a lion among wolves, bucky barnes (hiatus)

twelve.

MOSCOW, RUSSIA
2004

June wanted to die.

In that moment, she knew she truly did. So many hands grabbed at her, groped at her, tore off her clothes and thrust her into a thin piece of fabric. Hands so cold they had to be dead. Hands so rough they had to be those of men. She was screaming. Her throat was bleeding. Something frigid pressed against the nape of her neck, and suddenly someone forced her head back and a knife tore through her hair, slicing the tresses unevenly and close to her scalp. This made her sob harder, her chest shriveling as the thick pieces of hair fell in a ring about her. Her wrists and ankles were bound with steel; she could not fight back. June gasped for breath over her hysterics as she somehow screamed with her whole body, eyes squeezed shut in paralyzed terror.

Please, let me die, she prayed to any god that was listening, tears falling over her eyelashes and onto the floor to be stamped on by scuffling boots that ushered her to a dim room, empty save for a ring of narrow, dingy cots surrounded by vital monitors. The swarm of black-garbed men wrestled her onto one of those cots, and then did the last thing June expected; they cut her bonds. Her freedom was short lived, (though she was already so beaten and bloody, any sort of escape would be in vain) for the next moment a needle like ice was stabbed into the soft flesh of her forearm, and her muscles went limp. June cried out in frustration and fear, powerless as a gloved hand snatched up her wrist and handcuffed her to the iron bedframe.

So she laid still, helpless and afraid, teeth chattering as her body trembled in protest against the foreign drug swimming through its blood. Suddenly the men like shadows dispersed, making way for a man June could only describe as the devil himself.

His eyes were aggressive and snappish, ice blue and mean, the right one magnified slightly by a modernized monocle. His hair was buzzed close to his head, his frame cloaked in black that sank into the dark around him. He regarded her with a belittling and depersonalizing gaze that made June feel alienated by the world. When the perturbing man spoke, voice thick with a German accent, it was like rocks grinding against each other.

"You speak English, Fräulein?" he asked her slickly.

June could not have replied if she wanted to, but the man continued without confirmation.

"You must be afraid," he said coolly. "I understand. This will not be an easy transition. For that, I apologize," he smiled wickedly. "I am Baron Wolfgang von Strucker, and you, my dear girl, have been handed an unsurpassable honor."

His eyes danced madly. "You are to be the rebirth of Hydra."

June shot up in a frigid sweat, gasping for air. Her hair was sweat-sodden and plastered to her cheeks and neck as tears spilled from her wide eyes. A strangled noise escaped her throat, like that of an animal choked by a snare. June was frozen amid a sea of disheveled sheets for many long moments. Eventually the paralysis waned from her limbs and she tore away the blankets that had enthralled her like a straightjacket. June heaved in lungfuls of air, her heart slamming against her chest so violently it physically hurt. A weak sob tumbled from her lips as the room began to spin, and her throat constricted tightly. She suddenly felt—knew—the walls were going to swallow her, the floor collapse beneath her, let her careen into blackness. In her daze, she caught a glimpse of the alarm clock by the bedside table. It was six in the morning, the moon was fading from the deep blue dawn, and June could not breathe.

An idea suddenly struck her. Quivering uncontrollably, June swung her legs over the side of the bed and groped around in the dark until her hands grasped her phone. She pressed in a number that was like a mantra to her fingers.