HEAVEN IN HELL | Bucky Barnes

CAPTURED

- 01 -

NOVEMBER 20, 1991

When the Winter Solider was awoken from his long and frosty slumber, he could not remember where he was. Not that his thoughts were his own anyway, no, they were all perfectly crafted executions from the people who doomed him to this hell. But for a moment it seemed, Hydra didn't quite have full control.

This was how all awakening days went.

Then, through the overwhelming feeling of disorientation, as the cold melted off his limbs-- all but his ever-chill steel appendage-- bits and pieces came swirling in and out of place. 

Memories of the last time he was awoken were mixed with memories much deeper, and much more guarded. Whether the memories were oppressed by his own subconscious, or by Hydra's extensive brain wipe, he did not know. But times like this, times when the memories came just below the surface, times when they were just out of his reach, drove him absolutely crazy.

And so he sat, head in his hands, releasing the breath he had held for nearly a decade, as he tried to make sense of the the bits he could see.

A woman and a man smiled down at him proudly.

A young girl who shared his features laughed on a swing that he pushed.

A blonde man with blue eyes and a brilliant grin held an arm around his shoulder.

But as he tried to reach deeper, his mind froze up, and everything he tried to gain came crashing back down again. 

Like it always did, the hell he lived in revealed itself oh so kindly. It crept upon him and pounced when he was at his weakest, just as he was trained to do. Holding on with deadly claws, it pulled him into a whirlpool of anguish, overwhelming him entirely.

He couldn't afford to drown.

The pure sound of laughter mixed with horrified screams, the creaking of the swing set turned turned into the ring of  bullets, the smiles of people long forgotten morphed into the terrified expressions of his victims-- right before he killed them.

Too much too soon. His head was too loud. His mind could not handle it.

And in a moment's realization, he discovered the screams weren't just coming from his memories, but his mouth too. His hands, tinged still with crimson, scratched at his skull as he wailed in agony. He tried to rip the memories out with his bare hands, he tried to make the pain go away, but he just couldn't. 

Grief was not so easily snuffed out as a human soul.

His head felt like it was being crushed, his lungs like they were collapsing, his very soul felt like it carried the weight of the entire sky. Too many emotions all too quickly. 

A little voice inside his head, protecting him perhaps, reminded him that a solider wasn't supposed to feel anything. Emotions are for the weak, get it together or they will destroy you, it said. 

There had been a couple times in the past the Winter Solder had shown these weaknesses. Only a couple, but every time he did, they would tear apart his brain and put it back together again. There was only so many times a man could be taken apart before going insane-- before turning into a monster worse than he already was. 

He could not bare it again, so he had to get it under control.

And that's when the ritual began, as it always did on awakening days. Before he could even calm down, before he could even catch his breath, the words in that dreaded red book were uttered clearly one by one in the harsh language of the country he now resided.