnel tore through his upper abdomen, grazing the liver, slicing across the vena cava. He's seconds from bleeding out.

Just when she reaches for the clamp, his hand shoots up, bloody fingers wrapping around her wrist.

Weak, trembling.

Three words. A desperate plea. "Let me die."

The world freezes, she stops. "What?"

She hates him. Hates him. 

At first, it had been illogical. Bad luck. He may have fired the bullet that brought her here, but she chose this path. She wanted to help S.H.I.E.L.D. take down HYDRA. And then the hate became real. 

No one here is innocent... but he was the only one who played on Natalia's fears. Who'd dangled a piece of another tortured aspect of The Winter Soldier in her face and walked away laughing. 

Still, he laughs. A low chuckle that makes drops of blood stain his lips. "You know you want to." 

Intuitively, her eyes fly to the injury. She could still save him. Innocence is a long-forgotten word. 

Denis, whom she'd spoken to just a few hours ago, shot a random paramedic point-blank. Each member of the Prizraki team could claim an impossibly long hitlist of names. Names they wouldn't even remember. 

"Why?" Natalia manages to force out. Harsh. Angry. 

Redhair is shaking his head, eyes already fading, "You've seen him. If they make another serum... I don't wanna be the next Asset."

When she tries to move her hand, she can't. It might not even be true; nothing she's heard suggests HYDRA is developing more super soldiers. But if it is... if Redhair becomes the next, Natalia will have played a direct role in it.

Bucky Barnes isn't HYDRA's greatest weapon. He's their biggest victim.

Right now, her hand could be involved in creating the next. She can't do that. 

He may be a monster, but no one deserves that...

And in the darker part of her mind, she wants him dead. 

Her inaction makes Redhair smile, bloodstained teeth glinting in the light. "Thank you." 

Rather than reply right away, Natalia waits. Lets the seconds pass until he is seconds from death. Until the last thing he hears before he goes are four words she sincerely hopes are true. 

"You're going to hell." 

The fact that it makes her feel better tells Natalia that she's pretty sure she is, too. 

Chapter Text

Part Two 

Мечта о свободе - Mechta o svobode 

A Dream of Freedom

Natalia Haddad has no plan. 

Worse, she’s acting on pure desperation. Emotion drives her more than it has in months, for more reasons than one. 

Vogl, the eternal mystery, is not a force to be reckoned with. Eight years with HYDRA, embedding herself so deep in their system that she successfully changed the protocol of Project Winter Soldier. Not only has she been hiding in plain sight for years, she’s twisting things to her purpose. The fact that they are both spies is the only thing they have in common. The woman is in an entirely different league. To Vogl, HYDRA is not an enemy—they are an obstacle. Her goal is singular: acquiring The Winter Soldier. They aren’t on the same team, not even close, but Natalia knows she has no choice but to take her advice. 

Half advice, half threat, really. 

It’s not just Vogl. 

Naively, Natalia began this journey with optimism, hope. In whatever way she could, she’d help S.H.I.E.L.D., she’d bring HYDRA down from the inside, and go back to her life when it was all over. While Hale’s death may have effectively killed S.H.I.E.L.D.’s mission, the real issue is internal. 

Natalia no longer trusts herself. Initially, she could accept it. Swallow down the black morals, participate in crimes, and play her role. At her core, she was the same person. She did what she had to do. She’s not exactly sure when that excuse started falling flat. All she knows is, before HYDRA, she would have never let a man just die, criminal or not. 

Redhair died; she killed him. Killed him without knowing his real name. Killed him and felt good about it. 

Getting out is her only option, and this is her only chance. 

The main base is isolated in miles of treacherous mountains. This is New York; escape here is far more plausible; it is a chance she has to take. 

Tucking her wallet into an inner pocket of her jacket, Natalia steps out to find Pierce. 

It’s been two days since HYDRA ripped into The Soldier’s mind and patched him back together with electricity and those ten words. Two days of building panic, and Natalia waiting and waiting to hear about another attempt at taking down the Avengers. Or… whatever it is HYDRA is doing here. 

The details no longer matter. 

Turning a corner, Natalia nearly collides with Pierce as he makes his way down the hall, a few men she doesn’t recognize at his side. Good, good. The base is abuzz with activity, men preparing to be shipped out. 

By whatever means possible, Natalia is going with them. 

“Sir,” she falls into pace beside him, “what time should I be ready?” 

Cautiously, Natalia lets it sound like this is standard. If the team is going out, so is she. Medical efficiency, so on and so forth. Pierce isn’t Karpov; all he cares about is mission success. No games, no tests. 

He spares her half a glance, accepting it. “Thirty minutes. If you’re not in the garage on time, no one will wait.” 

Just like that, he’s off. 

Hurrying to the med-bay, Natalia doesn’t let herself feel relief. Not yet. Hope makes her sloppy, she needs focus. For the sake of prying eyes, she packs a few medical bags with supplies for triage. Either way, no one questions it as she throws them over her shoulder and asks exactly where the garage is. 

One level down, and she’s there. Escape teasing her, just out of reach. 

The Prizraki team pays her no mind. After having her on site for the last mission, they assume this is standard procedure, too. Redhairs death might have even helped her, no one wants to suffer the consequences of the lack of medical attention. 

The only person who does question her is the last one she’d expected to. 

The Winter Soldier. 

Meticulously, he preps a long-range sniper in the trunk of one of the armored cars. When he glances up at Natalia’s approach, there is a ghost of a frown on his brow. 

Not Bucky Barnes, not full Soldier either. He asks the first question. “What are you doing?” 

Heart pounding too fast, Natalia attempts to keep her voice level, firm. “I was told to be on site.” 

It doesn’t matter if he believes her. He follows orders. 

“Ride with me,” he says, “Sniper outpost, away from the danger.”

Bucky Barnes. Friend of Steve Rogers, American soldier. 

He remembers her. 

Another man in tactical gear approaches with a short nod. He doesn’t question Natalia’s presence, he gives a command. “Soldat. Five minutes.”

Blank eyes, Winter Soldier obedience: “Ya gotov.” 

It’s a tug-of-war. A battle that had been put on pause for years. Natalia may have scratched the surface, but Steve Rogers held the key. 

Her half-baked plan twists, shapeless in her mind. 

Fact—The Winter Soldier is a killing machine. He likes orders and purpose. He is made to obey. 

Also true, he remembers Natalia enough to want to keep her safe. 

Again, she’s working half blind. But with the five minutes counting down, all she can do at this moment is climb into the car and pray that her medical bags are a good enough excuse. It works because seconds later, The Winter Soldier is sitting across from her, rifle at the ready as the driver peels away from the base and into the city.

The longer the drive lasts, the calmer Natalia feels. 

Calm isn’t the right word. Electricity buzzes beneath her skin, makes her leg bounce as she reminds herself that the distance is a good thing. The further she is from the base, the better. 

Eventually, the armored car splits off from the rest of the group, making its way up a mostly empty parking structure to the top floor. No words are exchanged—The Winter Soldier was given his orders long ago. 

The second the car stops, he climbs out and scans the city below. The rest of the Prizraki team is likely doing much of the same wherever they are. It’s just the three of them now, Natalia, The Soldier, and the unsuspecting driver in the front seat. 

If she’s going to do anything, she'd better do it fast. 

As if her body understands the urgency more than her brain does, the needle that had been tucked in the bag is in her hands. Chalk full of sedatives and primed for action. Her lunge is sloppy at best, the element of surprise the only thing working in her favor. 

The needle finds its home in the driver's neck, sedative coursing through his veins seconds later. His hand scrambles for the gun holstered at his hip. By the time he reaches it, his head is already slumped forward. 

With no idea how long she has, Natalia pushes the car door open and steps out. The sound of city traffic from below masks her footsteps as she approaches The Winter Soldier from behind. 

Or, she thought it did. Just as Natalia gets close, he turns, rifle raised. 

The sudden movement knocks her backwards, throwing her to the floor as her hands fly up in defense. Cold and unforgiving as the concrete is, it grounds her. 

His silhouette looms, all black angles and glinting metal. The rifle doesn’t tremble. Neither does he. The barrel of the gun inches from her chest. His finger rests on the trigger, one twitch away from ending it all. 

In seconds, she’d be just one more name on a long list of eliminated targets. 

She knew this would happen. The Soldier is too aware not to notice her running away. And never in a million years would she be able to sedate him. Even if regular sedation worked on his body, there is no element of surprise with The Winter Soldier. There is no fighting him. 

The world is silent, holding its breath in anticipation. She doesn’t look at the gun, she looks at him. A weapon twice as deadly. 

This is not a fight. She wouldn’t win it if it were. And so, she doesn’t reach for a weapon. She reaches for him.

All she has are her words and the blind hope that somewhere inside, he trusts her enough to listen. 

Part of her thinks she is already dead. The mask is on, the look in his eyes is pure Asset, and his rifle is pointed straight at her chest as it rises and falls rapidly. 

“The man on the bridge,” Natalia says, “His name is Steve Rogers.” She swallows the dryness in her throat and meets his eyes the way she has countless times before. He’s trusted her, he has to trust her now. If he doesn’t, she’s dead. “I think, I think you knew him, before.”

Time warps and stretches. Infinite and torturous. Stillness. Thick enough to drown in.

One weapon, one woman. Years of conditioning between them. A fragile trust. 

One she clings to, gesturing to herself. “Natalia. You remember me, sometimes.” 

Something flickers. 

The gun lowers. Just a fraction of an inch, but it’s enough. The Soldier’s breath hitches then steadies. 

Life on the line, Natalia waits. Inhale, exhale. 

And then he moves—slow, deliberate. The Winter Soldier puts his gun down. 

He speaks, voice flat beneath the mask, “The driver.”

“Unconscious. I knocked him out.” 

The Winter Soldiers pulls the muzzle off in an easy motion. His jaw ticks before he stalks in the direction of the car and wrenches the door open. In a movement so fluid Natalia can hardly process it, The Soldier snaps his neck. A twist of the wrist—clean, practiced. 

He doesn’t check that it worked; he doesn’t have to. Both years of experience and the unnatural angle of the bone speak for themselves.

Then he’s prowling back in her direction, and Natalia is fighting every urge to scramble away. Instead, she climbs to her feet. If she’s going to die, she’s going to do it standing up. 

But then he says, “Natalia.” 

Wordlessly, she nods. 

Half Soldier, half Bucky Barnes. A man untethered. 

Voice hoarse, he meets her gaze. “Tell me what to do.” 

In a strange way, she understands. It is an urge ingrained deep in his bones. He needs to follow orders. His life has depended on it for years. 

So she gives him one. One word, one command. Her voice breaks on it, all she has left. “Run.”

The command is given.

Run.

His body moves before the thought finishes forming. Not instinct—conditioning. 

Movement executed with silent precision. He grabs her arm and launches them both into motion.

No time for stairs. 

The Asset calculates the distance from the rooftop to the alley five floors below—twenty meters. Doable. 

He jumps, Natalia in one arm, the other launching them over the ledge. Adjusts midair. Absorbs the impact.

They land hard. His boots crack against the pavement. Her breath punches out in a shocked exhale. He sets her down. One second to check that she stays upright. 

They run.

The alleys are narrow and wet. Cluttered—dumpsters and shattered glass. Terrain civilians avoid. The Asset has memorized the layout. Studied it nights ago, when the mission objective was clear. Assassination. Unnamed target. Level five. 

The city. Once a battlefield, now an exit route. 

New mission objective. It is not disobedience if he’s following her orders. The body does not protest. 

Two left turns, a hop over a fence. West 59th. Then north—fast. The goal is the freight line. The one that cuts through the industrial edge of Mott Haven and runs toward the outer boroughs. The mission files designated it: inactive—repurposed for low-risk logistics .

That means low security. Weak surveillance. An escape vector.

Behind them: no sirens. No shadows. No pursuit.

Yet .

They reach a service yard behind a locked chain-link fence. One twist of the prosthetic. The padlock tears in half. 

Inside: a web of rusted tracks and idling cargo trains. One of them is moving fast, speeding forward through the yard.

Perfect.

He grabs Natalia again. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to.

Ten steps, full sprint. He vaults them up onto the rear ladder of the last car. Hauls her with him.

The train shudders, metal clanging underfoot.

No gunfire. No drones. No warning sirens.

They’re gone.

The train screeches, whistles. Over the noise, her voice. “Do they… do you know if they track you?” 

“They don’t.” Not anymore. Change to standard procedure years ago. 

Intercepted frequency. Ambush. Mission failed. 

HYDRA stopped tracking the Asset. The risk too high. They didn’t need to. He always came back. 

Natalia stumbles, sits on the metal floor. Clutches her chest. 

The Soldier scans. Distance gained. No one is following them.

They wait. Hours. 

The sun sinks, the train moves. 

Behind him, Natalia sits, silent. 

The Soldier crouches at the open door of the car. Watching. Calculating. 

No drones. No tanks. No sign they’ve been followed. 

The map is clear in his head. He counts as the industrial towns pass. Soon, rural backwoods. To the north. 

A few more miles, another hour. Maybe less. 

One glance at Natalia. She watches. Trusts him? 

“We’ll jump off soon.” 

She sits up. “Where?” 

“Residential land. Satellite check indicates seasonal use. A few miles north.” 

“How do you know all that?” 

“Mission parameters. Standard…” he blinks. The words die. 

She brings her knees to her chest. “Okay. Tell me when.” 

She trusts him. 

Fifty-three minutes later. The landmark he’s been waiting for—a stretch of trees, the bend in the track.  

The Asset stands, Natalia follows. He grabs her elbow, no warning, just motion. 

Pulls them from the train, rolling onto hard earth. Gravel scrapes. Stills. 

He drags them up in seconds. Ducks beneath the tree line. Watches the sky. Listens. 

No headlights. No helicopters. Just the rustle of leaves and the train continuing down the track, vanishing into the trees.

Not safe. Not yet. 

“Stay here, I need to scope out the area.” He rises, steps away. 

Her hand grasps. Finds his wrist. “Wait. Where are you going?” 

The map he studied did not reach this far. He needs to search on foot. It will be faster without her. “Stay here. I’ll be back.” 

A beat. She nods. Sits against a tree. 

Five kilometers to the east. Boots silent on the forest floor. Nothing but overgrown bush. 

Pivot. Six and a half kilometers to the west. A cabin. Lights on. Occupied. 

Effective cover. Conditioning takes hold. He could eliminate—

A blink. 

No. Unnecessary. Civilian casualties. Unwanted. He does not have to kill. This isn’t an assassination. 

Further. Another kilometer. Another cabin. Isolated, lights off. The Soldier approaches with the cover of darkness. 

Breaks the lock. Leaves piled on the porch. No cars, no recent tire tracks. 

He steps inside, scans. 

Dust. Small house. Like he thought—seasonal use. Empty for now. 

Suitable cover. The Soldier turns and makes his way back to Natalia.

When they’d jumped from the train, gravel had torn through Natalia’s pants, slicing her knee deep enough to bleed.  

It drips down her leg as she follows The Winter Soldier to the small cottage secluded in the woods. 

He’d been gone less than an hour, and the entire time she kept thinking he’d never come back. HYDRA training would kick in, and he’d report back to base and leave her stranded in the woods by the tracks of some cargo train. 

But then he’d appeared, led her through the dense wood and the dark to the unused home nestled in the trees. His explanation was short, succinct. Natalia didn’t have it in her to question him. 

Wordlessly, he’d pushed through the door and let her walk in first. 

There’s just enough moonlight to take it in. 

A small kitchen, floral wallpaper, and green cabinets, and summer written all over it. A round dining table separates the space from the worn-in couches in the living room. The wood floor creaks as she steps further inside and glances down the hall. Two bedrooms, each with floral wallpaper. If this place were anything but a desperate safehouse, it might be charming. Quaint. 

Behind her, The Soldier pushes the front door shut, twisting the metal handle into a forced lock. 

Another step forward, and Natalia trips over the woven rug on the floor, turning to face him. He’s looking at the rug like it might hold a threat.

The blinds are already drawn, but she asks to confirm, “Do you think we can turn the lights on?” 

She can see him assessing. Calculating. Like in his head, this whole thing only makes sense if it’s still a mission. “There are no neighbors for a mile in either direction. Lights should be fine.” 

Thankful for that, she searches for a light switch and flicks it on. 

It’s surreal. 

The place is cozy, warm. The antithesis of everything Natalia has been living in for the past few months. The couches in the living room are all turned towards a fireplace with framed photos on its mantle. 

An older couple with graying hair takes up most of them. An old black and white image of their wedding day, another that appears to be more recent, capturing them on matching rocking chairs on a sunny deck. Some grandkid's graduation photo smiles at her, forgiving her for the intrusion. 

What the hell… 

What the hell did she do? 

Natalia isn’t the only one who's confused. The Winter Soldier is still planted firmly by the door like he doesn’t know what to do. He’s waiting for an order, she’s waiting for clarity. 

What does come out of her mouth is probably the least helpful thing she could come up with. “I’m going to shower.” 

There’s a thick silence. He blinks once. Natalia can’t take it, so she ducks into one of the bedrooms and moves on autopilot.

The human body reacts to stress in multiple ways. 

For Natalia, it's total avoidance. Med school was one thing. That kind of stress was a motivator. It made her competitive, focused. As a student, she was driven. 

That’s not real stress. Real stress came in the form of bomb sirens, underground bunkers shaking as missiles impacted the earth. It came from looking death in the eye at an age far too young for her to comprehend it. So she avoided it. They found a new home, they found a family. Mrs. Hamzeh and her goats, that’s what her mind focused on. It took years of therapy for Natalia to even scratch the surface of her early years in the war. 

Today, her brain is doing much of the same. 

It’s blank and going through the motions. 

As the warm water rushes over her, Natalia can’t appreciate the fact that this is her first shower not in a HYDRA facility. 

Freedom too raw a word. 

Mechanically, she washes her hair with someone else’s shampoo, lets the blood and grime swirl down the drain, and wraps herself in someone else’s towel. 

There’s a dresser full of clothes, drawstring pants, and a sweater that Natalia tells herself she is just borrowing. 

The shower was supposed to make her feel better. It didn’t. 

Also, there are only so many things she can avoid. Mental obstacles aside, there’s a very real, very physical problem waiting outside. 

Not that The Winter Soldier is a problem—well, he is. They both are. Escapees with no plan. The blind leading the blind. 

Reminding herself that she is not the only one freaking out, Natalia forces herself back into the kitchen to face him. 

The Winter Soldier stands exactly where he left him. Methodically, his eyes track back and forth between the windows and doors. In terms of avoidance, he’s doing it too. Treating this like a mission, or something. 

“There are two main entrances. Front door, back door. Eight windows, all locked. One in each bedroom.” 

“Okay. Um… good. Thanks. I mean—” she exhales sharply. “You could shower.” 

He frowns, then blinks, “I don’t need to.” 

“Yeah, okay, but… You could. There’s warm water.” The offer hangs flat in the air. She doesn’t need to give him permission to shower, but it doesn’t seem like something he’d do on his own. 

“Standard procedure is four minutes. Cold—”

“You can forget standard procedure.” 

The words were meant to be a comfort. Somehow, she thinks they made things worse. 

Natalia is well aware that she’s doing everything wrong. The issue is, she has no idea what the right way to go about this is. Nothing in her life could have prepared her for this. She doesn’t know how to handle it herself. Much less walk The Winter Soldier through his first moments outside of HYDRA. This is a person who hasn’t been allowed to be a person in years. 

For the first time, she’s able to realize the scope of it. He’s been The Winter Soldier for longer than he’s been Bucky Barnes. 

Yes, he was on ice for the majority of the time, but that’s not the point. She doesn’t know what the point is. All she knows is she’s out of her depth.

Both of them are. 

Still in mission mode, he nods. “We need to lay low.” 

Fine, if mission parameters are all that’ll work right now, she’ll make it work. It’s like that day in the combat simulator. Subject extraction. Today’s goal: get away from HYDRA, and stay away. 

Lowering herself into one of the chairs at the table, she buries her face in her hands for one second before sitting back up. “Can you sit, please?” 

He takes the seat across from her, watching and waiting as Natalia crosses her legs beneath her. 

With the two of them seated across from each other, it feels more like an interrogation than anything, and in an effort to avoid that, she’s trying to regulate her nervous system. If she sits comfortably, she’ll calm down eventually. Hopefully. 

She doesn’t bother asking him if he’s sure this place is secluded enough to be safe. The Winter Soldier doesn’t act unless he’s sure. 

Crickets chirp outside, her heart pounds in her ears. 

The question leaves her before she can fully consider the implications of asking it. “What are you thinking right now?” 

It’s not a fair thing to ask. Had the question been directed at her, she wouldn’t have had a good answer. Relief that they made it out, and beyond that… nothing. Just fear and uncertainty. 

The Soldier doesn’t answer right away. He continues not to say anything as he removes one of the small guns from the holster on his pants and sends her heart plummeting to her stomach. 

Just before she can get up and run, he sets it on the table and slides it in her direction. “You should take this.” 

“I don’t even know how to use that,” Natalia says, “If they come for us, I’d be no help with a gun.” 

Or any weapon for that matter. The only way she could kill a HYDRA operative is damage on a surgical table. Like she had with Redhair. She’s a killer, now. 

“It’s not for that.” His voice interrupts her train of thought. 

“Then… what?” Confusion furrows her brow. For a second, she’d been grateful for the interruption. 

His answer makes things bad again. 

He swallows, doesn’t meet her eye. “If I snap. If I turn, use it on me.” 

She shifts, nervous system thrown back off kilter. That might be the worst sentence she’s ever heard in her life. “I’m not going to shoot you.” 

He doesn’t budge. “You might have to.” 

Natalia is silent, staring at him until he lifts his gaze from the table. The next question she asks is more dangerous than the first. “Will I?” 

There’d already been multiple opportunities for him to do it—kill her. The rifle pointed at her chest in the garage, and every moment between that led them here. It’s a sentiment Natalia had grown accustomed to long ago. 

If he wanted her dead, she’d be dead. 

“I wasn’t just following orders when you told me to run. I left because I wanted to,” he says it so simply, so matter-of-fact. As if it doesn’t unravel everything The Winter Soldier is. 

It’s everything Natalia needed to hear and more. In his eyes, she wasn’t just another handler giving orders. 

He chose this. 

But then, he’s leveling her with a look that is less than comforting. “You’re not HYDRA. Who are you?” 

And just like that, it really does feel like an interrogation.

Stillness is a liability. 

The Asset doesn’t know how to sit without scanning exits, tracking movement. The chair creaks beneath him, too loud. The fridge hums. The clock ticks. Every sound spikes his awareness like a threat. 

There is no handler. No mission. No orders.

Just her—Natalia. Two of them in a stranger's home. 

His question. Months of confusion. Assessing. 

She is not HYDRA. He could tell. Always. 

Not HYDRA from the first day he met her. Afraid but gentle. Firm. 

Foreign behavior. Soft treatment. Unfamiliar until he associated it with her. 

Natalia’s unique standard procedure. 

The Asset is not made for espionage. He does not blend. But he can identify an anomaly. She has always been an anomaly. A liar. 

Now—his one request. His first one in years. 

Truth. Who are you? 

She tenses. Contemplating. Even breaths, even heartbeat. She is not lying now. 

The gun still sits between them. She should take it, he knows she won’t. 

“I’m not HYDRA,” She confirms. “I wouldn’t… wouldn’t have ever—”

“I know.” She doesn’t have to say. He knows. He can tell. Waits for more. 

More confessions. Truths. “I was working at a hospital in Bagram when a HYDRA operative came in and assassinated my patient. At the time, I had no idea what was going on, but then this organization approached me, saying they’ve been working to take down HYDRA.” 

She doesn’t give names. Smart. Even now. 

She continues, “They already had one person inside but said with my medical background, I could make HYDRA come to me and get deeper clearance. They—we didn’t even know about… you. I’d been with HYDRA for a few months, just collecting intel, when Karpov assigned me to be your doctor. And I don’t actually know how long it’s been, but I couldn’t stay.” 

He knew, he always knew, and he never said. 

Part of him was always disobeying. 

She was always lying. Not easy. Hidden in plain sight, closer than she should have been. 

His doctor—a spy. And not alone. 

“What changed? Why did you leave?”  

Short exhale. “The other guy, the one who infiltrated before me, he um—he died.” 

Not died. He can tell by the look in her eyes. Killed. 

His brow ticks. “How?” 

The eye contact breaks. She won’t look at him. 

Silence stretches long enough for his shoulder to ache. Phantom pain. Training reflex.

“I killed him?” He looks at the gun. She should take it. 

No confirmation necessary. The Asset killed him, her partner. Followed orders, did it without knowing. The blood is on his hands. 

Not the first infiltrator he’s killed. He never questioned. 

If she knows what’s good for her, she would take the gun. She would have run and left him. He would have let her. 

Her voice cracks. “Yes, but—”

“When?” He can’t stop staring at the gun. 

Take it. Take it just in case. 

She still won’t look at him. “A few months ago. Karpov put him in a room with you and gave the order.” 

There’s more she won’t say. From the way her chest rises, he knows what it is. “You saw.” 

Natalia nods. Runs her hand through her wet hair. Different shampoo, someone else’s clothes. 

He can feel jasmine even in its absence. Associates it with her the same way he does gentle hands. 

“It’s not your fault…” She meets his eyes. Tells the truth: “I never blamed you.” 

She means it. 

She’s wrong. 

“Take the gun.” Firm, harsh. 

“No. I’m not going to—”

“Take the gun, Natalia.” No room for argument. 

“Just stop, I’m not going to take it!” 

Her refusal doesn’t calm him. It fractures something deeper.

Without a word, he stands. Abrupt, sharp, and grabs the gun. Crosses the room in two strides.

He doesn’t point it. He doesn’t threaten her. Takes her hand and forces it open.

Fingers cold around hers, he places the weapon in her palm.

His grip is firm, unshaking. “This—” he says, low, “—is the safety.” He flips it off, clicks it back on. “Here. If I turn, if they find us and trigger… You don’t hesitate. Aim center mass. Twice. Third to the head.”

His voice isn’t cruel. It’s certain.

She’s trembling now, but at least holds the gun.

He looks at her—really looks. “I won’t know it’s you.”

“You’re telling me to kill you.” Both her fists are clenched. One tight around the gun. Even with the safety off, she has it pointed at the floor. 

He shouldn’t be anywhere near her. She should have left without him. 

“It’ll be the only way to stop me.” 

She doesn’t let go of the gun. But the way she holds it, he knows she won’t use it. It looks wrong in her hands. Everything about this looks wrong. 

The small house, warm. She fits. Damp hair, loose clothes. 

He does not. A dark shadow. A walking weapon. A Soldier with no purpose. No mission. No target. 

The Asset is the most dangerous man in the country, and she’s refusing to point the gun at him. 

Why doesn’t she get it? 

Wordlessly, he strips himself of the artillery on his body. Two pistols, a sniper rifle, and three knives for close range. 

They each hit the table with a thud. Out of place on the chipped wood. 

“Put them somewhere and don’t tell me where.” 

More refusal, another protest. “What if you need them? What if HYDRA comes or something?” 

“I won’t need them.” The Asset does not need weapons to kill, to maim. She knows that. 

Hiding the weapons is for her sake. Futile anyway. He’d already catalogued everything in the house. Not just exits and windows. Three kitchen knives, sharp enough for blood. 

She still won’t move, stands too close to him. Regards The Asset with trust he does not deserve. If she doesn’t get it, he will make her understand. 

She still won’t move.

Still too close.

Still looking at him like he’s someone worth saving.

“If you won’t hide the weapons,” he says, voice low, calm in a way that feels wrong, “Then you need to understand what happens if I turn.”

He steps closer. Doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t flinch. “Point the gun at my chest.”

She freezes. “What? No, I’m not—”

“Point it.”

Hands shaking, she raises the gun. Center mass. Like he told her.

The second it’s aimed, he moves.

Fast. Too fast.

Practiced. Easy. 

Wrenches the weapon from her grip in one hand, the other snapping to her waist—twists her, pulls her close.

The barrel presses hard against the side of her head.

Her breath stops.

His doesn’t.

“This,” he says, mouth near her ear, “is how fast it happens.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t loosen his hold. Just breathes.

“I won’t ask again. If I turn, you don’t hesitate. Because I won’t know it’s you. I won’t care.” Beat. “And if you freeze like this again, you’ll die.”

Another beat. The silence after a gunshot.

Then, he lets go.

Forces the gun back into her hand. “I don’t trust myself.” 

She leaves the rifle on the table, gathers the rest, and disappears into one of the bedrooms. 

They look wrong in her arms. Dark metal, olive skin. 

For a few minutes, she’s gone. A door slams, the sound of furniture moving. Then something else. The faucet creaks, running water. 

When she emerges, she slams a towel into his chest. “Shower.” 

“I don’t need—”

“Shower. Now!” It’s firm, it’s still not an order. 

The towel is green, faded. Too soft in his hands. 

“It’s a trade, I’ll keep the stupid gun close if you take off that armor and get in the shower.” Her chin lifts, gaze steady. 

Steam ghosts out from the bathroom door. That’s why she does it, another break in standard procedure. Hot water, longer than five minutes. 

The Winter Soldier glances at the gun on the table. A trade. One that will keep her safe. 

Without turning back, he steps into the bathroom.

The Asset only steps into the shower so she’ll stop looking at him like that. 

It is uncomfortable, unfamiliar—that pity in her eyes. Anger, too. 

The shower is too small for him. Elbow knocking the wall as he reaches for soap. Even here, outside of HYDRA, there is a five-minute countdown in his head. Perpetual awareness of the time that passes. The warm water is a big enough break in standard procedure to remind him—the shower only takes him five minutes, regardless. 

He finishes, steps into the green towel. 

A pile of folded clothes on the sink. Natalia must have put them there. Someone else’s. It won’t fit him. Everything will feel wrong, more than it already does. 

No. He steps back into the combat clothing. Black pants, the undershirt. 

For her sake, he leaves the armor behind. 

The fog on the mirror clears. The Asset does not look at his reflection. 

Hallway. Kitchen. Living room. 

The gun is on the table. Natalia sits on the couch. Elbows on her knees, staring at the floor. 

Her back is to the front door. Dangerous. Scans the room, windows still bolted, doors locked. 

She looks up at him. “Are you going to sit?” 

The Asset sits on the other couch. Both entrances are in his line of sight. The world outside is silent. The distant neighbors are likely asleep. 

She crosses her legs beneath her. Deep breath. 

“I’m going to ask you a question.” 

He says, “Okay.” 

“Tell me what happened over the past few days.” 

It’s not a question, but he knows why she said it. 

The static in The Assets' head tells him he’s been wiped. 

Unusual for that to happen mid-mission. Something happened. An error, a glitch. Earlier, she mentioned the man on the bridge. The reason for the wipe. 

A crack in his training. He doesn’t remember enough to put it together. 

He can recall the feeling of wrongness. He’d paused. Stopped fighting. The Asset never stops fighting. 

Injuries, casualties in crossfire. No obstacle can make him halt. At least not until— 

“Steve Rogers.” He only knows the name because she said it. It doesn’t clear the static. 

“You remember him?” He can place the emotion in her voice. Human. Hopeful. 

His eyes track the placement of the gun. Too far. She’d never reach it in time. 

Natalia sighs, stands. She grabs the gun and sits back down, sets it on the cushion beside her. 

Some tension eases. “I don’t remember him.” 

Long ago, HYDRA took everything. Unnecessary memories. He doesn’t need them. Does not miss them. 

She is looking at him like he should. 

“You did. Maybe just for a second, you knew him.”

He believes that she’s telling the truth. Still, he feels nothing. 

Even with her, there is a haze surrounding his awareness. 

A handler, a doctor. Not HYDRA—now he knew for certain. Her name—Natalia. 

Once, she told him to remember. Not an order, a challenge. 

He’d tried. This, he recalls. 

Something stuck. Something about her. Seven things: just out of reach. 

Just enough to trust her. To follow her. To get out. 

“Do you remember your name?” 

Static roars. Attempts to drown out the noise. 

Without the chair, he can push it back. Has not tried in years. No one asks him anymore. They trust that he forgot. 

A name. His name. A seal the man on the bridge cracked. 

It means nothing. Just words. “James.” 

Natalia blinks. She already knows, could tell him. All she does is nod. “James.”

The Winter Soldier is made to fight. For the first time, he wonders if he can fight the static. “Buchanan.” He exhales around the searing pain in his skull. 

Involuntary flinch. He’d been punished for this. But then he remembers: she does not test, does not punish. 

The last word comes gritted out. Body tense. Bracing for impact. “Barnes.” 

With nothing to hold, his hands feel empty. Missions, chair, ice. This is his existence. What’s happening now is wrong. 

But then she says, “James Buchanan Barnes.” 

Nothing happens. He can tell she is disappointed. That name belongs to a file. A grave.

He knows it’s his. It still feels wrong.

“Bucky.” He’s heard that before, on the bridge. It stuck.

Her eyes fly up. 

Bucky. One word—a name. That’s the one that cracked him. 

It takes ten words to activate The Winter Soldier. 

It took the man on the bridge one to activate something else. 

James Buchanan Barnes was ripped out of his mind. No one said it. Why does the other one linger? 

“Bucky.” It sounds strange on her lips. A question, asking permission. “Should I call you that?” 

Natalia never called him anything. Soldier, Soldat, Asset. Never. 

Bucky, she says easily. He nods before he knows why. 

“Okay.” Her lips turn up slightly. “Do you remember anything else?” 

Phantom pain. Built up for years. “No.” 

She shifts on the couch. He sits straight across from her. 

“When I first started… when I got assigned to be your handler. Karpov lied, I thought your brain was mechanical—built.” She fumbles for words. “And now I realize how dumb I was to believe that because HYDRA tested this poison on you, do you remember that?” 

“Yes.” They’ve done experiments. Many. A needle in his skin, pain, hallucinations. 

Put images in his head. A train. Falling. Snow. Images he’s seen before, he thinks. 

“It was a neurotoxin,” she explains. “It must have triggered something because that day, you told me your name, you said Barnes. I’m sorry that I didn’t realize earlier that… I’m sorry.” 

Barnes. The train. Falling. The man on the bridge. Screaming, reaching. 

She’s studying him again—not the way a handler would. Not the way a threat would. Like she’s waiting for something.

“You already know about the serum,” she says.

He nods. That part was never hidden. Strength. Reflexes. Healing. Built to endure.

She doesn’t wait. “It changed everything—your entire physiology. Not just strength or speed. Your nervous system, your brain. You don’t just heal faster, you learn faster. Your body absorbs punishment. Your mind can adapt in ways it shouldn’t. That’s what they took advantage of.”

He listens.

“The memory loss… they didn’t replace what was there. They damaged it.” Her tone is even, factual. “Electric current, high voltage. Targeted repetition. They used fear and pain like tools. It didn’t erase everything. It just… drowned it.”

He knows that feeling. The current. The clamp of the chair. The stillness after.

He lets the words settle. Familiar. Accurate.

Pain, obedience, pain again. A rhythm. That’s how they made him.

“You weren’t rebuilt. You were… reshaped. Repeatedly. Until only the pieces they needed were left.”

He doesn’t flinch. It’s not new. Just clearer.

Natalia keeps talking. “Some of it stuck because your brain—your real brain—tried to protect itself. That’s the part they couldn’t fully kill. Your memories are there. Buried, maybe scattered. But the structure’s intact. That’s why…I think that’s why Steve Rogers saying your name cracked something open.”

He remembers that moment. The name. The silence after. The hesitation. Steve Rogers. The bridge.

“They never figured out how to fully wipe emotion,” she adds. “It’s too connected to memory. So something always lingered. Familiar faces, feelings—they attach. It’s how humans work.”

He studies her. The tone of her voice. Calm. Certain. Not pitying. Not soft.

Just truth.

It lands differently that way.

He knows how to catalog new intel. This is data. It matches the pattern.

They hurt him, rewrote him. But never fully deleted him.

Even now, the chair is gone, but the static remains.

He knows the restraint. The rubber in his mouth. The voice counting backwards. The shock.

But also—her.

Jasmine. Blue. A hand on metal.

He catalogues that too.

“Your name was—is, James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky. You were born on March 10, 1917–”

“Stop.” He grits, on his feet. 

The Soldier isn’t allowed to ask his handlers to stop. 

Natalia is not a handler. This, too, has been conditioned into him. Accidentally. 

It slipped through the cracks. 

For a second, he tenses. Waits for impact. Electricity or bruises and blood. They don’t come. 

His brain sticks on the words. 

Nineteen-seventeen. One. Nine. Seventeen. 

One. Nine. Seventeen. 

He braces again. 

Seventeen. Nine. One. 

His breathing changes. Waits for fog and static. Something familiar, beyond a birth year. 

Semnadstsat’. Devyat’. Odin. 

His pulse races. Too fast. 

Words he knows. Red notebook. Electricity. Control slips. 

Words he is supposed to say. 

“Bucky.”

The sequence ends before it begins. 

But those numbers… 

His. Repurposed. 

He doesn’t understand. 

Natalia is too close, and the gun is on the couch. Those numbers. 

His back is to her. She steps forward, looks at him. 

She repeats, “Bucky?” 

He knows what she’s asking. She searches his eyes for blankness. The kind demanded of The Soldier. 

His gaze moves. From the wall to her. Relief in her eyes. Exhaustion too. 

She won’t rest if she thinks he’s going to slip. He says, “Natalia.” 

She closes her eyes. Leans against the wall. 

Human and hopeful and wrong. 

Chapter Text

Natalia didn’t sleep. 

The attempts had been overall futile. Every time she closed her eyes, panic crawled up her throat. Made her heart pound too fast. Every time she opened them, she saw the black gun on the wicker bedside table, and the contrast made her head hurt. A jagged reminder of exactly where she was. Who was in the house with her.

So she’d lain in the striped sheets of someone else’s bed, staring at the ceiling until the sun came up. 

Luckily, it didn’t take long. Most of the night had been swallowed by a long conversation with a man she still didn’t know what to call, even in her head. 

Like The Soldier, Bucky Barnes doesn't sleep. Last night, Natalia showed him where the other bedroom was, well aware he likely would not take it. Throughout the night, she could hear him occasionally getting up and checking the windows and doors. 

Hope that their escape would bring some sudden revelation is unrealistic. She’s not sure what the after is supposed to look like. Bucky Barnes is a stranger to her—information on a file, dates, and history. Whoever he was before… neither of them really knows. 

At this point, Natalia is trying to take what she can get. He did not magically revert to his pre-HYDRA self with the flick of a switch. More importantly, he’s not in full ‘Asset’ mode. She knows what that looks like—the blankness, the borderline inhuman eyes. 

This, the in-between, whatever it is, it’s a step. One of many. Him showing her how to kill him is about ten steps in the opposite direction… she shakes her head and sits up in bed. At least he’s talking. 

Sunlight streams through the crack in the blinds, dragging Natalia out of bed and into the living room. 

He, The Asset—Bucky , has the blinds pulled back just enough to scan the trees like he’s bracing for an ambush. At the sound of her approach, he turns to face her. 

There’s conflict all over his posture. Ready, waiting, for an order, or something. 

“Good morning,” Natalia says, mostly just to break the silence and to ideally remind him that she’s not a handler, they’re not in a HYDRA facility. 

No part of her expects a verbal response, so she studies his face. Less blank, more… weary. Like she should know he won’t have anything to say to that. 

Just by looking at him, she can tell he’s assessing. “You didn’t sleep.” 

“You didn’t either.” This time, rather than gauge his reaction, Natalia heads into the kitchen and starts rifling through drawers. 

Subconsciously, she’s avoiding looking at the photos littering the walls. In relation to the crimes she has been committing, breaking and entering is a minor and virtually harmless offense. No one’s getting hurt, her morals are not being twisted. Still, seeing the smiling faces of some unknown family stings. 

Opening the second drawer, her hand pauses. Three steak knives are tossed atop the rest of the silverware, entirely out of place. When she scans the counter, her suspicion is confirmed. The wooden knife holder is empty, and without asking, she knows who moved them. Just like how he’d asked her to hide his weapons the night before. It’s thoughtful, in a way, enough that she wants to say something. Wants to—cannot. It’s possibly stupid, but The Winter Soldier's ability to kill her with the flick of a wrist is not a subject she wants to approach right now. 

Yesterday, in less than two seconds, he’d disarmed her, twisted her body, and pressed the barrel of a gun to her head—like it was nothing. Like it was breathing.

It was the first time she’d felt the full force of him. Not just muscle, a wall. Brute force and precision combined. A finger on the trigger, another at her throat. One movement away from death. His body didn’t waver. Unyielding muscle, the kind of thing that feels final. 

And that wasn’t even the full force of him. Not really.

He wasn’t trying. He just wanted her to understand how easy it would be.

Moving on, Natalia opens another drawer, happy to find it cluttered with exactly what she’s looking for. 

A few takeout menus, random trinkets, and, more importantly, a map of the nearby town. 

As if sensing what she is looking at, Bucky steps forward with a frown. “What are you doing?” 

“We need food.” She unfolds the map to study its contents. 

Again, Natalia thinks she knows what he’s thinking without confirmation. Food, eating—that’s never something The Winter Soldier took into consideration. She saw what they fed him, not food, just calories and nutrients taken into account. Hunger is human and therefore foreign. Since she is hungry, she knows he must be too. Even if he doesn’t know it. 

“There’s a grocery store…” She studies the legend on the map, “about two and a half miles, which is…” Her brow furrows. 

Stupid Americans and their stupid, stubborn use of the wrong metric system. 

“Four kilometers,” he says automatically before taking a single step forward. “You shouldn’t leave.”

Right, in his head, lying low is the current mission goal or whatever. Pretending to fully understand anything would be naive on her part. 

But there’s a map, and a bicycle outside, and if the universe doesn’t completely hate her, the safe probably—hopefully, has cash in it. She’d seen it tucked in the far corner of the closet yesterday. Additionally, food serves as fuel for both the body and the brain. And Natalia needs it; it’s hard to think straight for more reasons than one. 

“Do you think HYDRA knows we’re here?” She asks. 

His eyes flick once to the window. “If they did, they would have come already.”

“Okay so, me going to a grocery store can’t hurt. Right?” 

“You stay.” He steps forward again. “I’ll go.” 

“No,” Natalia says simply. For one, the man has not been grocery shopping since 1944, and that’s the least of their issues. He’s tall, enormous, and menacing. And that’s not even taking into account the metal arm prosthetic. “I’ll be less…” Natalia eyes him for a second in search of the right word. Not that she thinks he has the capacity to get offended, in case he does, she does not want to be the first one to do it. “Noticeable,” she decides. 

Because, he neither walks nor talks like a regular person. Selfishly, she needs to get out of this house and breathe, and like he said, if HYDRA knew they were here, the game was already over. 

By now, Natalia has gotten used to trying to read his stilted emotions. To someone inexperienced in interacting with The Winter Soldier, his stare may look blank. But she can tell, he knows she’s right, albeit reluctantly. 

“Bucky,” she says, which makes his eyes snap up in quiet surprise. “If I’m not back in like—” she calculates how long it’ll take her to bike there and back and also buy a few groceries, “an hour and a half you can…” her voice trails off. 

He can what? Come looking for her? That would defeat the whole purpose of avoiding him going out in public. 

Turns out, Natalia isn’t the only one between the two of them getting better at mind-reading. Before she can decide what to say, he says, “If you’re not back, I’ll come looking.” 

It’s not something she feels like arguing. Besides, if HYDRA does come to collect, it would be nice to have him on her side. “Okay, an hour and a half—”

“An hour.” His tone brooks no room for argument. Looking at him, Natalia wonders if this is pure mission calculation or if Bucky Barnes had a tendency to be bossy. Has?

An hour. It’ll probably take her ten minutes each way, maybe less, to bike the distance. Which leaves plenty of time to buy basic food necessities, so she nods, “Okay.” 

The reaction is minuscule at best, easy to miss. He looks shocked. A flicker of surprise that someone has actually listened for once. And then, a subtle shift, something like assurance.

One of the tires is nearly flat, and the gear creaks loudly with every pedal stroke. 

When Natalia saw the bike wheel, a thought, unbidden, came to mind. More accurately, a song. “Punctured bicycle on a hillside… The Smiths.” She stopped herself, “Um, good song, I’ll show you, one day, maybe.” 

She’s losing it. 

Still, riding that worn-down bicycle down the small path into town might be the calmest Natalia has felt in months. Like she’d thought, the safe in the closet did have cash. Not much, just enough for a few necessities. While Natalia stood there, puzzling over how to open the thing, Bucky grabbed it and tore the metal lock off in one second. 

After that, he was… restless. 

As a precaution, Natalia covered her hair in one of the silk scarves lying around the house and helped herself to an oversized pair of sunglasses. Bucky watched her put it all on in the same way one might watch a person being sent off to battle. 

Arms crossed, he stood in the doorway as she mounted the old bike. “One hour.” 

Like she thought, it takes her less than ten minutes to reach the town. Dirt road turns to cobblestone, the trees clear, and Natalia is so startled by the fact that she’s out in the real world, she almost bikes right into oncoming traffic. 

Swerving at the last second, she rights herself and locks the bike on the sidewalk. If she continues standing there and looking around in bewilderment, the attention she’s been working to avoid will be directed right at her. Thankfully, it’s a small town. Just a few stores and a cafe fill up the space. People mill about in no hurry, crossing the small streets or, similarly to her, dismounting their bikes. 

Pretending she’s not completely overwhelmed, Natalia walks across the street for the first time in… 

In how long? 

Instinct has her turning to the first person beside her to ask for the date. But the second she attempts to open her mouth, it’s like she freezes. Her throat closes. Words choke up in her chest. It feels like her body has forgotten how to talk to people. Instead, she wanders over to the newspaper stand, slow dread coiling in her stomach. 

The man sitting there pays her no mind as Natalia approaches with quiet desperation. 

Her eyes roam before settling on the headline, the date stamped beneath. 

Knicks Discover 100 Ways to Force 7th Game.

June 8, 1992

It’s June, it’s 1992. The world stops. On pause like it’s giving her a second to catch up. Dates run through the hourglass in Natalia’s brain like sand. After Fury, after her conversation with Drexler. Paris—she left in March. 

Sixteen months. 

Over a year with HYDRA. 

It is not until she blinks that she realizes her eyes are burning. 

Natalia doesn’t buy the newspaper.  

Numbly, she walks to the grocery store and fills a basket without really looking. This will be the first meal she cooks in sixteen months. The first non-rationed meal Bucky eats in fifty years. Part of her thinks she should be putting more thought into it. Right now, she doesn’t know how. 

Sixteen months. Sixteen… If she’s freaking out, she cannot even begin to imagine—

“Excuse me, can I just get around you?” An older man steps near Natalia. 

“Sorry.” She moves out of the way, shaking herself out of her thoughts. She’s been staring at rice without moving for too long. 

The man shoots her a half smile and a nod, grabbing what he needs before moving on. Half an interaction, barely, and Natalia’s heart is pounding in her chest. Sixteen months. She can’t decide if her reaction is valid or not. Wanting to be done, Natalia takes her basket to the checkout. It’s not much: rice, chicken, a few vegetables and fruit, and eggs. 

The cashier is a teenager with blue hair. It’s like a slap in the face. Blue hair—she’d attempted that too. Short-lived and just a few years ago, and it somehow feels like a lifetime has passed since then. Her t-shirt is faded gray; Nirvana. The girl pops her bubble gum, paying Natalia no mind as she scans her things. 

Offering a weary smile, Natalia forces herself to talk this time. She needs to have at least one conversation that is not tainted with HYDRA. “Cool shirt,” she says, two words that take far more effort than they should. 

“Yeah?” The girl looks up from her scanning. “Nevermind is like the greatest album of all time.” 

Right, she’d just heard about that getting released before… everything. 

“Kurt Cobain is awesome,” Natalia agrees, pulling the cash out of her pocket. 

“I’m a Grohl girl personally,” she meets Natalia’s eye with a natural smile. 

“Fair,” Natalia says, her gaze fixated on the shelf behind the girl's head. She doesn’t actually listen to Nirvana all that much. Besides, she’s distracted now anyway. “Can I get a pack of Marlboro lights, yellow?” 

“Yeah, sure, I.D., please.” 

Instinct has her reaching for her pocket until she remembers that she’s on the run from a terrorist organization and doesn’t have identification on her. Her wallet is crammed in the back of a stranger's sock drawer for safekeeping. “Oh…” 

Slyly, the girl glances around. “You French?” She shrugs, “cause the accent.” 

“Lebanese,” Natalia replies, “but I lived there.” 

With a secretive smile, she grabs a pack of cigarettes and waves them. “American Spirits, gold. It’s better, on me.”

“I’ll take it,” this time, her smile is automatic. “Thanks.” 

“Thank me once you try ‘em,” she says, handing over the change. “Anyway—have a good day.” 

“You too.” For a few seconds too long, Natalia lingers. The conversation has her overwhelmed in a good and a bad way. She can do it. She can talk to people. It feels good until she realizes a conversation should not feel like a victory.

Since she still has enough time to make it back to the house in an hour and enough cash to buy a few more things, Natalia crosses the street to the used clothing store. The door opens with a small chime as she steps inside. 

At one point, Natalia had been too snobby for this kind of thing. Now, all she wants is to wear clothes that don’t belong to some innocent old lady who doesn’t know her summer place is being used to house fugitives. Carefully checking the price tags and the remaining cash, Natalia grabs a few things. Faded jeans and a couple t-shirts for herself, and black pants before deciding to grab Bucky a blue shirt. Different enough while not being jarring. He hadn’t worn the clothes she put out after his shower yesterday. It had been a long shot, and this stuff looks more his size. 

A woman works the counter here, smiling as Natalia approaches with a bundle of clothing. “Hey, hun, you’re new around these parts.” 

She’s good at lying now. “Mhm. My boyfriend got into fishing a few months ago. Heard it was nice here, so the second it got warm enough, he packed up the car and dragged me out of the city.” It’s a good enough lie. The town map showed a lake, most shop signs advertised bait or boat repair. 

It is not lost on her that lying was easier than attempting a normal conversation. 

The woman laughs, her name tag says Clarisse. “Mine does the same. Liked it so much we moved here!”

Nodding, Natalia glances around. “It’s pretty quiet.” 

“You’re a bit early in the season,” she folds the clothes into a plastic bag, “people usually come up around the Fourth of July. There’s a festival.” 

And just like that, Natalia is thinking of Trudy. Trudy loves the Fourth of July; she talked about it often back on their spot on the eighth floor. Red, white, and blue. 

Sentimentality aside, the topic of America invites other things into the conversation. Carefully, Natalia says, “bet this one will be extra big.”

“You going all googly-eyed over that Steve Rogers like the rest of the girls?” Clarisse gives her a knowing look. 

Natalia laughs, it's halfhearted and hopefully believable. “I mean, he’s handsome but… the whole thing kinda freaks me out.” 

Clarisse leans closer, hushed, dramatic whisper, “Thank you! The whole thing reeks of government conspiracy. I mean, cmon… some scientist just happened to stumble across the words only super soldier frozen in a glacier just in time for him to punch some alien in the face.” 

Alien. Alien. Alien? 

So she hadn’t misheard Denis. The Battle of New York was an alien attack. Obviously, she can’t say: What the fuck, tell me every detail. Because who on earth would not know every detail already? Especially a New Yorker. 

Forcing a scoff, Natalia says, “Yeah. I’m right there with you.” 

Clarisse hands her the bag. “I guess you gotta feel for the guy though. Hero status aside, the world as he knew it is long gone. I mean, he disappeared in ‘45 and woke up looking the exact same. That’s gotta mess with your head.” 

Natalia falls silent. That, she is well acquainted with. He’s waiting in the cabin and trying to learn how to be a person again. She wonders if the world will be as considerate to him as they have been to Steve Rogers. 

Already, she knows the answer. The names are enough. Captain America, The Winter Soldier. One—the resurrected savior of New York. The other—a weapon responsible for conspiracy-inspiring covert assassinations. 

Oh, and he’d tried killing America's favorite captain. 

Before rushing back to the house, Natalia stops at the newsstand and buys a copy of Time Magazine. 

The cover reads: Steve Rogers: The Man Out of Time.

Bucky is waiting outside as Natalia pedals back to the house, the front basket of the bicycle loaded with her purchases. 

She says, “Hi.” 

He grabs the bags and says, “It’s been fifty-seven minutes, I was about to come looking.” 

To that, Natalia says nothing. The two of them walk into the house, using the back door because the knob on the front is now twisted and broken. 

Sometime between grocery and clothing shopping, her temporary calm dissolved and died. The telltale signs of an incoming panic attack loom like a threat. 

Moving too quickly to look natural, she unloads the groceries into the fridge and avoids eye contact. The kitchen is too small for the both of them. Her shoulder bumps his chest as she tries to back away. 

“Natalia.” He looks down at her. 

“Have you ever been fishing?” She blurts, leaning against the counter to steady herself. 

They’re both trying to figure each other out. To read between the lines and navigate body language. Whatever she is doing must be obvious because he asks, “Did something happen?” 

“No.” She takes a deep breath. “No, it's just—” she cuts herself off. How can she look him in the eye and tell him the prospect of losing sixteen months to HYDRA has rattled her to her core? It’s a fraction of what he’s lost. It doesn’t even begin to compare. 

Again, he says, “Natalia.” 

“Bucky.” Her chest rises and falls too quickly. Bucky is scanning her, as if looking for an injury. He won’t find one; her issues are all internal and stupid. Well, not stupid… just not something she knows how to vocalize. Not by a long shot. What comes out is, “I’m freaking out.” 

He steps back, hands loose at his sides as he moves to the living room. “Sorry—”

“No, it’s not you.” She says uselessly. 

He’s already retreated because he thinks it’s him she’s afraid of, and not… she can’t even put a word on it. 

Rather than spiral, Natalia focuses on the one piece of slightly good news she heard. Given the early season, the place will likely be empty, and no one will be surprised by the uninvited guests occupying their home. 

His back is to her as she takes a tentative step forward, coming up to his side to look at him. 

“I think we’re safe to stay here for a while. People don’t come until later, like… Fourth of July.” 

Bucky’s brow twitches, confusion flashing as his shoulders rise. 

Her head tilts, palm flat on the cold counter to ground herself, “It’s June, so at least a month till the fourth—”

Then he’s on her. A chokehold. 

His hand is wrapped tightly around her neck, squeezing. He slams her onto the kitchen table. Hard enough that she’s surprised it doesn’t crack, hard enough to knock the wind out of her. 

She can’t breathe, can’t move. Her hand grasps uselessly at his. Nails scraping at his skin, the metal hand fisted at his side. It almost feels like a mercy, almost . 

It’s pure Winter Soldier, looking straight through Natalia. It’s more. It’s anger. “What did you just say?” 

Brighton Beach, July 4th, 1942 

The football flies past him, nearly landing in the shore. 

At the last second, Bucky jumps, catching it as he tumbles in wet sand. 

Mr. Callahan has been throwing him long balls all day. It’s a power play; Bucky isn’t dense enough to miss that. The longer he and Rosie have been together, the more he’s grown on her dad, but the second the football came out, all bets were off. 

Mrs. Callahan—Kathleen, who insists Bucky calls her Kay, shrieks from the porch. “Declan! Give the boy a break, you’re running him ragged.” 

From the distance, Bucky waves. “I’m alright, Miss Kay.” 

Already, her attention is elsewhere. While Rosie’s mom may have warmed up quickly to Bucky, her real love has always been Steve. “There’s the birthday boy!” She calls out as Steve emerges from the house, dragging the cooler behind him. 

Mrs. Callahan never treated Steve like he was small. They met over Thanksgiving, Bucky’s parents insisted on hosting, so his family, along with Steve and the Callahans, crowded into their Brooklyn townhouse. Steve and Mrs. Callahan had clicked instantly. All night they’d stood on the balcony and talked about the election and the war and laughed at jokes no one else understood. Other than Bucky, no one else read the same books Steve did, so he could tell his friend was excited to talk to someone else about The Hobbit. Steve was calling her Kay faster than Bucky had been allowed to. 

This whole outing was her idea. Mr. Callahan loved the Fourth of July because he is a patriot through and through. Mrs. Callahan had a newfound appreciation for the holiday upon discovering it is also Steve’s birthday. So the five of them had driven out of the city to Brighton Beach. Mr. Callahan rented a house right on the water with a strict rule not to let Bucky and Rosie sleep in the same room. At first, Steve seemed reluctant to come, but Kathleen is not an easy woman to say no to. Plus, Bucky, Rosie, and Steve hang out together more often than not. 

Jogging up the sand, Bucky claps Steve on the back, “Twenty-four!” He throws his arm around his shoulder, “You know when I was your age—”

“That joke gets less and less funny each year.” Steve shakes his head with a grin. 

Bucky’s less than a year older than Steve. Still, whenever Steve catches up to him, Bucky says, ‘When I was your age…’ because it makes him grin. 

Steve and Bucky are in matching swim trunks courtesy of Rosie. She, like her father, is a good American patriot. The trunks are ridiculous, blue, with white stripes, and he has no damn idea where she found them. And then, the woman herself appears. Despite seeing her just before bed last night, Bucky’s heart still skips a beat when Rosie steps outside. 

She’s in a red bikini that makes his head spin, high-waisted with little bows. Ruffling Steve’s hair as she walks by, she steps up to Bucky’s side with a quick kiss to his cheek. “Look, together we’re the American flag.” 

Bucky never cared much for the flag, but all of a sudden, it’s his favorite thing in the world. 

Even though her dad is less than two feet away, his hand is wrapping around her waist. 

It’s a nice day. Hot, sunny, and happy. Glenn Miller is playing on the radio, lemonade and beer sweat in the cooler, seagulls caw in the distance. 

Later, they’ve got their feet in the water, stepping back whenever a larger wave surges forward. Rosie steals her red sunglasses back off Bucky’s head, slicking his wet hair back with his fingernails. Steve is feeding hot dog buns to the birds, the three of them making conversation with whoever passes by on the beach. 

When Steve seems distracted enough, Bucky presses his lips against Rosie’s ear, “doll, you in red… You tryin’ to kill me?” 

She giggles the way she always does whenever his compliments make her shy, leaning into him. The sound never gets old. “You’re gettin’ sunburnt.” 

Looking down at himself, Bucky can’t help but feel pleased. The sun's browning him, he’s not the slightest bit burnt. “You just want an excuse to rub sunscreen on me.” 

“Shut up, Barnes.” She rolls her eyes, heading back up the beach to where their towels are laid out. 

Abandoning the birds, Steve turns his attention to Bucky, who is shamelessly watching Rosie walk away. “Don’t let Mr. Callahan see you,” he warns, tossing the last chunk of bread right at his face. 

“See what?” Bucky asks innocently, swatting it away. But there’s a smirk on his face he can’t wipe off. 

Rosie returns with sunscreen and three beers, doling them out quickly. 

“Turn around,” she drums her hands, already white with sunscreen, against Bucky’s chest. 

“Bossy,” he winks, and does as she says. 

“Stop flexing,” Steve coughs into his beer, shaking his head at Bucky. 

Bucky just shrugs, flexing harder. “I’m not flexing.” 

From behind, Rosie’s hand swats his back. “Quit it! And Steve, take that shirt off, get some sun.” 

Squinting, Steve shakes his head, “I’m not built for the sun. I’ll combust.” His eyes flick wearily in Bucky’s direction again. “You heard her, quit flexing.” 

“Oh Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Rosie laughs loudly as Bucky flexes both arms, kissing his biceps. 

Mr. and Mrs. Callahan join them, walking up arm in arm. “All that muscle just for looks, boy, or you planning on doing something with ‘em?” 

He straightens quickly. “No—I mean, yes, sir. I plan on enlisting.” 

“Good,” Mr. Callahan grunts, his gaze flicking in Steve’s direction, “Steve, you gotta eat more. You’ll get drafted to peel potatoes, not shoot Nazis.”

As Steve rubs the back of his neck, Bucky cuts in, “Trust me, Mr. Callahan, Steve’ll be knocking nazi’s out faster than the rest of us.” 

Kathleen tuts. “It’s such a shame, the draft… if they do go through with that.” 

“The shame is that not enough people are enlisting like they should.” 

“Daddy—enough war talk, please.” Rosie rolls her eyes, “It’s Steve’s birthday, no one wants to think about all that right now.” 

“It’s America’s birthday,” Mr. Callahan says, but he’s already moved on. 

Other than America, he’s got another favorite conversation point: teasing Bucky about his hair. 

​​As the sun dips lower, the beach starts to thin out. Rosie’s chatting with her mother on the porch, Mr. Callahan off grilling. 

Steve and Bucky sit on the steps that lead down to the beach, flip-flops kicked into the sand. “Y’know,” Bucky says, elbowing him gently, “I thought twenty-four would hit you harder. You still look like you’re fifteen.”

Steve snorts. “My bones don’t feel fifteen.”

“Yeah, well. My bones don’t feel twenty-five either.” He groans as he stretches out his legs. “We’re falling apart.”

Steve smirks. “You’ve been dramatic since the day I met you.”

“That so?” Bucky laughs, tipping his head back. “Pretty sure I carried your dramatic ass home every winter for like six years.”

A beat. The wind kicks up. A gull cries somewhere overhead as they fall quiet.

Bucky picks at the edge of the step with his thumb. “You know we’ve spent every one of your birthdays together since we were, what… eleven?”

Steve tilts his head. “That many?”

“Most of ‘em, yeah.” Bucky’s blinks at the memories, the ones he wouldn’t give up for anything. Even when times were tough, his mom always made sure there was cake. One year she stole a pie from Mrs. Donoghue’s windowsill and pretended she baked it. “Remember that blueberry pie?”

Steve laughs under his breath. “I remember that.”

“’Course you do. You insisted we leave a thank you note.”

Steve shrugs. “It was good pie.”

They lapse into silence again. The kind that only comes after years of friendship—companionable, easy.

But Bucky feels something shift inside him. The kind of shift he knows to pay attention to. “I dunno,” he says, quieter now. “This one feels different.”

Steve glances at him.

Bucky’s still looking at the water. “Like it might be the last one where everything’s still the same.”

That hangs between them. Heavy. Real.

Steve doesn’t argue. Doesn’t brush it off. Just says, “Yeah.”

Bucky nods slowly. “If something happens… you’ll take care of Ma?”

Steve answers immediately. “Of course.”

“And if I go first…” Bucky swallows, then meets Steve’s eyes. “You’ll remember me, yeah?”

Steve frowns, not like he’s upset—more like the question physically hurts. “You’re not going anywhere.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

There's a long pause before Steve says, like it's obvious, “Always.”

That night, Mr. Callahan drags them out to watch the parade go through the streets. 

He and Steve are making bets on how many guys will be passed out drunk by the time the parade is halfway through. Bucky almost always wins this kind of thing. He’s a numbers guy, Steve should know that by now. 

Rosie is bristling because Bucky smeared a dollop of red frosting onto her nose. The bristling stopped slightly after he kissed it off. He keeps trying to apologize for it, but every time he does, he starts laughing, and she’s swatting at his chest in annoyance. When she finally does forgive him, Bucky wraps his arm around her shoulders as they watch the passing parade. 

There’s a longing look in Steve’s eye when a group of Navy Seals pass by. The only thing that makes it stop is Mrs. Callahan distracting him by pointing out one of the jets flying overhead. 

The children’s choir comes next. They’re singing a rendition of This Land Is Your Land and it makes Bucky think of his father. The song has been his favorite ever since Woody Guthrie wrote it. He said he liked the message, especially since he worked so hard to come here. 

Bucky inhales, his mind already made up. When he places a kiss to the top of Rosie’s head, she holds him a little bit tighter because they both know Bucky’s enlisting the second he gets back to the city. 

For now, he lets himself just feel her, hold her. Smile victoriously at Steve when a drunk man stumbles back and falls, bringing the tally to their bet up in Bucky’s favor. 

In a few years, when the country celebrates the fourth, they’ll be celebrating Steve’s birthday too. Except they’ll call him Captain America and everything will be different. 

Dallas, Texas. July 4th, 1963.

The Winter Soldier moves through the empty upper floors of a half-renovated office building. The mission is high-priority. The target is a symbol. A disruption. A necessary correction.

He does not know the name. He does not need to.

HYDRA wants the American president dead.

The Soldier does not question the order.

From the window, he sees the motorcade’s intended route. Banners flap below. Children line the sidewalks—red, white, and blue ripple through the air.

The rifle is assembled in ninety-three seconds. Each click and slide of metal is memorized. His fingers move without hesitation.

The file said noon.

The crowd is loud.

He adjusts the sight. Focuses. Breathes.

A voice crackles through the earpiece. Russian. 

He waits.

A marching band plays in the distance. The sound cuts through the static.

The music. The banners. A boy wearing a paper hat waves a flag on his father’s shoulders.

Fireworks go off somewhere nearby. Red. White. Blue. 

It’s the Fourth of July. 

The Winter Soldier does not blink.

But something happens.

A flicker.

He exhales. Not a tactic—an accident.

The gun lowers half an inch.

He doesn’t know why.

Fourth of July. 

The sound of brass. Drums. Cheers. It echoes in his skull. Loud. Familiar.

Red. White. Blue. America. 

Steve. Captain— 

No. 

Static spikes.

His grip tightens on the weapon.

Something cracks.

Not the gun.

Inside.

The countdown does not continue. The trigger is not pulled.

The target is not eliminated.

The earpiece buzzes. “Asset? Confirm position. Confirm shot.”

The Winter Soldier does not respond.

I’m with you, till the end of the line. 

His eyes lock on the crowd. The color. The flags.

The static roars.

He cannot move.

He does not complete the mission.

HYDRA Siberian Facility. July 5th, 1963.

The Soldier does not know how he got back. His hands are bound. His face is bloodied.

He fought. Snapped. Three guards down when more swarmed in. 

Something was trying to break through the static. The same way it has tried before. 

A bone broken. 

The pain does not register.

His handler is yelling. Another failed sequence. Another malfunction.

One of the technicians mutters under his breath: “Why do they ever wake him up this week? It’s always this week.”

It’s this day, he does not know why. A missing piece, a memory taken. One he wants back. 

The Soldier is restrained in the chair.

“Vyteret' yego.” Wipe him.

Shock floods his skull. His mouth opens against the rubber bite. He does not scream.

The Winter Soldier forgets.

A few months later, they send him out again. 

November, freshly wiped. Punishment threatened. 

Precautionary measures taken. 

One word. Rare. 

The Asset has come to execute. One purpose. Obeyed.

Those three colors are gone. Nothing is triggered. Nothing breaks through. 

Blank mind. Firm hold of control. Kill. Execute. 

This time, when The Asset points his gun, the president dies. 

Chapter Text

The throat between his fingers pulses in fear. 

She claws at his hands. Desperate, fearful. 

The date she’d said—Fourth of July. 

Red, white, and blue. Static and pain. 

He knows that day. Knows it shatters something. 

Whatever he’d associated it with before slips away. Fourth of July means a punishment, a wipe. Conditioned into him. 

It’s a test, it must be. 

The handler is testing him. 

The Asset studies, assesses. Brown eyes wide with fear. Dark hair splayed out beneath her. Fighting and weak. 

One word through the haze. Strangled and desperate. “Bucky.” 

His fingers tighten. That word is punished, too. Erased. Forgotten. A test. 

Then, something else in the conditioning. She does not test, she does not punish. 

This, too, is ingrained. Unique standard procedure. A protocol she implemented. 

Gentle hands. Questions. Warmth. 

“Natalia.” Vision sharpens—clears. 

It comes back in fragments. His doctor. Inhale. Exhale. Jasmine. 

Inhale. Jasmine. Smoke. Jasmine and smoke. 

Seven things he chose to remember. Remember . 

The watch, the way it ticks. Another sound, the ghost of it in her gasps for air. 

A song. A melody. 

His eyes meet hers. Sees the photograph, the one he fought electricity for. Fingers loosen. Beneath him, her chest rises and falls, sucking in air. 

Natalia. 

She nods, still pulling his hand. “Let go.” 

Confusion. The ghost of pain. 

Her voice. Pained, pleading. “Bucky—let go. I’m not going to hurt you.” 

Unique standard procedure. Warmth. 

On the deck, he felt her hand. Watch on her wrist. The sky. Twilight. He’s hurting her. 

The Asset releases his fist. Stumbles backward. 

She gasps, sitting up, clutching her throat. 

His back hits the door. Freezes. Stares down at the hand that choked her—metal one loose at his side. 

The flesh one is a weapon, too. He is a weapon. 

She’s coughing. Gasping. 

No. No—what did he do? She said a date. He almost killed her for it. 

That name she’d called out. That man does not exist anymore. 

His hand finds the doorknob. Walks back until he is outside. Safe distance between them. 

He cannot leave her. He should not stay close. 

“Gun. Get the gun.” It’s not an order—he’s begging. 

She slides off the table. Stumbles. Her hand slaps the edge to keep from falling.

Bent over, she wheezes. Still coughing. Both arms braced on her knees now.

One hand lifts again to her neck. Red. Bruising already. Her fingers shake. She notices. She closes them into a fist.

He hurt her. 

She coughs. Stands. 

“Natalia—”

Her eyes flick to his hands. Flesh and trembling. Metal and loose. Held back. She does not move. Just studies him. His face. 

“It’s over, you stopped it.” She stands in the doorway. No gun, no protection. Somehow, unafraid.

He flinches. Steps back. She thinks Bucky fought it, the static and the training.