Chapter Text
The jet touched down in the clearing with a soft thud, the sound swallowed by the trees that loomed dark and silent around them. The Hydra facility was half-swallowed by earth and time—concrete walls cracked and bowed by frost, rust bleeding down from metal seams.
There were no signs of life.
But Blue could feel it breathing.
He was the last to descend the ramp. He had his hood up, his hands twisted in his sleeves. His boots hit the frozen ground with a muted crunch. The snow wasn’t fresh—it was packed, brittle, and crusted with ice. The cold bit at his ankles, crept up through the soles of his boots, but he didn’t flinch. It didn’t bother him. Not here.
Not in this place. Not where the air vibrated with memory.
Steve took point with Natasha just behind, her eyes scanning the perimeter. “Collapsed entry’s there,” she said, gesturing to the pile of twisted metal and rock ahead.
“Secondary shaft’s our best bet,” Tony added, checking his scanner. “Still registering low residual energy inside. Whatever caused that spike is just sitting here.”
Blue stood still, shoulders rising with a slow inhale. The breath cut sharp through his lungs, metallic and bitter, and tinged with something old. Something wrong.
With that breath came voices—not words, not whispers, but echoes. Layers of the past trapped in the frost, in the dirt, in the walls buried beneath them. Screams folded in ice. Pleas stitched into the snow. Voices not meant for the living. Not anymore.
His fingers twitched inside his sleeves. Blue reached up slowly, pulling his hearing aids out of his ears without a word. He cradled them in his palm for a moment then tucked them gently into his hoodie pocket. He didn’t speak, just listened.
Only Bucky noticed. “You sure?”
Blue took a breath and nodded. “I need to hear them,” he said simply.
Bucky’s jaw tightened, lips pressed into a firm line as he studied Blue’s expression. There was no hesitation in his son’s face—only quiet resolve. Bucky wanted to protest, to remind him what they’d both survived the last time he’d been forced to truly listen. But he saw something else in Blue now, the fear he saw on the jet had vanished and was replaced with determination.
So instead, Bucky drew a breath and gave a short nod. One hand rested on the grip of their pistol he had holstered on his hip. He stepped forward and fell in beside his son, close enough to catch him if he faltered, but far enough to let him lead.
Whatever ghosts waited in the dark, Blue wasn’t running from them anymore—but Bucky wasn’t letting him face them alone.
The team moved in silence, single file, down the narrow path cut through brush and rock. The facility loomed ahead, harsh against the white landscape, more ruin than structure.
The secondary shaft was just as Natasha described: a narrow tunnel carved into the mountain rock, barely wide enough to walk through. Rusted support beams groaned beneath their weight and ancient bolts jutted from the walls.
They dropped in one by one, boots clanging softly against the steel rungs of the emergency ladder bolted into the wall. The shaft swallowed them whole. The deeper they went, the more sound seemed to disappear.
The group fell into total silence.
Except for Blue.
He hummed. Soft and tuneless. It was a string of broken notes, but it echoed off the walls like a lullaby for the ghosts. It wasn’t meant to calm the living; it was for the ones waiting in the dark.
Blue listened as he hummed.
The creak of the stone. The breath of ghosts. The echo of screams still clinging to the rebar.
He led them. He didn’t speak. Just moved forward, sure-footed and eerily calm. One hand dragged along the wall like he was following the pulse of a living thing. His steps were steady, but his eyes were distant, far away.
No one questioned his steps. Not Steve. Not Natasha. Not even Tony, who kept glancing at his readings, baffled by how Blue kept moving in exactly the right direction.
They passed control rooms with shattered monitors, walls lined with darkened panels and flickering remnants of broken systems. Observation chambers with shattered two-way mirrors and rusted instruments frozen in time. The air reeked of old metal, mold, and blood that no longer stained the floor but lingered in the bones of the building.
Blue paused at every room. He touched the doors, the walls, the rails. His fingertips glided across rusted handles and dented panels. Sometimes he closed his eyes, tilting his head like he was tuning into a song only he could hear. The same rhythm that had broken him long ago—and the one now helping him remember.
Victoria whispered, “What’s he doing?”
“He’s listening,” Bucky answered, his eyes locked on Blue. “This place talks to him. The walls remember him. He’s hearing their secrets.”
The team exchanged uncertain glances. Victoria looked unsettled, her eyes flicking from Blue to the walls like she was afraid they’d start whispering to her too. Roland’s brows were furrowed, arms crossed tightly over his chest.
Kelly leaned closer to Vona, whispering, “Talks to him? Like—the ghosts?”
“Not just ghosts,” Bucky answered. “Memories. The ones too loud to stay buried.”
Tony checked his scanner again, as if it might explain the unexplainable. “Nothing on the grid matches his path. But he hasn’t been wrong yet.”
“He won’t be,” Bucky replied, hand tightening on his gun. “He was made for this type of silence.”
He watched as Blue pressed his hand to a corroded panel. The others stayed quiet, caught between awe and discomfort. None of them dared to interrupt. They just watched, haunted by something they didn’t understand, and maybe never would.
“He used to scream,” Bucky whispered, mostly for himself but loud enough that those around him could hear him. “Not just from pain—but because he could hear everything. Every lie, every death, every ghost that couldn’t leave. The hearing aids blocked out the words, but never the feelings.” He swallowed. “Now he can hear both.”
In one hallway, Blue stopped completely. The others nearly passed him before they noticed. He stood in front of a sealed door, one hand hovering just inches from the handle. His breathing was shallow. Focused. The ghosts were louder now, surging through the walls like wind beneath his skin.
‘It’s almost time. Remember your past so she can show you your future.’
Blue pushed the door open. The room stretched narrow and long, lined with medical chairs bolted to the floor. Some were upright. Others leaned at broken angles, torn leather exposing rusted springs. Faded restraints hung from the armrests. A few chairs were still stained dark with blood that time hadn’t managed to scrub away.
Blue walked forward like sleepwalking, each step heavier than the last, drawn by memory rather than choice. He stopped at the center, in front of a chair that looked like it had been used more than the others. The footrest was worn from repeated weight. The arm straps were frayed, but intact. He stared for a moment—then sat.
The chair groaned beneath him.
Bucky took a step forward—instinctive, protective—but froze when Blue’s voice broke through the stillness.
“It’s okay,” Blue whispered, his fingers curling slowly around the leather straps. “This one was mine.”
The others stood frozen in the doorway. No one moved. No one knew if they were allowed.
As he sank into the chair, his body tensed. The weight of the memories hit like a wave. He let his head rest against the back of the chair, eyes squeezing shut as flashes erupted behind his lids—cold needles, the hum of the electric current, a voice barking commands just beyond comprehension.
He saw himself at six.
At ten.
At fourteen.
Always smaller than the chair. Always fighting.
He flinched against the cold armrest, the same cold that always came before the pain. He remembered the metallic taste in his mouth, the smell of his own sweat, the rattle of his breath against the silence that never stayed silent.
“They used this room to erase me from myself,” he said, barely audible.
The ghosts howled behind his ribs. ‘ Do you remember now? The scream they silenced? The name they beat out of you?’
He ran his fingers over the straps, more absently this time, tracing the indentations in the leather. “I was in here a lot. I think...I think I used to scream. But screaming just made it worse.”
His chest rose and fell slowly, bracing against a storm inside his mind. “The ghosts would whisper the things they’d make me forget. Faces. Songs. My own voice.” Blue winced. “Whenever I remembered too much, they’d turn up the voltage.”
The memory pressed so hard against his skull, it felt like the chair itself had hands, wrapping around him, holding him still. He sat with it. He let it burn.
Blue opened his eyes and stared up at the ceiling, voice thinning to a whisper. “Every time I came in here, I prayed I’d forget I actually existed.”
Bucky’s breath caught somewhere between shame and grief. He remembered Blue’s screams through the walls, distant and raw. He remembered the silence that followed. The silence that meant success from Hydra’s point of view.
He kept his distance, blinking frantically. He couldn’t look at Blue sitting in the chair. He turned his face away, jaw tightening against a memory he’d buried years ago—the first time Blue looked at him and didn’t recognize his face.
Blue stood, slowly and carefully, like the weight of the chair still clung to him.
He stepped through the horrified faces standing in the door and led them deeper into the halls, past old barracks and specimen rooms layered in dust and decay.
Blue’s pace never slowed. Sometimes he would whisper under his breath—not words, just echoes. A name. A broken song. Fragmented memories.
The next room was smaller, lit only by their flashlights sweeping along the walls. Hanging from the ceiling, spinning on a rusted chain was the metal collar. Heavy. Industrial. Jagged with the spikes turned inward.
Blue stepped beneath it slowly. For a moment, he didn’t breathe. His hand reached up and gently steadied the collar.
“This one...” he whispered, fingers brushing against the metal. “This one was punishment.”
He tilted his head back, exposing the pale skin of his neck. Under the dim light, faint scars formed a ring—pale, uneven, brutal. Some cuts had healed cleaner than others, while a few jagged lines looked as though they’d never fully closed. The metal hadn’t just dug in. It had been designed to stay. To punish every breath, every movement.
“For when they couldn’t scare me into obedience,” Blue said. “So, they bled it out of me instead.”
Tony muttered something under his breath—a curse, or maybe just disbelief. Vona had her back against the wall, staring wide-eyed at the collar. Natasha looked away.
His fingers brushed along the edge of one of the deepest scars. “Sometimes I still feel it,” he murmured. “When I sleep. When I turn too fast. When I forget where I came from.”
Bucky took a step forward. His eyes locked on the jagged scars circling Blue’s throat. His throat bobbed. He knew they were there, hidden beneath the hood, but seeing them now, twisted something deep in his gut.
“I should’ve gotten you out sooner,” Bucky whispered, voice breaking. “I should’ve stopped them.”
The ghosts murmured, scratching like wind in his bones.
‘They couldn’t unmake you. So, they tried to silence the echo.’
“It was their answer for defiance, dad.” Blue hummed quietly. “Every breath I drew with that collar on was a rebellion.” He didn’t look at Bucky, but at the collar still swinging slightly above him.
Blue turned, just long enough for the others to see the way his jaw clenched. “That’s why the scars go so deep,” he whispered. “I didn’t stop breathing.”
Blue dropped his head as a chorus of whispers clawed at the edges of his mind.
‘Dig deeper. Your truth waits in the pages of your life.’
The pain flared in his head, the blue glow under his skin pulsed faintly at the rising voices. The air turned colder, charged with something ancient, something he recognized.
“Where are you?” He gasped, his voice breaking, eyes sweeping the shadows. His heart hammered against his ribs, not with fear but urgency. The ghost had never felt this far before, he was always lurking in the corner of Blue’s eyes, but now, there was only silence.
“Come on dude,” he said, holding his arms out to the sides. “You got me here. Don’t leave me hanging.”
Behind him, the team watched in unnerved silence. Roland’s arms were crossed, but his grip was tight, knuckles pale. He stared at collar like it might speak back. Victoria’s eyes brimmed, and this time she didn’t blink the tears back. They spilled silently as she leaned into Vona, who had pressed her hand over her heart as if trying to keep from breaking. Further back, Tony stood frozen, his body rigid. He didn’t blink. Didn’t move. Just kept his eyes locked on Blue. Clint looked sick. Not afraid—just deeply, horribly sad. Even Natasha’s face had gone pale.
They didn’t understand. Not really. But in that moment, they all felt it. He wasn’t talking to air. He was asking someone. Someone who was listening.
The air shimmered faintly. The energy in Blue’s veins surged up his neck, tickling his cheeks. Then from the corridor, behind the saddened expressions of the living, something moved. Blue lunged forward, pushing through the crowd in the doorway, and halting before the ghost.
“Thought you forgot about me,” Blue joked, though his tone was laced with agitation.
The ghost bowed his head. “You’re remembering, young Reaper.”
The breath got stuck in Blue’s throat at the name. The name he still didn’t understand. His heart skipped a beat, knees weak.
“You are not done,” it whispered, its pale face hovering inches away from Blue’s. “The truth of your life was written before the pain.”
The ghost raised a bony finger painting down the corridor. Blue’s eyes followed, breathing heavily. He blinked once, slow and solemn, as if agreeing to something ancient, and nodded.
“This way.” Blue didn’t turn to see if the team followed. He just let his feet carry him. He didn’t speak again until the hallway ended at the rusted vault door sealed tight with layers of dust and time.
“The archives,” he murmured, eyes unfocused. He placed both palms against the cold metal, tilting his head again, listening as the whispers poured in from the walls.
‘A secret kept in shadow. The page you fear holds the name you forgot.’
Blue breathed deeply, bracing himself for the truth he didn’t know if he could carry. One last echo stirred at the edge of his mind, laced with warning. ‘Names are remembered in ink but written first in blood.’
Blue’s fingers curled against the door. He let the weight of the past press against him—then slowly, he pushed the doors open and stepped inside.
Behind him, the others lingered in silence. No one dared follow him immediately. They stood at the threshold, not just out of the room but of a truth they weren’t sure they were ready to witness.
Victoria shifted uneasily, hugging her arms to herself for some sense of comfort. Roland swallowed hard, guilt settling on his face. Anastasia’s and Vona’s tears hadn’t stopped. Even Steve, stoic as ever, seemed rooted to the spot, shoulders tight with tension.
Tony glanced at Bucky and reached out a hand, stopping him from following Blue with a firm touch to the chest. “What if he finds something he can’t come back from?”
Bucky froze, surprised by the contact. He turned to look at Tony slowly.
There was a flicker in Tony’s eyes, not just caution but grief wrapped in calculation. In that glance passed the unspoken ache of two men who had both buried too many truths and carried to many names carved into headstones.
Tony’s voice was softer now, hardly audible to those around them. “You can’t protect him from whatever he finds in there, Barnes.”
“I’m not trying to protect him,” Bucky replied after a moment. “I’m trying to stand beside him.” He looked past the doors, where the darkness had swallowed the last of Blue’s silhouette. “He once followed me out of this hell—and if he’s walking back into it, I’m walking with him.” His voice dropped, reverent and raw. “I’ll follow that kid through anything.”