Back to Barnes // the winter soldier

22: never ending

At an achingly slow pace, my fuzzy brain caught up with my surroundings: my barely-covered skin embraced with a lurid cold, my vision still obscured by the bandana, the ache radiating around my head, the dried blood caked on my cheek, jaw, neck and chest, the chains on my wrists and ankles, and the cold pole that they were cuffed to.

My mind, once fueled but also dulled with the power of Jack now lacking without, was not communicating with the rest of my body to scream and pull at the chains. And after a moment, I remembered why.

I condemned myself to this.

Assuming I was in New Zealand and it was January, the mind-numbing cold was disorienting - it should be hot, not cold. It surely couldn't have been that cold outside. I'd survived three months in the Russian winter and that was nothing compared to this. My stiff body felt glued to the pole behind me. My bare feet arched off the cement, almost surely ripping skin off. My jaw was numb, my whole body ached, and the fact that I was wearing a torn shirt and no pants did not help me at all. I felt like my body was going to permanently freeze there. There was no refuge. If I had the strength, I would have cried.

Then, breaking the dead silence, there was a door creaking open followed by two pairs of shuffling feet.

"Volkov," A hard and stern male voice sounded once the door shut. "Where's the soldier?"

I kept my head hung low, feigning unconsciousness as they continued to talk.

"Still with them." That man from the pier was there. Volkov.

There was an ache in my core as I held in a panicked sob.

"And why is this women in his place?" The first man asked.

"Damon fucked up, we have to deal with her. The new plan is this: she's an easier target. This woman is easily one of Nick's best agents. Without her, he's lost a lot of intelligence. So it's either her or the soldier. Nick knows. He's very aware of that. He brings us the soldier, we give her back. No soldier equals dead agent." Volkov explained, his tone dead even the whole time.

This horrible strategy was exactly what I didn't think of. At least, I didn't think it through enough. I thought playing superhero would save the day when, in all reality, I've condemned Bucky to a life as a slave or myself to death, if not both. Most likely both.

Fury wasn't going to come for me. It was the life of a foolish agent in comparison to keeping a worldwide enemy out of destructive hands. One life compared to countless. Knowing Fury, he would make the right choice in his mind, and it wouldn't be in my favor.

The first man didn't respond. Volkov spoke again. "Remove the blindfold."

The first man walked towards me, only a few steps, then stopped. Instead of removing the bandana from my eyes, large and leather-clad hands found their way to my chest in a horribly panic-inducing way. On instinct, I rammed my painfully numb knee between his legs and without missing a beat he returned that with a bone-crushingly strong punch to my abdomen. I cry of pain left my lips as my knees buckled, the cuffs around my wrists (apparently directly connected to the pole) kept me from falling down, which is all my aching body wanted to do.

The blindfold was removed and my tired eyes were greeted with bright light. I shut my eyes quickly, refusing to open them against the tears welling up in them.

"Glad you're awake, Agent Brookes." Volkov greeted, grabbing my jaw to force me to look at him as my eyes adjusted.

I didn't say a word and in that moment of panic and pain and fear and weakness, I gave up. I wasn't going to fight - I had dug myself too deep to get out now. I clenched my jaw, feeling woozy and tired.

"Not going to fight?" He asked, a smile reminiscent of Damon's creepy grin on his lips. "Good. It wouldn't have ended well . . . But I assume you've noticed that already."

My crumpled position weakened, the pain in my stomach and head amplified.

"Now, you're standing in what we call the Cold Room. Clever, isn't it? Well, at the moment, the temperature is at negative twelve and dropping. You're not dressed for that, now are you? Answer a few questions for Agent Vasiliev and we'll take you out. Refuse and you'll see where resistance gets you." He winks at me before folding his hands behind his back and walking back out the door.

I took my first good look at the man beside me. He was dressed just as the soldiers at the dock: loose black uniform, black bullet-proof vest, and black helmets with the Hydra emblem. The butt of the black gun on his back held three red stripes.

He glared at me. "Stand straight."

I did as he ordered, correcting my posture as best I could with aching bones.

He took on a wider stance, folding his hands between his hips. "Where's SHIELD's new base?"

I kept my mouth shut, staring right back at him. At my silence he pulled a baton from his hip and bashed it into my side with the force of his whole body. This time, a horrific sob left my mouth. I bent sideways in pain, banging my head against the pole and gritting my teeth. The thoughts of how long this would go on made me feel sick.

"Is Nick Fury keeping the soldier there?" He quizzed, voice louder and angrier than before.

I didn't answer, consumed in the pain radiating around my body.

He returned my silence with a blunt smack to my head - right where I was already hit. I shut my eyes tight, my sobs growing consistent.

I would not answer. My life wasn't as important as Bucky's and I would never risk his - No more than I already had, I guess. If they wanted answers, they would find them out without me. God willing, after I was dead.

The questions continued for the next hour or so. I didn't say a single word, not even begging for mercy as the temperature dropped so low my body started turning purple and black. In the end I was too weak to cry, bleeding from the head and chest and shins and thighs and sides, and light-headed from blood loss. He stood there, fuming, for five minutes, before unlocking the cuffs binding my wrists and ankles. I ungracefully collapsed to the blood-splattered floor in a filthy and exhausted heap.

After forcing me up with a kick to my side, he pushed me out the door and down the hall.

I had seen these halls all those months ago. Back then, it was I doing the butt-kicking and beating. The other way around, it didn't feel all that great.

We rounded the corner into an old bank-vault-looking room. In the center sat a chair reminiscent of one you'd find in a dentist, but decked out in a large halo set and attached cuffs. Beside this was two monitors, a rolling stool, and an IV pole with a bag of fluorescent purple liquid attached.

My fuzzy mind followed orders to sit down, relieved to be able to take pressure off of my legs and feet. The room was significantly warmer than the Cold Room, shocking my dull senses. With a sigh of exhaustion, I shut my eyes and leaned back in the seat. Not a moment later, there was a group of men in lab coats swarming me.

A shrill screech of fear escaped me as the cuffs encircled my wrists and the IV was placed in the inside of my elbow. Within moments, my vision turned blurry and my head spun. My screaming ceased as I proceeded to get sick all over myself.

After five or so minutes of this, everything under my neck went numb as my heat rate picked up.

"What did you do to me?" I screeched in an awful, tired and raspy voice. "What did you do?!" My breathing picked up as breathing picked up. My thoughts ran a million miles an hour and my whole body shook. I could feel my sense of control slipping away with every passing second until all I could hear was loud ringing and all I could see was an out-of-focus depiction of what was in front of me.

And it didn't end. It wouldn't end.