Chapter Text
Bucky Barnes could say that being locked in a prison was terribly boring. At least in cryogenics, he didn't feel time. His brain simply shut down in a matter of seconds, every muscle in his body went numb, and when the last breath left his throat, his eyes simply closed and his mind went winter-white. When he woke up... It was like having cotton on his head, too heavy and confusing, but that was it, a blink of an eye, with no time to think or feel.
In his cell, he'd thought too much, there was enough time for memories to return, from the good years in Brooklyn with his family moving from Indiana, meeting Steve after his nose was broken at school, family dinners with his sisters, days at work in his father's shop, his job on the pier, Coney Island, the anguish of the war and the draft, the terror of being in Zola's clutches, the relief of seeing Steve again and knowing he finally had the health his heart could endure, the raw jealousy over Peggy and the screams from the train... Yes, then came the horror of his victims; the missions through the decades were something more vivid and complete, causing him nightmares that eventually woke the rest of the Raft's inhabitants.
The guards were tempted to soundproof his cell if it hadn't been for Ross's strict prohibition, who wanted to keep a close watch on him.
After losing the Battle of Leipzig-Halle, Secretary Ross had thrown them into a hole in the middle of the sea. There was no trial, no cameras, just reinforced handcuffs and electric shock collars. Shoving. A cold cell while the guards called them out and treated them like criminals. Bucky could accept that this was the treatment he deserved, because, Hydra controlled or not, it was his hands that pulled the trigger, threw bombs, and broke bones. They were stained with blood; he belonged there, and while selfishly he hated the idea of being locked up again... He could believe it was fair, but the others? They were heroes, having risked their lives more than once to keep the world safe, fighting terrorists, aliens, fascist cults, and killing machines.
Sam Wilson was even in the army, for God's sake, just like Steve and him... Oh, Steve. If there was anyone who had no business being on the Raft, it was Steve, and yet, Ross almost seemed happy to have him behind bars with that stupid, smug smirk as he wandered through the cells. Bucky just wanted his arm back so he could knock his teeth out. Because of course, after their stunt in Berlin, they hadn't been stupid again; they removed the metal arm before assigning him a number. One more for the list.
"It seems being a prisoner of war is already a bad habit of mine," he had tried to joke with Steve in the helicopter the night they were taken to prison. The sea was turbulent, and a part of them hoped that the thing would collapse in the whitewater that rose with large waves amidst the overcast sky, lit only by lightning flashes amid the torrential rain. It almost looked like Thor would emerge from between the clouds.
And to his surprise, Steve had smiled. It was a small grimace as he buried his head against the helicopter, but there was a sadness that broke his heart. After the adrenaline and rage that had been pumping through his veins in the last few hours, he looked exhausted and, to a certain extent, fed up, as if he'd stopped fighting when he realized no one would listen to him again. Bucky had sworn that position was so familiar, as was the anguish and concern he felt for him. It was a matter of minutes before his mind pieced together the image of a boy, thin and like an ear of wheat, short and with blond hair, who had Steve's face: that large, crooked nose, thick eyebrows, and piercing blue eyes that were impossible to forget.
Back then he would fight with everyone if he saw a situation of injustice: with the landlord if they raised the rent from one month to the next, with the neighbor next door when he hit his wife, with drunks if they tried to make a pass at a girl at night, with the police who arrested a black person accusing them of being lazy just because of their skin color, with bullies who beat up another boy just for considering him effeminate. Steve always started fights that he ended, but there were times when he wasn't there, where he would usually arrive at his apartment and find him sitting by the table with a bad face and a split lip (if he was careful, sometimes he had both eyes black) , cleaning the blood with a frown, but it was that look of resignation that Bucky hated as much as seeing him hurt, because whoever had done it had not only hurt him apparently, but in his morale, because Steve knew that not only had he taken a beating, but that whatever he claimed, would continue to happen.
"I'm sorry I failed you again," Steve had murmured in that booth, his voice breaking, his eyes clouded, staring at the wall. The two of them had been separated from the rest. Bucky shook his head, hating not being able to take his hand to comfort him in some way. It was certain he blamed himself for the whole mess, as part of his bad habit. Always carrying the weight of the world, believing himself to be Atlas until the weight crushed him.
"There was nothing you could do, Steve, but you should have left me in Berlin and stopped Zemo..."
"Where you go, I'll go, Buck," she cut him off firmly, her eyes having regained some emotion. A flicker of softness for him, as if Steve needed to see his eyes to relive the reason he kept fighting, as he straightened with a deep breath, squaring his shoulders as best he could thanks to the handcuffs and letting his body fill with determination.
He already wants to fight again, Bucky had thought, and for a second, he truly believed that the good luck that had always accompanied Steve would once again save them from ending up in a godforsaken prison, but not even a man with a plan can defeat the government when his hands are tied and his allies have turned their backs on him. Oh, they were so close to achieving it, at least the two of them, if Vision hadn't shot down his Quinjet after War Machine fell. The sacrifices of Wanda, Clint, Sam, and Scott were all in vain. Natasha was the only one who had managed to escape after her move against the King of Wakanda, landing a widow's bite that left him on the ground.
No one had found her to date.
"Even in that hole?"
Steve nodded, his voice unwavering "Even there, Bucky."
He was sure his eyes must have filled with tears, because there was only so much he could bear. Hydra had at least left him with a pain threshold that was too high and an emotional hold that was almost impenetrable. But if there was anyone who could break it, it was that skinny guy from Brooklyn he'd condemned himself to love decades ago. They were each other's deepest secret.
"I think sharing hell together was a risk Father Johnson warned us about on Sundays, wasn't it?" Bucky asked, not entirely sure why they kept going to mass when, from what he could remember, neither of them were very religious. Maybe it had something to do with their mothers. Especially with Sarah, Winnfred Barnes was Jewish, from what he'd read in one of her own biographies.
Steve snorted, his eyes closed. "She was an idiot, but I'm glad I didn't listen."
"My fried brain doubts you've heard anyone but yourself," he said wryly, and Steve chuckled, wincing at the bruise on the right side of his temple that was already turning purple and fading to a yellowish hue.
"I'm not usually wrong," he joked arrogantly, and god, Bucky missed that carefree, golden laugh.
It was cruel that their first moment alone together to talk without having to run for their lives and freedom was right before they were separated again. Because of course, Ross wasn't going to let them near each other to risk them hatching a plan. At least he gave him credit for not underestimating Steve, since the first thing the secretary did was put him in an isolated area on the second floor.
And according to the rumors he'd heard from Clint Barton, those cells were closer to the infirmary... and the lab.
"And why the hell would there be a lab here?" Scott asked. The guy who could make himself big and small in his suit seemed the most at ease with the idea of being arrested, assuring them it wouldn't be his first time serving time.
Wanda and Bucky didn't say anything, because they both knew why someone would have a lab near people with testing abilities. They weren't prisoners, but test subjects. The Raft was a front for the government to continue testing that benefited Hydra, because they weren't so different; they just wanted the biggest weapon, because it would give them power over others. Ambitious men running a country never ended well for anyone, but in this case, they would be the scapegoats. They and every man or woman with special abilities according to the Sokovia Accords.
"Don't be naive, Lang. This isn't a prison..." Barton told him with visceral bitterness, anger hissing on his tongue as he pounded on the glass of his cell. "It's a disgusting experimental camp!"
No one responded to the rogue avenger, but the silence was sometimes the worst part. It made the place feel claustrophobic. Because no one wanted to talk in the early days, Bucky had to look outside the cell to see Sam and remember he wasn't alone.
The sound of the water lapping against the metal of the structure was almost hypnotic, an irregular rhythm that seeped into his mind as a reminder that they were locked in a place from which there was no escape. Sometimes, when the waves grew stronger, they could feel the vibration in the walls, a slight tremor that ran through the floor and made the cell feel even more fragile, as if the sea might swallow them up at any moment.
At that point, Bucky didn't know if it would be a miracle or the cherry on top of his tragedy. Maybe it would be horrible for those who had someone missing them out there, those who'd lost a life, but people like him and a lot of the scum he knew that prison contained... It was an escape.
Although he sometimes doubted they were all bad guys, who knows, maybe there were more like Sam or Clint there, guys who had angered the government or knew too much to be free. The politicians' favorite term would be: A national security risk.
Yeah, right... Dangerous guys. That was the only thing they all had in common.
The flashing lights added another layer of torture. During stormy days —which was most of the time—they flickered at irregular intervals, leaving glimpses of light between periods of gloom that didn't last long enough to get used to it.
And the food wasn't so different from what Hydra gave him, perhaps a little more solid, but Bucky still missed the freshness of seasonal fruit.
The air had a metallic smell mixed with salty dampness, a combination that seeped into every breath, sticky on the skin, relentless in the throat. The prison was far from any civilization, surrounded by a sea that had no sympathy for those trapped there. And though the guards paced outside, murmuring orders in weary voices, they never entered more than necessary. As if they knew that this place, with its own pulse, its unpredictable darkness, and its relentless pounding water, was already slowly breaking those inside.
Bucky closed his eyes, exhaling slowly, trying to ignore the sound of the sea scratching the metal structure like a beast waiting to devour them.
For a while, Bucky felt stupid thinking he could have run away from Hydra and its control... To be free. But just as he stopped counting the days inside his cell, he understood that that chance of peace died alongside the man who fell off the train in the Swiss Alps, or even before that, there in Azzano, sinking in terror amidst the mud and explosions, longing to return home. Yes, the Winter Soldier no longer had that option—only run or fight—but now he couldn't do either of those things. He was still waiting for the day Ross or any of his officers would come in to utter the activation words, waiting for the damn day they'd force him to kill again... It was a torturous wait that, even within four walls of the same color, kept him awake. Why else would they keep him there?
From what he knew, when the guards started talking near the entrance and he was able to hear them with his enhanced hearing, they were constantly drawing Steve's blood, for who knows what purpose. Perhaps they were trying to replicate the super-soldier serum—again—while he had merely been pricked with a needle. Surely they had realized that the variant Zola injected into his veins was just a cheap version compared to Steve's, but that thought didn't comfort him at all; it made him feel sick and made his stomach churn. The thought of him being tied to a metal table while they poked and prodded him without his permission, poking and prodding him like he was just a voiceless piece of meat infuriated him. He hated not being able to do anything.
And all that helplessness had embittered him even more—yes, that was possible. Was it? A part of him would have been fed up and annoyed if he'd been the test subject again, even deserved the pain, but if it was Steve... That was worse.
The rest of him wasn't doing any better either, but Wanda was on the verge of catatonic due to the appalling conditions in which she was being held and the guards were idiots, as they kept muttering that she was crazy. Bucky could count on his one hand the number of times Wanda had spoken since they arrived at the Raft, and he had fingers to spare. She lived in a straitjacket and still had the electric shock collar attached to her neck, just like him.
Bucky didn't count his days, but Clint did, as he even had a calendar where he noted the birthdays of his children and wife. They talked a lot, though at first, it was just the archer telling her about his life on the farm or some pop culture joke that Bucky didn't quite understand, so Clint explained it to her. Finally, he gave in to talking as a way to keep from going crazy.
Scott carved the days in the classic way, under his bench, using a marker to mark the four lines and then closing the five days with a horizontal line. He even said he was a thief before meeting Hank Pym. Bucky remembered that name from the Hydra files; he was a SHIELD scientist, but according to Scott, he was also the first Ant-Man to discover the particles that gave him the ability to change size. It was fascinating to listen to him; Bucky always loved technology in its various fields.
If he'd had the money in his youth, he wouldn't have hesitated to study engineering, but yearning and regretting felt so hollow… What was the point of imagining what could have been? The present woke him up, and although it was a kinder hell for him, others didn't share his fate.
He didn't.
And if Bucky felt frustrated with the UN and all its stupid global security departments, he couldn't imagine how Steve must be feeling about it. Ironically, only a couple of doors separated them, and despite not having seen him in over a year, Bucky knew he was there, buried between those concrete and metal floors.
And what he wanted most every night wasn't freedom, but to never see him again, to talk to him, to touch him… He wanted Steve, he longed for him more intensely than he had in the past two years before finding him inside his apartment in Bucharest, but he was also terrified that Steve would blame him for being there.
Although his mind dismissed that idea as quickly as it came, Steve didn't break that easily. He hadn't done it before when his body was fragile, and Bucky bet he'd hold on knowing they were so few steps away from each other. Maybe the rest of them had lost hope that Steve or Natasha, or even Tony Stark, would get them out of there, but... Not Bucky.
"What are you waiting for, punk?" he muttered every night before going to sleep as he lay down on his hard bed, but on day 587 of his captivity on the Raft... The security alarms began to sound, waking everyone, both guards and prisoners.
Chapter Text
The moment he set foot on the Raft, the world and the people who controlled it seemed to forget how much he had already sacrificed for it: his youth, his love, his identity, even his life when he was frozen in the Valkyrie as time passed him by. It was true that this was a miracle, but even so, he didn't plan on surviving the battle in New York against Loki when the portal opened, or when Sokovia began to levitate with Ultron and thousands of civilians on board. It was as if death were chasing him, but he regretted it at the last moment when he saw in his crystal ball that he still had some purpose. Steve wished some divine force would tattoo it on his skin, so he could see it and solemnly remember his goal, because sometimes it was so hard to see the streets so peaceful and believe they still needed him, but then disasters of a magnitude that only he or his team could handle occurred. Vision had said that ever since Tony Stark revealed himself as Iron Man, the anomalies that required the existence of superhumans had increased, but Steve remembered that the Red Skull was already making a name for himself with Hydra long before Howard and Stark Industries appeared on the map. And he didn't even have to talk about Thor fighting giant snakes. What did he have, 1,500 years? The Earth and humanity had always been threatened, whether by themselves or by alien forces, but in the face of danger, a new hope always emerged that advocated for the protection of life. From his isolation cell on the second floor, Steve doubted he could do much. It was small, especially for someone his size, but it had a considerable height that prevented him from hitting his head on the ceiling. There was a modest bed with a concrete base attached to the wall; it certainly wasn't the worst place he'd ever slept, as it even had a pillow and a couple of blankets for the frigid nights. Being underwater in the Atlantic wasn't the best idea for a pleasant climate, but Steve supposed that would be the least of his complaints about the place.
There was a quick routine he had to get used to; the strict atmosphere might have reminded him of his time in the barracks during the war, if it weren't for the lack of company and all that silent frustration that constantly creased his forehead. He ate three times a day and had two bathroom breaks, so at first, it wasn't as bad as he'd expected, giving him time to worry about whatever plans Helmut Zemo still had for the Winter Soldiers in Siberia. He hadn't heard from Stark in weeks; the guards refused to speak to him, and Ross rejected his requests for visits.
"I need to speak with Stark," he said earnestly to Secretary Ross when he showed up at his cell after a week. The man in his neat suit was parading around with his disdainful smile and annoying mustache as he chuckled with his hands in his pockets.
"And I want to be President of the United States, Rogers," he said as he took a step closer to the armored glass fortified with bars, even though he could see Steve clenching his fists in anger until his knuckles turned white. The soldier was too proud of his contribution to building that hole in the middle of the ocean to be intimidated by his prisoner.
Steve had looked at him in boredom the entire time he was talking about how strong his titanium-reinforced walls were, able to withstand the blows of a super soldier and more. More... he said, and that word was enough to fully convince Steve that this prison was built not only long in advance, but for someone greater.
"The difference is, one of us is on the other side of freedom, and if he can do what he wants," Ross pointed out, his lips twisting as he placed his hands behind his back, Steve shuddered at the thought of that man as president.
He had reviewed his file, and Rhodey had also helped him with that task. He liked to talk about the most decorated general of the last two decades. He probably admired him before meeting Bruce Banner personally and learning that Ross had taken it upon himself to destroy his life, just as he had now done to the rest of the Avengers. His record, however, had been marked by bloodshed in his many missions abroad since his early days in the Air Force. He was a rigid, pragmatic man, loyal to his country, pursuing the ideal that suited his interests. Ambitious, extremist, without morals, obsessed with his legacy and his future image. The fact that the world hated him at that moment was of no interest to him. Steve hadn't held him in high regard since learning he'd been in charge of the attempt to replicate the gamma-ray super-soldier serum, but when he showed up at the New York compound with the Sokovia treaties, using blackmail and demanding their signatures on laws that only sought to deprive them of essential control over their lives, Steve made that dislike personal.
And the days in prison transformed his dislike into resentment until they began routinely taking him out to the lab three times a week to poke and prod him. Then it turned to hatred, because he couldn't get it out of his head that if this was happening to him, the same thing must be happening to Wanda or Bucky too. As if he hadn't suffered enough at the hands of his Hydra captors, now he had to go through another ordeal.
Again, it was his fault. The fact that they were on the Raft had been his fault. He was arrogant, believing he could solve everything with blows, believing that with his team, they wouldn't be able to stop them, and he trusted that Tony would come to his senses at some point.
His mother had told him that hate only hardened the heart, that it was an ugly feeling because it only embittered the one who felt it and not the one it was directed at, but Steve thought differently now. He'd once believed he couldn't feel anything so visceral for anyone, but when he discovered what Hydra had done to Bucky for seventy years—every cryogenic freeze, amputation, shock therapy, the beatings, and the endless torture on a list that only grew longer—he knew he could want to kill someone himself.
He never told anyone he fantasized like that, not even Sam or Natasha. He kept to himself the dark thoughts he had every time he closed his eyes and his mind showed him vivid portraits of him strangling Alexander Pierce with his bare hands until his eyes bulged out of his skull, of him throwing Zola down the snowy ravines of the Alps to watch his vile body shatter, of him snapping Rumlow's neck in that elevator, of him stabbing Sitwell, of him shooting Ross between the eyes, of him separating Helmut Zemo's head from his body by throwing the shield. All those images fueled him day and night, without tormenting him; rather, they were a consolation for his guilt, because without him, he wouldn't have asked Bucky to accompany him; his friend would never have been on that train.
For many, seeing himself stained with blood in his dreams might be a nightmare, but for Steve, it was just an old memory. From Brooklyn, yes, in his street fights where the blood was often his own, and then in the war, where he had to learn to take lives if he wanted to save millions of innocent people. He never liked the idea of prioritizing lives; he believed they were all worth something, but when you see evil incarnate, the atrocities that human beings are capable of committing for ideologies as miserable as fascism... Then it became easier.
No, simple, never simple, but it did help his mind stay calm when he fired a gun.
When Bucky was drafted and sent to camp in New Jersey during basic army training, Steve first read Erich Maria Remarque's "All Quiet on the Western Front." The novel narrated the life of a young soldier in World War I who embodied the tragedy of witnessing the death and misery of the trenches for two years. At the time, he didn't fully grasp the harshness of the text, but one line stayed with him:
"It's very strange that the world's unhappiness is so often caused by small men."
Politicians ruled countries, sworn to protect civilians under the flag they claimed to protect, yet started wars where they sent their people to die in the name of a so-called homeland, when it was their interests that a private soldier was vainly protecting. Steve walked through bloody mud, corpses littered with corpses, barbed-wire trenches, and concentration camps... And there, he saw that, like those young men, his own generals had deceived him.
He never stopped being a dancing monkey.
He was so eager to prove that he could be as valuable an American to his country as any other, to serve strongly, to be brave, and to protect others from their abusers… To be a hero, a symbol, and eventually, a hope so that innocents wouldn't have to live through the same hell he went through. And yet, it didn't matter that he left one conflict behind; he sought another upon awakening from the ice, as if that were his only purpose.
"Always so upright, pretending you can live without a war," Ultron had mocked in South Africa. Before, he thought it was just part of Wanda's manipulation, but now, he believed that perhaps that infernal machine knew him very well, thanks to its creator.
Because Tony Stark was an expert at seeing the flaws in others, though blind to seeing his own, but that was a common sin, wasn't it? It was easier to point the finger at others than to look within oneself.
Steve claimed to be an honest man, but he wasn't. He lied over and over again, that's how he'd survived wherever he went, lying to his mother about his pain level, to his officers about his identity, to his colleagues, and even to himself to fit what the government wanted their patriotic hero to represent.
He lost himself, but in that cell, he'd stopped lying. He was no longer a hero; his guards called him a criminal, and the doctors in the lab treated him like just another number. He was prisoner 067, and that's how one of his medical reports inside the prison appeared at home, never Steven Grant Rogers or Captain America.
No, he was just a number now.
"What are those samples for?" he asked the first time when they tied him to the chair in the lab with leather straps on his biceps and forearms, although metal ones were on his wrists and ankles. He eyed the needles suspiciously and the ten collection tubes the assistant held with that nervous look. He could hear his heart beating rapidly as he looked at his boss.
“Medical reports, they're routine, required for any emergency incident among inmates,” Dr. Wensel assured, shrugging and pulling up his mask. His brown eyes held a cold indifference that never left him, like two deep wells inviting one to look, only to fall endlessly.
That empty stare gave Steve a bad feeling. Every time someone wanted his blood, it was to sniff at each red blood cell and detect the elements of the super-soldier serum, as if they could discover the elements Erskine saw in him to achieve the perfect formula.
Steve's stomach sank, and a grimace of disgust crept onto his face as he realized that they must want to replicate his serum again now that he had refused to continue working on their terms. Especially with Ross at the helm, as if the Hulk disaster hadn't been enough.
“I never authorized this,” Steve emphasized harshly, struggling against the steel handcuffs. The leather creaked beneath his tense muscles, but it was in vain, as it couldn't break no matter how hard he tried; they were reinforced and attached to the chair.
He wanted out. It was one thing to be locked up, and another to become a guinea pig again. He'd rejected it decades ago when Philipps tried to leave him at a military base after Erskine's death, and he wasn't planning on starting now.
“We don't need you. We have orders,” he commented nonchalantly, without looking at him. He leaned closer as he adjusted the latex gloves. The whole place had an antiseptic smell that irritated Steve's nose.
He'd spent too much time in hospitals not to associate it with bad news.
"And I'm right, as far as I know," he retorted, his jaw clenched as the needle was inches from his skin. Even though he wanted to pull away, he couldn't. There was a desperation building inside him, scratching at his skin above the anger he'd shown.
The doctor's eyes narrowed, and he jabbed the needle connecting to the extraction machine into the prominent vein he'd marked during his struggles.
"The Raft is a limbo, as you've noticed, and many laws lose their validity in international waters," he murmured, too seriously to be considered a mockery. Steve reckoned that was worse, because the man didn't even care to question the orders or the damage his actions could cause.
They were blind, and as their blood dripped into the various collection tubes for nearly an hour, Steve could only feel his strength slowly draining away. It wasn't unusual for him to feel like his limbs weighed a ton, his eyelids drooped, and he felt nauseous when they were over.
It was exhausting, and not even food made him feel better. Maybe he'd regain some color and physically be able to bend steel again by dinnertime, but there was something inside him that felt stolen, as if every drop of blood was one that killed Steve Rogers and left only an empty shell. He should have known something was wrong when a month passed and he was still trapped, with no plan, no real motivation to get out, just flitting in and out of his cell as if in a trance.
Then Tony Stark appeared, storming in, furious and nearly spitting venom in his face when he saw him. They hadn't seen each other since the battle at the airport when he held Rhodey in his arms, anguish mingling with rage after seeing him fall under that Vision beam that should have been for Sam. From what he knew, he'd rushed him to the hospital, staying with his best friend the entire time, as he didn't reappear while they were being transported to the prison.
"You're a lying bastard, Rogers," was his mumbled greeting, and Steve couldn't help but shudder against the wall, closing his eyes as he became aware of a prominent throbbing in his head that was about to cause a migraine, as if he'd been near an explosion.
"You took a while to come, Tony," Steve could only mutter, grateful for once for the isolated room, because although his voice was low, the deathly silence made it clear. "Did you find the guy from Berlin who activated Bucky?"
“Yeah, it turned out to be Helmut Zemo, another bitter idiot,” he hissed with a bitter snort and wrinkled his nose. “The King of Wakanda helped me track down that bastard in Kyiv.”
Steve frowned and slowly turned his head, puzzled by the location.
“He was supposed to be in Siberia.”
“Oh, and he was, but he got tired of waiting, so he came to us and turned himself in.” He clicked his tongue and narrowed his eyes. There was fire in them. A vibrant anger toward him, but at that point, Steve no longer knew what his greatest anger was: his resistance to signing the accords, the disintegration of the Avengers, or his disappointment at actually having captured him and discovering that he wasn’t lying about Bucky’s involvement in the UN bombing.
“Turned himself in?” Steve was confused, and he was sure it wasn’t due to the lack of three liters of blood in his body. He shook his head as he closed his eyes, trying to steady his own breathing as he spoke. "Why would he do that? He wanted to activate other super soldiers in cryogenics, Tony."
"No," Tony stopped him in his tracks and pointed at him, his jaw clenched. "Don't call me that, Rogers."
Steve sighed, tired of the beating around the bush and secrets. Everyone avoided talking to him in that damn place. What had Tony so furious? He wanted to get things straight, even to explain his unnatural lack of sarcasm.
"There's something you're not telling me."
The billionaire laughed quietly, but there was nothing funny about it. "There was no super soldier with Zemo. The guy hates us, any altered human, in fact... He thinks they're a mistake. He just wanted me to see something, and I guess his original plan was for you to be there."
Steve was feeling more and more uneasy, his legs tingling, tempting him to come closer, but his brain was telling him to stay away. “What did she want you to see?”
Tony didn't respond. He just pulled his smartphone out of his elegant burgundy jacket and with a quick tap, the blue light revealed a grainy video, so it must have been an old recording, but clear enough to guess it was a security camera due to its location in the middle of the nighttime highway.
"December 16, 1991," the billionaire mumbled, the blue light of the phone illuminating his pursed lips, his jaw rigid as his fingers gripped the device as if he wanted to smash it to pieces.
A gray car enters the scene, and immediately a man on a motorcycle appears in pursuit. Steve's throat closes for a second, and he can't help but tear his eyes away to look at Tony with growing anguish, but Iron Man keeps watching the recording with an intensity comparable only to what the blond remembered from their first confrontation on the Helicarrier when they first met. Steve didn't know exactly what the footage showed, but he could recognize the man on the motorcycle in the darkness; the silver arm with the red star was more than enough to recognize him.
The Winter Soldier causes the car to crash into a tree by shooting out one of the tires. He gets off the motorcycle, and now Steve can see that cold, unfeeling expression, the same icy stare that had confronted him in Washington and nearly killed him. It was the look of a killer, not Bucky's, but how could he explain that to Tony?
Because then Steve's terror became reality when he saw the victims: Howard Stark and his wife, Maria. Tony's parents had both survived the initial crash, but the Winter Soldier cracked Howard's skull when he saw him crawling in the dirt, begging for help for his wife. Tony's eyes glaze over, but from the way his jaw clenches and his breathing quickens, Steve senses he knows what's coming. He's sure that ever since he discovered the tape, Tony has been watching it over and over again, obsessed... Tortured.
For Zemo, for Bucky, for him... Because Steve knew the Winter Soldier murdered his parents two years ago, but he fell, knowing that Tony could become erratic and unpredictable when he was furious.
Maybe, for the first time, he was grateful to be in a cell, where Tony's wrath couldn't quite reach him. Not that he didn't deserve it, but he wasn't in any shape to take a blow, either. But that wasn't an excuse seventy years ago. Yes, the short, skinny guy from Brooklyn would be disappointed to see him shudder as he watches his best friend strangle Maria Stark until she stops breathing. And that's when Tony can't take it anymore, turning off his phone and pointing at it with a trembling finger.
“Did you know? And if that's true, you better not lie,” he questioned in a low, tired voice. It was as if something inside Tony was begging for the answer to be no, but he only needed to see Steve's eyes to know the truth… To see his slip of the tongue.
Natasha told him he couldn't lie, and it was true.
The air in his lungs felt raw, and for once, he felt that asthma-like malaise that left him breathless. “Yes.”
Tony breathes deeply until he can't hold it, and his breath catches in his throat as he takes a step back, his eyes bulging. It was as if he'd been slapped, as if Steve's words could hurt more than any blow.
“You… You… knew, and you kept quiet.” The words came out barely audible, as if they were crumbling before they reached Steve. Tony opened his mouth to say something else, but closed it weakly. His chest rose and fell unevenly, and his eyes, once full of fire, now revealed only a gaping wound of betrayal.
There was an agonizing pain in the air that Steve could feel as well, because the tears holding back in both of their eyes were not only from the weight of the truth, but from what that discovery meant: The destruction of their friendship—however fragile, it still meant something to Steve—the final separation from the Avengers, was like a death in the family they refused to accept.
The Avengers would never be what the Howling Commandos had been to Steve; the original lineup was more like work friends, except for Natasha. It was because of her that Steve agreed to stay, and over the last year, they'd worked hard to forge a different kind of bond with Sam, Wanda, Rhodey, and Vision, but all that effort… It just evaporated.
The billionaire snorted as he ran a hand over his mouth, still staring at him. The meanness returned to his features, now tinged with disdain. “You not only helped a murderer escape, Rogers, but you protected him, defending him tooth and nail from a well-deserved punishment, even putting him above the team.”
Tony shook his head, looking at him as if the list of facts alone was insane, but Steve understood. He didn't know what Bucky was to him seventy years ago and what he still was now, no matter what version the Hydra wreckage left behind. Steve would love him, even if Bucky couldn't remember him yet or never would, he would, as long as he could be by his side. He'd already lost him once and wasn't planning on going through that sordid pain again.
"I did it," Steve accepted with a swallow. He closed his eyes as he stood up, a dizziness overtaking him, but he managed to walk to the cell entrance. "And I'd do it again. He's my friend, Tony."
Friend was a short word for what he truly wanted to say.
"Yeah, I was too," he reminded him coldly. Feeling like his legs could barely hold him up, the blond leaned against the glass, shaking his head with a lump in his throat.
He would have preferred to have the energy to be furious; now he just felt miserable.
“There’s no degree of comparison…” he dared to say, because if this was their last conversation for a long time, Steve wanted to unpack the baggage he’d been carrying since two years ago when Zola showed him those images in New Jersey. “He’s been by my side since we were kids, we shared a family, he took care of me when I was too helpless to do so, he supported me through the worst of times, he saved me, and…” Steve stopped to look at Tony, who still had that disturbed look, staring at him as if he’d gone crazy. Maybe he had, but that was blatant love, it wouldn’t listen to reason.
“You wouldn’t understand.”
Tony slammed his open palm against the glass, and that small movement made the sirens in the corners of the walls flash orange. Steve assumed they were some kind of alarm.
“Your damn problem is that you think you're so special all the time, but you know what, idiot? We've all suffered and lost people,” Tony said harshly, still staring at him. “You have a tragic story, congratulations, join the line, but that doesn't excuse… That thing up there killed my parents.”
Steve clenched his fists, his teeth nearly bursting in his mouth. Yes, once again, it seemed like something could revive his fighting instincts; he was the same man as always.
“Don't talk about Bucky like that,” he warned in a somber tone, his voice stronger and more convinced than it had been throughout the entire conversation.
Tony shook his head suspiciously. “That killing machine is just that: A potential weapon with your dead friend's face on it.”
Steve's face twisted in pain, and desperation surfaced. How many times had Sam and Natasha hinted at that in the last two years? They talked about chasing ghosts, but Steve knew Bucky was there.
“Stop it, shut up! He didn't do any of what you saw, he was controlled by Hydra!” he shouted, on the verge of helplessness, wondering how only he could see beyond the blood they'd forced him to shed, unable to differentiate the Winter Soldier from James Buchanan Barnes, charging him with sins and expecting him to answer for them. “They took control of his life, his body, and his mind! For God's sake, Tony, you saw the files, you know what they did to him... How they tortured him.”
“Yeah, and they almost finished the generational work with me, too.” He muttered with sharp, malicious sarcasm, not his usual carefree one; this one was loaded with the venom to hurt with what were now his priorities. “He's dangerous.”
“Like all of us with powers, huh?” Steve challenged him, because that was a conversation they never ended at the compound. “Come on, now say we're a threat.”
Tony frowned, shaking his head and crossing his arms as he looked at him in disbelief. “Now you want to blame me, you hypocritical bastard.”
“Stark, open your eyes!” Steve yelled desperately against the glass. “The agreements aren’t a law of protection, but of control. This time it was us, but how long until you end up here?”
“I’m too valuable to share your pigsty, Rogers, and honestly, I hope you rot here,” he whispered under his breath as he drawled out each word.
Tony laughed dryly as he walked away from the cell, but the super soldier was sure it was just bragging. Part of his facade, because he knew that if anyone didn’t trust government institutions, it was Iron Man.
“Tony, you don’t know what’s going on here…” Steve muttered as Tony got further and further away, fear creeping into his tone. But what were the chances he’d believe him? Or, in any case, why would he help them? As far as he understood, Tony believed the Raft was right where he belonged now.
“What they deserve, probably,” he said with his back turned indifferently, but before he stepped through that door, Tony stopped mid-stride. When He turned, his eyes flooded with disappointment, as if the surge of emotions were impossible to contain, but his voice, though firm, wavered at the edges.
“And the worst part is, you threw not only your life away for a man who doesn't exist, but you dragged our friends into this gruesome dungeon. You did it, Rogers… So deal with the consequences while I try to get the cyborg upstairs taken apart piece by piece.”
Steve's heart raced, believing Tony was capable of anything at that moment.
“Stark!” he yelled angrily, his heart pounding, his breathing erratic, and his vision began to shake with agitation as he desperately searched for a way out, any weak spot, but the cell was a tomb. Helplessness burned in his chest, to the point where he was ready to pound on the glass until his knuckles broke if necessary to keep him from getting close to Bucky if he was planning to hurt him. If you lay a hand on him…”
“What will you do, old man?” he asked with a muffled sneer. “You better sit down before your blood pressure drops, you're probably about to faint. Besides, what happens with Barnes won't matter much now; you've reached the end of the road.”
Steve felt something inside him give way, like a rope stretched to its limit. It wasn't just physical exhaustion; it was the recognition that, for the first time, he had no way to change what was about to happen. He was trapped in body and mind.
When Tony Stark left the cell that day, he didn't return, at least not to his own cell. There were no more visits, no more conversations, not even a hint that he still cared about what he'd left behind. Steve knew that anger could turn even the best of men into a complete stranger, but the silence was what truly hurt.
The medical tests continued, but something changed. It wasn't just blood draws anymore. They were reduced to once a week, but the scientists came with new purposes: taking samples of skin and even muscle tissue. Steve began to notice the pattern; they weren't studying him to control him; they were archiving his existence, tearing him apart into tiny fragments. Every drop of blood, every piece of flesh, every clinical report was another part of him stored for future experiments, as if his body no longer belonged to him. It was as if they were preparing for when he no longer existed, but in the meantime, they were trying to make the most of it.
At first, he tried to fight, but rage wasn't enough when your own biology was the object of study. He weakened. The color drained from his face. He began to lose his sense of time, the days and weeks melting like fog in his head. How much time had passed? A year? More? No one spoke to him, no one mentioned the outside world. He became 067, just another number in the vast underwater prison. A medical metric. A specimen. An object.
And then, one Christmas Day, he overheard the guards discussing how Thaddeus Ross announced his candidacy for president. The man hadn't lied; he was running for Ellis's position. Steve barely heard it, but it hit him like a punch to the chest. Ross. President.
It was obvious now that there wouldn't be an Iron Man to advocate for them, and Nastasha wouldn't come, as she probably had her own problems staying on the move, away from radar, so they were on their own. No one would come. And if the Secretary of Defense rose to power, the Sokovia Accords would not only survive, but expand, turning every emerging individual with abilities into a mere object to be exploited as a weapon. Steve saw it clearly now: this prison was no exception; it was the future.
And their actions hadn't brought them there, but their very existence had, because those empty cells would soon be full… That's why the Raft was so big; it was a project designed for the masses.
That was what finally woke him up.
If the world wanted to see him as a criminal, fine. He'd give them reasons to see him as one. If they called him a traitor, a rebel, an extremist… he'd accept it, as long as he did the right thing. And the right thing to do was to end the Sokovia Accords, Ross, and everyone who thought they could destroy free will in the name of security.
Whatever the cost.
Steve would take the battle into his own hands, because there was no one else left. He would escape, and this time, he wouldn't resort to diplomatic measures. The time for peace was over, although in reality… It was never an option.
So he waited for a week, what he hadn't done in over a year. He observed. He calculated. Every patrol schedule, every shift change, every vulnerability in the security structure. His mind stopped regretting and began sharpening itself like a razor to return to old habits. There was no more fear or regret. Only conviction because he next time they took him to that lab, it would be the last.
Chapter Text
People used to call him "The Man with a Plan," but the truth is, most of the time, Steve didn't have one. Instead, he had a rough idea of what he was up against, then improvised along the way. His success on a mission could have a lot to do with the infinite luck Erskine instilled in him, almost like a magnet alongside the serum in his veins. He liked to think of it as a kind of restitution for having died, leaving him with the burden of being the super soldier with the perfect formula.
So, when he got it into his head to escape the Raft, he had to come up with a strategy, but he quickly realized that from his solitary confinement cell, he didn't have much of a chance. There were three guard shifts, which had been reduced to two that week for the Christmas and New Year's holidays, but since the first holiday had passed, Steve figured the last day of 2017 would be the most opportune date to get out.
Fewer guards were on duty, but even though it was Sunday, it was the day Steve had his doctor's appointment. Aaron Wensel wasn't a very open man, usually reserved, suspicious, and very authoritarian in his lab. He didn't seem to have much of a personal life outside of prison. In fact, he seemed obsessed with his work, due to the methodical and disciplined way he carried it out. He rarely took breaks, even if Steve trusted the complaints of his assistant, Sheila, who always accompanied him, carrying folders or handling the genetic samples obtained from Steve.
Wensel never told him his name; Steve learned his and Sheila's from the surnames embroidered on their coats, the conversations he overheard when the narcotic wore off—too quickly, often mid-procedure—or just as he walked down the second-floor hallway.
Having super hearing was one of his greatest advantages; it was like having sound cameras without the rest of them knowing. He listened more than he should, absorbing information beyond what his eyes were capable of gathering. So by December 31st, Steve could be sure Wensel wouldn't miss his scheduled appointment.
He had no idea what would be drawn, since blood samples were usually taken during the week, although on Friday it was a tooth that had already grown back. Wasting energy didn't seem like a good plan, but then again, half the things he was likely to face that night would be unknown. He'd infiltrated and sabotaged buildings before on his own, but the element of surprise was on his side—maybe it would be again, since he doubted anyone would suspect him of trying to escape, thanks to his unfriendly streak of the last year. The Raft was supposed to be a super-prison, tailored with protocols to contain people like him, if not specifically him.
“Don’t feel important, you punk” he could hear Buck muttering inside his head every time he went down doing a push-up, making him smirk before huffing, beads of sweat running down his forehead.
Exercising early in the morning or in the afternoon was a habit, but it also served to keep him in shape and kill time when he ran out of books or drawing paper.
He looked at his watch, noticing it was almost six o'clock, so any moment now, one of the security teams would come down to take him to Wensel's lab. Steve did a set of ten more push-ups before stopping with a sharp exhale, feeling his abdomen and arms tingle with heat as he stood up, walking to the edge of the glass as he went over his plan again:
He would wait until he was in the testing area where Wensel and Sheila were usually accompanied by two or three guards. One of them would leave for the cafeteria or get a snack from the vending machine once Steve was strapped in. But Steve planned to attack as soon as he had a free hand, just before his wrists were trapped in the metal base, giving them no chance to put any drug needles into his neck.
If he managed to neutralize the lab, he'd have to find a way to get back to the first floor where the rest of the prisoners were and free his friends. His first idea was to use the vents. He'd seen how large they were, and if the doors closed as a security measure, it could be a classic way to get around. Maybe they'd even be waiting for him at the next vent door, or there might be an electric mechanism that would shock him.
Steve stopped that thought and closed his eyes, because he found a catch with every exit. He shook his head in denial as he wiped the sweat from his forehead and stared angrily at the still-closed doors, coming to the conclusion that a little improvisation wouldn't hurt. If he kept analyzing, he'd always find some flaw that could lead to the plan being scrapped. But his time was running out, and if he didn't take advantage of the opportunity now, it might be too late when another one arose.
Tony had told him he'd like to see him rot there, but Steve wasn't planning on giving him that pleasure. So he decided he'd work with what he had. First, he'd try to keep his hands free in the lab, and then move forward from there.
If Natasha could see him, she'd scold him for trying to force his way through, but ever since he was born with weak lungs, he'd had to make do with only what was at hand. Wishing didn't help, but moving forward, even if it was step by step, would at least get him somewhere.
Maybe into the jaws of death, but that four-walled cell was better.
The alarms in his isolation area flashed green, and the central doors finally opened, admitting five familiar figures. He glanced back, noting it was 6:05, so maybe he'd gotten a little lost in his own thoughts.
"The doctor won't like me being late for my appointment, Saunders. He'll get cranky" Steve crooned to the guard, backing into the back of the room with his hands behind his head. He knew the drill.
“Oh, I'm sure you'll be lenient with us today. After all, we delivered a nice Christmas present straight to your door, huh, big guy?” He patted Steve's shoulder casually, and Steve clenched his jaw. He didn't like being touched without his permission, and Saunders must have remembered that when he noticed his pointed look, making him take a step back with that tight smile and his hand on the stun gun.
They cuffed his hands behind his back, as well as his ankles. While the electric shock collar on his neck was enough of a threat, they'd only used it on him once, even at its full strength, it hadn't knocked him out, but the burning pain did make him drop to his knees and bite his tongue until it bled. It wasn't pleasant, so he had to find a way to get it off, too.
The walk was short because of the route he'd memorized. There were no elevators, but he knew there was one at the end of the hallway to the left. He could hear the sliding cables and the technical staff gathering before heading to the control area on the first floor, closer to the surface where they could get a better signal.
Walking through the hallways was almost a drag, as his legs couldn't spread too far apart, so he might as well have looked like a duck. It was humiliating the first few times, and that sizzling anger in his veins made him want to tear them to pieces and run.
Run—Steve wanted to run again and not stop until he found a goal. He wanted to feel his body whole, not limited and locked up like a poor tiger pacing in its cage. Maybe it was the serum giving him anxiety because it couldn't be used, or maybe it was his own head telling him he should be outside, doing something other than whining or cursing his captors.
Because that's what they'd become, hadn't it? These law enforcement officers claimed to work for the same country he'd once served, but treated him no better than the dirt in their shoes. As if he'd suddenly become their unforgivable enemy for having his own opinion. Besides, those involved in that prison knew they were experimenting on him, knew about Wensel and his violations of the Geneva Conventions, and they didn't care. No one there was innocent. Everyone was complicit in the same crime.
And if the chips were stacked like this, then he'd have to make the same move or be smarter. There was even the possibility that... Steve didn't have to keep playing, but rather break the board, but that would be crossing a complete line.
To stop believing in redemption, to stop seeing what people could be for what they truly were. The ugly monstrosity baring its gnawing, sadistic teeth.
“Nunez says he needs me and Hudson downstairs” Officer Roach said, so she and another man separated from the group when they passed the infirmary.
Saunders frowned. “What happened?”
“Just Poindexter. Seems the man was a little anxious about his lack of pills” Roach commented with a shrug. Steve had heard more than once that some prisoners were given drugs; he sensed it was to keep them drugged more than for their health.
The redhead snorted as he shook his head, but nodded, gesturing down the hallway. “That stuff gets them addicted faster than crack, huh? Come on, I want to get some food soon.”
Roach and Hudson nodded before walking in the opposite direction. That left Steve with three guards. Was this some kind of universal signal? Because he was going to take it as such.
“This is Kelly, open the lab. Gate 17” Kelly murmured, and the grayish hallways lit up in a sea-green light from the bulb hanging above the door.
Sheila stood on the other side, her face nervous, biting the inside of her cheek as she pulled her hand from the scanner code that opened the lab from the inside. The gray changed to white, a color Steve had learned to disdain, especially because of the fluorescent lights that now gave him a migraine every time he saw them.
His fists clenched as he saw Wensel appear behind a microscope with a cart full of the usual medical instruments, though this time there were no saws or scalpels in sight, only bottles of anesthesia, antiseptic, syringes—though the absence of the pumping machine made Steve think these weren't blood samples—extremely thin, albeit very long, needles, and others that were enormous.
A shiver ran through him at the thought that they were trying to put that in his body, or maybe they had already done it and he didn't even realize it. It was true that normal anesthesia was quickly consumed in him by his metabolism, but there was a point where he truly fell unconscious before waking up. What was going on there? He had no idea, but it infuriated and angered him.
“It looks painful, but I'm sure you'll barely feel it… although with so much muscle, it might be a setback. It would be easier if I didn't have it,” Wensel muttered boredly, letting out an exasperated sigh as he touched his hip and the defined muscle below his abdomen.
The blond squirmed, shying away from the touch with his lips pursed together. Wensel twisted his lips in annoyance and pointed at the metal table that came with metal handcuffs attached to his arms and legs. It had been there before when the man had ripped off pieces of meat like a damn butcher.
“Put Prisoner 067 on the table, we need him face down,” he ordered as he put on his surgical gloves.
Every part of Steve screamed at him to resist, but he had to take a deep breath and calm himself, as the crucial part of his plan was about to come, where he needed to catch the guards off guard. He needed to feign obedience, so he walked toward the stretcher with an indifferent face.
“Manning, prepare the anesthetic, but first, pass me the aspirating needle. I need to install it in the trocar.” Wensel’s voice continued to dominate their little kingdom as two of the guards held Steve by the arms before sitting him down.
“Yes, Doctor,” Sheila answered hastily. There was a bit of sweat on her forehead. It was something Steve remembered about her: she was like a mouse around him, afraid to get too close, but he also hadn’t missed the times when she would stare at him for just a second too long, as if she wanted to tell him something. Maybe she felt something else. Guilt? There was a stale smell of burnt tobacco in the air. Wensel didn't smoke in his lab, but he had a bad habit of doing so in the hallway, and despite the sanitization, the scent clung to the fabric of his lab coat. So the blond used it as a guide to know when he was done, even with the guards covering his view.
They released his feet from the handcuffs for a moment, and it was as if his blood began to race. The tingling he felt in the hallways multiplied, and his heart raced like a drum about to burst as soon as he raised his gaze, connecting with Kelly's green ones. The man must have seen her blue orbs darken from the violent energy coursing through her body, because he saw fear in her eyes.
“Stay still, Rogers…” he muttered through gritted teeth, as if speaking to a wild horse about to kick him, and he wasn’t far from reality. For a second, the super soldier remained frozen in place, his muscles tense, his breathing steady and controlled, but inside, every fiber of his body was about to explode.
Then, when he saw out of the corner of his eye the syringe in Sheila’s hand trembling and Kelly moving a millimeter forward to pull the stun gun from its holster, Steve attacked.
His foot came up with precision, putting all his strength into the kick that connected with Kelly’s face with devastating force. The sound of bone breaking resonated like a sharp gunshot, a satisfying crunch that Steve had to admit to himself he’d been longing to hear for the past few months. Kelly fell backward, her head hitting the metal table, blood oozing out in thick streams as she wriggled in place, grunting in pain.
Wasting no time, Steve twisted his body, using the momentum to throw an elbow at Saunders, who had him pinned by the shoulders. The blow landed just below his ribcage, and Saunders let out a strangled gasp before collapsing against a cabinet, his back slamming into the shelves of medical instruments. He coughed violently, spitting blood through his teeth as he tried to catch his breath. He wasn't sure where he hit, but maybe he punctured a rib. This time he wasn't about to measure his blows.
Behind him, the third guard barely had time to react before Steve snapped his head back, knocking him out with a pair of protruding teeth. There was something wet in his already long hair after that, probably blood. The impact was enough to send Moss reeling backward, disoriented. His pistol fell to the floor with a metallic clang and slid under a shelf that Steve watched closely, as he'd surely need it later.
Screams erupted around them.
"He killed them, you killed him!" Sheila screamed in panic, running toward Wensel, who shook her, his eyes wide open. It was the first time Steve had seen real emotion, and fear wasn't pleasant.
"Call security, now! Security!" he ordered frantically as he watched Steve jump from the table, still handcuffed, but more mobile than he had been in months.
He had the space to grab things and choke if necessary, but this time he only grabbed the largest needle on the movable shelf next to him and threw it at Sheila, who was already running toward the panic button mounted on the wall.
"Help, help! Ah!" Her scream was muffled as the needle caught her midway in the calf, and she fell to the floor abruptly with a groan.
Steve wasn't deluded. Even if he held the doctor or the guards, the technicians in the control room must have already grasped what was happening in the infirmary or were about to find out. Time was of the essence; he needed to neutralize and completely free himself before locking himself in the lab.
"The collar, Manning, give me the remote!" Wensel roared as he crouched beside Sheila while his clumsy hands searched for the remote in his lab coat pocket, ignoring his assistant's whimpers for relief from the sharp pain in his leg.
In a calculated move, he launched a direct kick at Wensel's wrist, sending the remote crashing into the wall. They both witnessed it shatter into pieces with a few sparks that only increased Steve's confidence and the doctor's terror.
“I think you can discharge me now, Wensel” the blond couldn’t help but mock dryly and with a bitterness that transformed his face into what could well have been a furious beast with all the beard he had grown in recent months.
Wensel yanked the needle out of Sheila's leg, causing her to hiss before lunging at Steve, but the blond stopped the movement with the handcuffs before sweeping her feet with a light kick. Once on the ground, he gave her no time to react and moved forward with impossible speed, trapping the scientist by the neck with his left arm.
The fear in Wensel's eyes turned to pure despair as the super soldier turned his head slightly and sank his teeth into the man's skin. He could have killed him quickly, or he could have not, but Steve wanted to make one point clear to anyone watching: He wasn't going to allow men like him to get away with this unpunished act.
Wensel's scream was muffled by a gurgling sound as Steve pulled away, spitting out the piece of meat with a grimace of disgust. The metallic smell was unbearable, but at least better than the sterilant. The blood stuck to her face and neck, surely giving nightmares to those watching the security cameras.
That reminded him... of the cameras. He quickly scanned the room, noting that there were three of them, and they were in the corners, so he needed that gun under the shelf, but first...
Sheila squealed, reminding Steve of her presence. The blond turned and saw her standing shakily, clutching the syringe full of anesthetic in both hands.
"Put that down, please" the blond asked in a softer voice, trying to be kind, although after what she saw him do, she probably wouldn't believe him.
"No... No, help!" she yelled again, turning toward the exit to try to flee. Steve snorted in resignation, but managed to catch her before she could cross the threshold. With a quick twist, he secured her with the handcuffs he still had on her wrists and, with one precise movement, broke her neck before she could panic. Sheila's body fell without resistance, making him sigh as he looked back and gulped at the damage she left behind. It had been a while since he'd left a place so covered in so much blood.
Now he had only seconds before an armored security team arrived to break down the door. He would try to delay them by blocking it, so he stood in front of the handheld scanner and slammed his fist down, breaking it until he reached some wires, surrounding them and pulling them out like roots.
"Rogers, open the door, you're surrounded," a man's voice ordered on the other side. Steve could only guess that the team had arrived, or maybe the entire damn security team, since he could hear the high-pitched sound of the emergency siren and he bet it was glowing a furious red.
The blond hoped that signal would prepare his friends.
The fluorescent lights began to flicker until they went out, including the door, Steve prayed that would be enough to hold them back, at least for a moment.
“Back there, there seems to be a power outage in this area!” Hudson's raspy voice warned through the communicator still attached to Saunders' body.
“He must have blocked the door, Giles,” Agent Roach said as the first man who spoke banged on the door to intimidate him.
“There's nowhere to run, Rogers!”
She heard him give orders for someone to fix the problem, but Roach explained that the door only opened from the inside, so that wasn't a problem, as Giles opted for blowing it up. Steve had no idea what a good idea it was to blow things up in an underwater prison.
He quickly searched Kelly's and Saunders' bodies until he found the keys he needed to free himself from the handcuffs. Saunders must have lost consciousness from the pain at some point. With agile movements, he took Kelly's hand and pressed her fingerprint against the shock collar. The red light turned green, and the mechanism released with a click.
For the first time in months, he gasped for air without feeling that weight on his neck. He ran a hand over his irritated skin and squeezed for a second before letting go, as he heard the sound of hurried footsteps outside the lab again. They were new, so they must be bringing in the explosives.
He grabbed Moss's stun gun and the BB gun Stautson always carried loaded to show off. He shot the security cameras in his area. Even though they weren't working now, he didn't want to leave a way to track him if the power came back on while he was still there.
He searched desperately for the ventilation ducts, but the only one he found was narrower, so he tried his luck in the two adjoining rooms of the lab. He moved forward with the gun raised, opening the door quickly and without much care, since he hadn't heard any noise in the room either. However, when he entered, Steve froze.
The room was dark, so he couldn't see much unless he got closer, and his enhanced vision helped clarify the image. But in the background was what looked like a glass capsule illuminated by a yellow light emitted from the base.
Inside was a blond man wearing a red full-body suit. His eyes were closed, as if he were asleep. Steve's eyes widened in horror, and his lips trembled for a second as his mind pounded with disbelief that dissipated, giving way to fury.
Why were they keeping a man in a capsule inside a prison, asleep? Was he in cryogenics? No, if he was, there must be ice, and he was just asleep. Still, he seemed to be hidden. Why would the man hide someone like that?
Then the lights in his head lit up, saying, "Experiment."
Frowning, fists clenched, Steve took a step forward, but then, as if his shock couldn't get any worse, he had to hold his breath for a second as he took a good look at the blond man in the tank... or what he thought was a man.
Looking down, he noticed the golden title in the faded, peeling letters: The Synthetic Man. The memory hit him like a whiplash; this wasn't the first time he'd seen him face to face. No, it was at the 1943 Stark Expo. It was one of the exhibits on display. They'd said it was a humanized android, capable of flight and catching fire without burning, but as far as Steve knew, it was a prototype.
Bucky was fascinated; he'd said it would be great to be able to fly.
"Imagine avoiding the subway and Monday morning traffic. That would be great, Steve." He still remembered him with that dreamy air and the easy smile he missed so much afterward. How could he have known that would be the last night he'd see him so happy and carefree? If he had known, he wouldn't have left his side, wouldn't have let him board that ship...
But if he had done that, he would never have been Captain America. The night he let Bucky go, he met Erskine.
Steve breathed deeply, leaning his forehead against the glass tube and looking at the android. He looked like a fit adult, but not at all old; perhaps he looked his age. He'd tried his hand at thinking machines in recent years and knew it could turn out very well, like with Vision, or terribly badly, like Ultron.
What could this Synthetic Man be? A threat or his ally? He was uncomfortable with the idea of leaving him there now that he knew he existed. What if he was like Bucky? Held against his will or without knowing who he was working for? Because he was sure his only purpose, for which he was created in a time of war like theirs, was to be a soldier, a weapon.
The blond leaned over and continued cleaning the letters, noticing the old Stark Industries logo, confirming that Tony's company was involved in its creation, or even... Did Iron Man know the government had the android? Or did Tony even know of its existence? An explosion made Steve stagger in place, and immediately, every one of his senses was back on alert, and he gripped the pistol in his hand as he ran after the pod. They'd already detonated something, but he wasn't sure if the door had fallen.
"It's loose now, but it won't open yet. We need more," Hudson said over the communicator. The blond man breathed lightly for a few seconds and looked at the android at his side. What if he activated it? Frankly, he was alone now, and if those doors opened, there was a 50/50 chance he'd be recaptured, and Steve swore to God he wasn't going back to that damn cell.
"No, Secretary Ross is already upset enough that I interrupted his dinner with the President. If we make a hole in this place, he'll kill us" Giles commented, then snorted irritably. "Get the battering ram, we'll do this old-school."
The super soldier stopped listening when he stepped on a pair of cables, noticing at least five of them connected from the capsule to some kind of console with buttons covered by a blanket and somewhat dusty. Steve quickly bent down, pulling the fabric aside with a sharp movement.
The console was ancient, with buttons cracked by time and a blank screen. He didn't know how long the Synthetic Man had been trapped there, but if his theory was correct, then the government had deliberately kept him inactive.
Another explosion echoed outside, vibrating the ground beneath his boots. There was no time.
He clenched his jaw and ran his fingertips over the wires attached to the base of the pod. Five main connections. Four appeared to be power supplies, and a final, thicker one was connected to a sealed panel with a security code. An activation lock, one last check to prevent the android from waking up.
If Steve wanted to free him, he needed to overload the pod, and maybe that would wake him. He examined the button panel. Some labels were illegible, but one caught his eye: "Thermal Ignition – Lockout Engaged."
“I wish you were here, Tony,” he sighed. He was sure he’d know what to do in a heartbeat, but if it worked, the billionaire was more likely to add “thief” to his list of insults.
He went ahead and pressed the ignition button, since from what he remembered from the exposition, the android powered up not only with power, but with extreme heat. At first, nothing happened, but then a low hum began to vibrate inside the pod, and the yellow light at its base began to intensify, going from a dim gold to a bright red.
The heat was increasing.
The pod trembled slightly, as if the man’s body inside was beginning to react, but the lockout was still active. Steve gritted his teeth. He needed more power… But how? He rubbed his forehead, a cry of frustration swirling in his stomach until he remembered Vision's birth: Yes, he was fighting with Tony until Thor came in and slammed his hammer into the pod, finishing charging it.
"A flash of lightning... Energy," Steve rethought, but he also remembered there was no light because of his work blocking the door. However, perhaps there was a spare battery or one of his own, since the android's pod had still been lit when he found it.
The super soldier spun sharply toward the console and pulled out the power cables one by one, leaving only the largest connected. If he could force a short circuit in the system, the burst of internal energy should be enough to break the seal.
But he had to do it quickly; they were already pounding the door with the battering ram, each boom like a rattle in his ears. The blond pulled out Stautson's bullet gun and spun it around in his hand, aiming at the distribution box next to the pod. If he scored a direct hit, the short would overload the system, raising the temperature to the breaking point.
Without hesitation, he pulled the trigger.
The bullet pierced the power box, generating a violent sizzle. A burst of sparks shot out, traveling along the exposed wires and directly into the pod. A cracking sound echoed in the air—a metallic groan—until the pod's glass began to crack from the extreme heat contained within.
Steve stepped back, preparing for what was coming.
The air vibrated with a dry roar as the capsule exploded from within, shattering glass into a fiery shower. He quickly brought his hands to his face and wrapped them around his head as he shrank back to his knees. Still, he felt tiny fragments slicing into his hands and through the thin blue prison uniform.
When the sharp rain ended, Steve slowly raised his head. In the center of the wreckage, surrounded by smoke and small flames, a figure shuffled its shoulders. There were small spasms in its neck and hands. All Steve could think was: It worked.
He thought the android would burst into flames. However, the super soldier was surprised when he opened his eyes and instead of fire, he saw human eyes a lighter blue than his own. Inside, there was no fury, only… confusion. Until he stares at him, then there's recognition, a nostalgic one, like seeing an old friend after so long, followed by disbelief.
"Captain America" the Synthetic Man murmurs, but it's painfully youthful.
Steve is surprised that he recognizes him, even with his beard and hair longer than he ever had in the army. If he went back to that time, he'd probably be considered a bum. Now, though, it might well be the image he needed to start over.
"Not anymore."
Etrie on Chapter 1 Fri 09 May 2025 11:36PM UTC
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ladyofbotticelli on Chapter 1 Sat 10 May 2025 06:31AM UTC
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Cks4661 on Chapter 2 Sun 11 May 2025 02:35AM UTC
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ladyofbotticelli on Chapter 2 Sun 11 May 2025 05:33AM UTC
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PanamaRed on Chapter 3 Mon 26 May 2025 02:10PM UTC
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