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P R O L O G U E
α
"Ignorance is bliss until one confronts it."
Dnipro Raion, Ukraine
1947
THE WORLD WAS STARLIGHT and kaleidoscopic glass, silver scattered across skies of pearl. It was beauty and grace, like a spark of light in a place of emptiness. It was blindingly white, scintillating and luminous. It was glitter and gold and all the things that meant home. The world was constellations and kindness and unconditional love–
Until it wasn't.
The world was starlight and kaleidoscopic glass, silver scattered across skies of pearl. It was beauty and grace, like a spark of light in a place of–
Until it wasn't.
–emptiness. It was blindingly white, scintillating and luminous. It was glitter and gold and all the things that meant home. The world was constell-a-ti-on-s and k-ind-ne–anger and fear. The world was darkness and bleak cells, the bad men and the doctors and the white coats.
In the shadows of a cell absent of all light moved a distinct figure. If you stared into the cell long enough, you would wonder if the shape was merely a hallucination. But the accompanying sound of small, delicate feet shuffling across the ground would deter such a thought. The scent of blood and rust was pungent to the nose, lingering throughout the small room.
There was a click of a single lock.
Feet skittered across the ground, quiet and soft.
Lights glittered across the ceiling as electric bulbs flickered to life, the sound of soft static accompanying the man-made stars. With light permeating the room, a pile of blankets at the center let itself be known. It rustled, moving slightly as the sound of shuffling feet echoed once again.
A head poked out from the blankets, revealing a clump of pure white hair, glistening like strands of spooled pearls. A pair of eyes peeked out from the blankets, glacier-like and opaque. Her gaze focused hard on the door, an almost determined look flicking between her eyes.
Sometimes the door revealed the bad men, and the bad men would take her, screaming and kicking. They would take her blankets away, her stuffed dragon. They would put her in a cage and make it all hurt. Sometimes the door would reveal the white coats, and the white coats would take her to the White Room. And the White Room was scary, it made her want to hide under her blankets and never come out again.
But sometimes. . .
Sometimes the door would reveal–
A black head of hair poked into the room, followed by two crystalline eyes, blue like the sky.
"Uncle Kaz!" A tiny, high-pitched voice squealed.
The blankets were thrown upwards, revealing a short, three year old girl dressed in a hospital gown, a stuffed dragon tucked between her arms. Her precious plushie hit the ground as her tiny legs sprinted forwards. As she ran, she felt her wings tug a little loose, and she couldn't help it as six broad limbs unfolded from her back.
They were seven feet at full width, glassy and translucent like that of a butterfly. They glowed around the edges, like the pure light of a halo with sharp tips, pointed like thorns. It was a sight to see for the normal mortal, but Uncle Kaz had seen it too many times to count. They draped across the floor, swaying back and forth as if she had no control over them.
She lunged, and the older man wrapped his arms around her, careful to maneuver around her wings. He held her against his hip as she snuggled into the crook of his neck.
"How is my little Звезда?"
How is my little Star?
Uncle Kaz gently tucked his finger under her chin, turning her head to look up at him.
He inspected her red rimmed eyes, puffy and swollen from crying.
She tried not to cry too much because she knew Uncle Kaz didn't like that, but the white coats had taken her into the White Room and they'd tried to take her wings again and she had been so scared because Uncle Kaz wasn't there.
So she'd bitten one of the doctors and then they'd thrown her into the Black Room.
The Black Room was just as scary as the White Room, but only because it was the opposite of the bright walls. There was no one in the Black Room, and it was always so dark she couldn't even see her own fingers. She would always clutch onto her plushie, waiting for the door to click; for the lights to turn on.
Then Uncle Kaz would rescue her from the dangerous place.
He always rescued her, and she was so happy he was her Uncle. He was strong and tall, and always smiled at her. He was the best Uncle she could ever ask for, especially since she didn't know where or who her parents were.
"'m sorry Uncle Kaz." She sniffled, wiping her nose with one hand. "I tried to be big and strong like you said, but. . .I was scared."
Embarrassed, she shoved her reddening face into his chest, trying to hide from the responsibilities a three year old like her didn't deserve— not that she knew that.
She could feel her eyes start to water again and she further burrowed herself into his shirt. She stayed like that until Uncle Kaz brushed his fingers against her wings. The nerves in them fluttered in response, but she couldn't really move them.
She remembered a place with light where she could flap her wings and make a tiny gust of wind— it was the only thing she remembered from before.
Uncle Kaz said that the before was a dream, and she didn't want to believe him, because it had been such a beautiful place.
But it must have been true, since there couldn't be a place filled with that much light.
"Your wings don't work properly, Звезда." Uncle Kaz spoke gently. "The doctors are trying to help you, kiddo."
She rubbed her eyes, looking up at him with trembling lips.
"But it hurts." She whined.
Uncle Kaz sighed, tucking a strand of silvery hair behind her ear. He was careful with it, because her hair was just as sharp as her wings, and he'd cut himself enough times to know how much pressure he could put against the individual strands.
He gave her a gentle look.
"I know it does, Звезда." He said. "But after they form again, you might be able to fly."
She huffed, shaking her head.
"But they never work, Uncle." She protested.
She tried to flap her wings, like she used to in her dream. They remained limp on her back. She closed her eyes, brows furrowing with frustration.
She knew Uncle Kaz wanted her to use her wings. She knew it because when they did the tests he would always look at her with anticipation. And everytime she failed to flap her wings, she'd see his face fall. It was the worst thing she could ever see in her life. All she wanted was to make him proud, but she seemed unable to do so.
"Well, those wings are no good as they are." Uncle Kaz started softly.
Oh no, she knew what that tone of voice meant.
She didn't want to go to the White Room again, even if Uncle Kaz asked her nicely. It hurt so much when they took the wings, and it took so long for them to grow back. She sniffled, suddenly not wanting to be held. She smacked her hands against Uncle Kaz's chest– not too hard, because she didn't want to hurt him.
He carefully lowered himself to the floor, letting her feet touch the ground. She darted back over towards her pile of blankets, grasping her plushie and burrowing herself under the fluffy layers. Her head poked out as she shuffled back over towards the furthest corner of the room.
She plopped down, holding her dragon tightly to her chest, digging her fingers into the squishy thing. She slowly sunk under the blankets until she couldn't see Uncle Kaz anymore. The blankets were always warm because they always made sure it was heated.
The white coats tried to put her in a cold room once, but she'd gone into hibernation only a day after. She knew that was weird since Uncle Kaz didn't understand. She knew he wasn't like her since he didn't have wings but she thought maybe Uncle Kaz hibernated too.
"Звезда," Uncle Kaz started sternly, "you need to come with me."
The blankets moved as she shook her head in protest. She wasn't going to the White Room. The White Room was scary, and horrible, and filled with white coats. The white coats weren't strong like the bad men, but they still hurt.
And they hurt worse than the bad men did.
She would rather stay in the Black Room, even if she knew the lights would turn off soon.
"017." Uncle Kaz's voice was cold.
She knew her name used to be something else in the beginning, even if she couldn't remember it. Because Uncle Kaz had a real name– Kazimir Sokolov. She knew because she heard the doctor's calling him Dr. Sokolov.
So she had to have had a real name at one point.
But Uncle Kaz said she'd have to earn it.
017's head peeked out from under the blankets again. Her eyes watered, lips trembling. She was close to crying again, because Uncle Kaz wasn't always this scary. But she knew Uncle Kaz was upset, and now she was getting upset.
Uncle Kaz was looking at her with a deep frown, disappointment shifting between his eyes.
Hurriedly, 017 pushed the pile of blankets off of her. She clutched her dragon plushie in one hand, reaching for Uncle Kaz's with the other. She sprinted forwards, grasping his hand. She clutched onto him, feeling his unhappy gaze on her.
"'m sorry." She mumbled as she looked down at her feet, feeling bad.
She didn't mean to make him angry.
Uncle Kaz sighed.
017 flinched, bringing her plushie closer to her chest.
"How about this; I'll take you to the White Room, and hold your hand the entire time." Uncle Kaz relented. "If you can prove yourself to be a brave little girl, we can visit the doggies after."
She perked up, lifting her head.
The dogs were her favorite. Supposedly she'd been found and saved by Uncle Kaz's dog in the woods. He'd brought her here, to the safest place on Earth, wherever this was.
Anyway, 017 really liked the doggies, because they were so cute and fluffy and gave puppy dog faces all the time. They were really nice and soft and listened to Uncle Kaz when they got too rowdy. That was another reason why Uncle Kaz was the best Uncle; he always protected her.
Even if it made her scared sometimes.
"'mkay." She grinned up at him, eyes sparkling with excitement.
Because as much as she loved the doggies, she rarely ever saw them. And Uncle Kaz only gave it as a rare reward. It wasn't as good as ice cream, but that was a reward she'd only received once.
She clutched onto Uncle Kaz's hand as they traveled down the hall. The door to the Black Room shut behind them, and 017 hoped she wouldn't have to go back. They passed her usual room, a broad cage made of glass, at least six feet tall and ten feet wide with a small pile of blankets at the center. It was her nest, and 017 always kept her nest tidied up.
The tendency to haul items that emitted light was strange to the white coats, and 017 didn't understand why they couldn't understand. It was so obvious that the light was pretty and precious and was good to use for trading—though she didn't really know what trading even was.
Because, at the end of the day, 017 was too young to understand that she wasn't the same as the others, even if they were different. They didn't understand her because she was a creature of myth– but most importantly, a creature. A creature, which was a subject that wasn't readily available. They needed 017, even if she was useless as she was.
"Who is your favorite doggy?" Uncle Kaz asked.
017 furrowed her brows with thought.
"I dunno." She squished her plushie. "I like Annika and Boris, but Katya is really pretty too."
She pursed her lips, unable to choose just one. For a second she was afraid that was the wrong thing to say. She lifted her head, looking up at Uncle Kaz to see what he thought. Sometimes Uncle Kaz let her choose multiple things– other times, he didn't.
Uncle Kaz gave her a broad smile and she felt her heart warm in her chest.
"Yes, Katya is very pretty, isn't she?" He chuckled.
017 smiled brightly, beaming up at him.
They walked away from her room, drawing closer and closer to the hall with the White Room. 017 didn't drag her feet across the ground as they came closer. She didn't whimper or cry as the door opened, revealing a few white coats leaving the room with clipboards.
She clutched her dragon closer to herself.
"The room is being occupied." One of the white coats approached.
This time, 017 couldn't help it, and tucked herself between Uncle Kaz's legs. She grasped both of his knees, gripping onto him tightly, her dragon tucked under her arm. He didn't look down at her as she trembled beneath him.
"By who?" Uncle Kaz huffed, sounding indignant.
The white coat grimaced.
"By Subject 56898." He replied, wincing at the man's expression. "It was authorized by Dr. Zola."
017 clutched onto Uncle Kaz a little tighter as he stiffened with something like annoyance. She didn't want him to be even more upset because of some stupid white coat. She felt something protective rise in her chest. But she was too scared to go and kick the white coat.
Uncle Kaz exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose.
017 nuzzled her face into his leg, and he looked down at her. She felt his hands wrap around her waist as he picked her up, gently letting her rest against his hip. She wrapped an arm around him tightly, looking at the white coat with an angry look.
The expression faded when the white coat let his eyes move to her wings. She stiffened in Uncle Kaz's arms, shoving her face into his neck. She hid, clutching her dragon to her chest. Uncle Kaz turned so she was facing away from him.
"Eyes up, Dr. Mikhailov." Uncle Kaz spoke coldly. "You have no clearance to look at or touch 017. Is that understood?"
The white coat paled, nodding fiercely.
Uncle Kaz clutched onto her protectively as his eyes flicked to the windows to the White Room.
"Well," he patted the top of 017's head, who continued to hide, "there is enough room for 017 too."
His eyes moved sharply to the white coat.
"Dr. Mikhailov, let Dr. Zola know the room will also be occupied by 017." He ordered.
Dr. Mikhailov opened his mouth to protest but Uncle Kaz shoved him out of the way. The younger white coat was too afraid to say anything else, and he hurriedly shuffled down the hall.
017 lifted her head, looking at Uncle Kaz. His expression was one of unhappiness, and she felt bad inside. She snuggled into him and felt his body relax. She smiled happily at the response. The expression fell when her Uncle Kaz crossed the threshold into the White Room.
She clutched onto him tightly.
A sharp breath echoed in the room and 017 cautiously lifted her head, peeking over at what made the sound.
There was a person sitting on one of the metal tables. His hands were cuffed to the table, and his ankles were attached to shackles tied around one of the table legs. He had dull blue eyes and a permanent frown on his lips. One of his arms was completely metal, covered or maybe made of silver.
017 couldn't help but stare.
What a strange creature.
She'd never seen anyone else but the bad men, the white coats, and Uncle Kaz. This new person before her was a very strange creature indeed. His eyes roamed across her face, then moved to her wings. 017's cheeks burned red and she shoved her face into Uncle Kaz's chest as he approached the second metal table beside the new person.
He carefully placed her on the metal and she lifted her hands up at him, dragon plushie tucked under her arm. She wiggled her fingers, and Uncle Kaz gave her a small smile of amusement. He tucked a spool of silver hair behind her ear.
The white coats in the room shuffled about, preparing a metal cart with all types of sharp things.
017 looked at it, and her eyes watered with terror.
Uncle Kaz gripped her hand tightly.
"I'm going to be right here." He assured gently. "Звезда, remember, you are strong."
017 trembled as the white coats wheeled the cart over to her. She clutched her dragon plushie with one hand, the other squeezing tightly around Uncle Kaz. Her wings remained limp besides her back, swaying only by her shaky movements.
Her eyes wandered to the sharp, pointy things, and her heart raced in her chest. She felt one of the white coats grasping one of her wings. She shot forwards, burying her face into Uncle Kaz's torso. He caught her before she could teeter forwards and off the metal table.
"What–" the new person who must've been 56898– he must be special if he had such a long number– spoke in an unsure tone, "–what, what are you doing?"
Uncle Kaz ignored him, and 017 thought that was a little rude, but she couldn't think for very long when she felt the white coat grab her wing again. She tried so hard not to cry as she blinked away her tears. She bit down on a piece of Uncle Kaz's shirt to stop herself.
She felt a gloved hand against her back, before she felt the cold metal touch her wing. She gasped, a silent cry leaving her lips.
"You are brave, Звезда." Uncle Kaz spoke above her. "You are unbreakable, Звезда."
She was brave, and she was unbreakable.
But it hurt so much, like someone was cutting off any other piece of her.
"Hey—hey—" 56898 tugged against his restraints, "—what the hell are you doing?!"
His voice rose in tone and ferocity.
017 started to cry, a high-pitched whine leaving her lips as she futilely tried to flap her wings. They didn't move as the white coat sliced off the first limb. She felt the wing detach, felt her back grow a little lighter.
She didn't want them to take the wings away again.
56898 let out a roar of a yell, tugging at his restraints even harder.
017 jumped at the sound, lifting her heard, tear-filled eyes moving to look at 56898. His eyes were pained, filled with an anger 017 was afraid of. Her shoulders bunched up to her shoulders. She felt the white coat grab the second wing and she clutched onto Uncle Kaz again.
He petted her head gently, carefully. She sniffled, nuzzling into him. Uncle Kaz was here, so it would be okay. Even if it hurt a lot, it would be okay. She'd be able to see the doggies after and it would be okay–
There was a loud snap of metal and the room froze.
Uncle Kaz stiffened, the white coats didn't move.
017 stopped crying, lifting her head.
It happened all at once.
56898 ripped off the restraints around his arms and snapped the ones around his ankle. He lunged across the table, grasping one of the white coats with his metal arm. The white coat went flying, slamming into the wall.
Something cracked; something broke; something bled.
017 jumped off the table, putting a protective hand around her dragon plushie and sprinting into the furthest corner. She kneeled, covering her ears and leaning her head against her dragon plushie. Her wings fell on either side of her, wrapping around her like a blanket.
She squeezed her eyes shut, tears streaming down her face.
She could hear faint screaming, something breaking in half, an angry roar, like a prowling lion—
Then, silence.
Arms wrapped around her, one warm, and one cold.
017 didn't know what to do, so she kept her eyes shut and hoped that Uncle Kaz would make 56898 stop being so scary. She whimpered, clutching her plushie as tightly as possible. She wanted Uncle Kaz, but he wasn't moving 56898 away from her. 017 couldn't help it—she started to cry out like she used to when she was a baby, wailing for. . .
The arms moved around her before something warm pressed against the back of her head. She continued to sob, biting on her dragon plushie to keep herself as quiet as possible. The warmth moved over her head—it was a hand, fingers carding through the locks of her silver spool of hair.
"It's okay." 56898 murmured into her ear. "It's okay."
She leaned into his hand, nuzzling into 56898. He lifted his throat so she could push into the crook between his shoulder and his neck.
017 tried her best to stop her cries. 56898 had stopped being so scary. Instead he was so soft and gentle, kind of like Uncle Kaz. She placed her hand around 56898's shoulder, the other clutching her dragon plushie. Slowly, carefully, 56898 rose to stand at his full height. 017's eyes grew wide at the silver coating 56898's left arm. She moved one hand away from his shoulder, opening and closing her fingers as she grabbed at the plates.
Her mouth fell open in awe as she leaned her face against the metal. She pushed and played with the plates as 56898 made them shift and move.
"017." Uncle Kaz's voice broke her trance. "Come here."
017 flinched at the sound of her numbers. She didn't mean to make Uncle Kaz so upset. But the arm holding onto her was so shiny and so pretty–
"Now." His voice was sharper than she'd heard in months.
A small whimper escaped her lips as she pushed against the hands holding onto her. She pushed and shoved as hard as she could, until 56898 lowered her to the ground. He didn't let go of her hand, however, so 017 started to kick him, dragon plushie in one hand.
Her desperate attempts were useless because 56898 was so much more bigger than her. Her eyes grew wide as she looked at Uncle Kaz, panicked as she tried to show him she wasn't strong enough to make 56898 let go.
Uncle Kaz held one hand out, a look of understanding passing over his face. He lowered to the ground, moving his hand as if to tell her to slow down– to stop.
017 stopped kicking 56898.
"Sergeant Barnes." A new voice interrupted.
56898 did not move, his grip tightening around 017's wrist. It didn't hurt yet, but she was scared it was going to start hurting. The door to the room clattered shut and 017 looked up with wide eyes as a white coat with round glasses walked inside.
"Release her." The white coat continued. "You're hurting her, don't you see?"
56898 hesitated, before looking down at his hand.
017's wrist was becoming red around the edges.
He released her and 017 remained still because Uncle Kaz hadn't told her to move again. She continued to stand like a statue, before Uncle Kaz whistled a soft, two beat tone.
017 darted toward him, throwing her arms around his neck as she struggled to climb into his lap. He let out a breath of relief as he grasped her by her waist, bringing her up to his side.
She leaned her head against his chest, listening to his heartbeat. She pushed her dragon plushie into Uncle Kaz's hand, and he wrapped a hand around his dragon paw. 017 sniffled, wiping her nose as she held onto him. He tucked her head into his shoulder and 017 snuggled into him. Uncle Kaz smelled different than 56898– like coconuts and cinnamon.
She liked coconuts and cinnamon.
"She's– she's just a kid." 56898's eyes were wide as he looked at the white coat with round glasses. "Don't hurt her."
The white coat with round glasses approached him, a hand outstretched to him, as if to say 'calm'. 56898 didn't know all the hand signs yet, 017 realized, when 56898 struggled to become calm. He looked angrier as his hands clenched into fists at his sides.
The white coat with round glasses chuckled as if 56898 couldn't understand the situation.
"You are wrong, Sergeant Barnes." The white coat with round glasses– Mr. Round Glasses– turned to 017.
He approached her, his movements calculating and controlled, before he grasped one of her wings. She kicked out, and Uncle Kaz frowned as he felt her foot smack his torso. Her eyes grew wide and she looked at him with an apology shifting between her eyes. He shook his head at her, and 017 dipped her head into the crook of his neck.
She shivered as Mr. Round Glasses pulled her wing upward, prying it open.
"She's not a child, she's what we call a Cryptid, Sergeant Barnes." Mr. Round Glasses explained as her wings reflected the lights from the ceiling. "What child has wings, thin as glass but sharp as knives?"
His fingers left 017's wings and she wiped at her eyes, exhausted from the tantrum she'd thrown. She buried her face into her Uncle's chest, hugging him with her dragon plushie trapped between their bodies. Uncle Kaz carefully brushed her hair back and away from her tear-stained cheeks.
Her eyes fluttered shut as she fell away, away, away. . .
[_________________]
James Buchanan Barnes.
32557038.
James Buchanan Barnes.
32557038.
James Buchanan B@rn32
32557038.
James Buc—nan B@r—
J— Bu— Ba—
32–32–
James–who was; was that him?– shuddered as a hand brushed against his temple. His eyes rolled from the back of his head as his eyelids fluttered open. He squinted at the bright ceiling light hanging above him. Pain flared from his left shoulder and he opened his mouth, groaning as agony unfurled across his skin. A warm hand leaned against his cheek and he sighed at the sensation.
But the pain didn't stop.
He whimpered, his eyes blowing wide as his eyes darted back and forth across the ceiling. A figure formed above him, a man with round glasses looking down at him. His expression was clinical, analytical. It made his heart twist in his chest uncomfortably.
Where was he?
His arm hurt so much. This was all wrong. He was–He wasn't supposed to be here. He wasn't. . .this wasn't the US army and this wasn't a hospital it was– it was– he cried out as the once warm hand pressed against his shoulder and the metal connected to it.
The– the metal, right, his left hand was made of metal.
The pain became pure agony and he started to scream as fingers pushed into the tissue still scarring between his shoulder and his new arm. The man with the glasses merely looked at him, peered at him as he struggled against the cuffs clamping him to the cold table. Just as it was becoming unbearable, just as he was about to lose consciousness, the hand left his shoulder. He gasped, sharp breaths leaving his lips as he was finally able to escape the source of pain.
"Your pain tolerance is unacceptable, Sergeant Barnes." The man with the round glasses– he was. . .he was–
James's lips curled into a snarl.
"Fuck you." He spat, gritting his teeth. "Nazi piece of shit."
Dr. Zola adjusted his glasses, giving him a distasteful look.
It made James wince inside– he couldn't understand why. This– this vile man had captured him from the Alps, dragged him to this facility, cut his arm off without anesthesia, gave him a new one, then treated him like some sort of overgrown dog, too violent to be trusted or released. It made James want to be feral, to see how the doctor would like it if he ripped his throat out with his teeth.
"Perhaps you haven't learned your lesson." Dr. Zola sighed and James flinched as his hand wrapped around the base of his throat, gripping his chin.
His movements were not soft nor kind anymore. His grip was tight around his skin as he pried his jaws open. James struggled hard, nearly biting the doctor's fingers off. The moment his jaw managed to break free from his hold, however, Dr. Zola pushed his fingers into the groove between his shoulder and the metal.
James screamed.
"Get me– yes– the bucket–" Dr. Zola's voice faded in and out as his vision went white with pure pain.
He couldn't breathe. Everything hurt so much and he could barely stay awake. The doctor wouldn't let him fall unconscious as he draped a white cloth over the bottom half of his face. James shuddered and gasped as water trickled over the cloth. He gagged and coughed as it spilled over to the side of his face.
Dr. Zola's fingers grabbed the sides of his face, careful as he maneuvered him.
James gasped, wheezing as he tried to breathe. But droplets of water was dropping onto his tongue and into his throat. He gagged as more water was poured onto the cloth. He inhaled deeply but inhaled water instead. He whimpered and cried, shaking his head to try and get the cloth off.
"Are you going to be good?" Dr. Zola murmured against his temple. "Or do I have to punish you again?"
James gasped, his lips trembling as his chest shook.
Dr. Zola clicked his tongue in reprimand.
More water poured over his face and James choked, tears streaming down his face as he struggled. He looked up at Dr. Zola with wide desperate eyes, begging him to stop in silence. It hurt so much– he was going to pass out. He didn't– he couldn't– he couldn't fight it–
The cloth was removed from his face and James nuzzled into the hands holding the sides of his face. Dr. Zola was pleased by the movement, and his hands became less stiff. The warmth from his palms shifted across James's cold skin and he leaned into him as much as he could.
"I'm sorry." His eyes squeezed shut. "I'm sorry, please."
Dr. Zola smiled at him.
"There you are, Sergeant." He wiped the water away with a dry cloth, tossing it somewhere James couldn't see once he was done.
Dr. Zola brushed strands of hair out of his face, fingers careful and kind. James felt disgust burrow in his stomach, something like embarrassment and hatred brewing in his digestive system. But he could do nothing about it. He didn't know how long he had been here– he knew it wouldn't matter because Steve was– because Steve had died. He was dead and now no one in the world cared enough to search for him.
"That's a good Soldier." He murmured, close to his ear.
James stilled as another doctor approached.
Dr. Zola sighed with annoyance and James flinched, turning his head into the hand still pressed against his cheek. It seemed to calm him and James wondered if there was anyone who would be merciful enough to shoot him in the head and end this embarrassing suffering.
"The uh– the Chair's faulty." The younger doctor fidgeted with the edge of his lab coat.
Dr. Zola's eyebrow raised.
The younger doctor swallowed hard.
"Fine. Let me find Dr. Ivanov." Dr. Zola's hands left James's face and he had both the urge to bite him and apologize.
His face scrunched at the thoughts, until he felt the metal clamps around his arms release. His eyes grew wide with uncertainty as he turned his eyes to Dr. Zola. He gave him an encouraging nod, so James tried his best to sit up. Two other doctors unclamped the restrains around his ankles. James tried to inch forward but nearly fell to his side.
Dr. Zola grasped one of his shoulders, while another doctor held onto his other one. He coughed as they helped push him towards the edge of the table. Did they– did they want him to walk? He could barely keep himself upright. How the hell would he be able to walk back to his cell?
The cuffs clicked again and his eyes dropped to see his wrists back in the restraints his ankles were meant for. He tugged at the restraints and was immediately met with reprimand, Dr. Zola backhanded him harshly across the face. His head snapped to the side and his eyes flicked to the floor.
"Stay." Dr. Zola ordered. "You want to be good, don't you? Compliance is rewarded."
Those goddamn words.
James felt his shoulders go pliant and he didn't try to kick at the doctors who cuffed his ankles together, tying them to one of the table legs with an extended chain. He didn't try to tug on his restraints as he watched Dr. Zola's form disappear out the door. The other doctors shifted around him, avoiding his personal space as they organized tools and sharp things James had become intimate with.
He– he should try and escape, shouldn't he? But his arms were so weak, his body was so tired.
Last time, when he tried to escape, they had caught him, cut him up, then dumped him in his cell with no food or water for the entire week. James remembered that vividly, took his lesson well, and didn't try to escape after that. But, how could that stop him? He wasn't going to give up like this– he wasn't going to stop like this.
He needed to get out, find someone, anyone, and make his way out–
The door to the room opened and James lifted his head, flinching at the sound. It was not Dr. Zola who entered, but a different one carrying a. . .child in his arms? He felt something cold settle in his stomach– what was a literal child doing in a HYDRA facility? What the hell was going on?
The small child trembled as one of the doctors wheeled a cart over to her.
James stared with wide eyes when he saw the clear, thin-like wings clinging to her back. What. . .what the fuck? He blinked furiously, trying to understand exactly what he was looking at. It didn't make any sense to him. Were those wings real?
He watched her and she seemed to notice him, before quickly looking away. He didn't know what to say, or what to do as the doctors circled her, grabbing onto her wings. James clenched his jaw when the child was placed onto the table. She grabbed ahold of the doctor still clutching onto her, and he couldn't stop himself from speaking.
"What–" his voice came out rough, "–what, what are you doing?"
The doctor ignored him, and the little girl struggled to stop herself from crying as another doctor grasped the first wing closest to her head. Something was terribly wrong with the way the doctor's gloved hand pressed against her back, his other fingers clutching onto a scalpel. He pressed it against the wing and the child audibly gasped.
James clenched his hands around the table he was restrained to. Anger roared in his chest, flipping in waves over and over again. He wanted to stop them from injuring the girl. He couldn't possibly sit back and watch as–
"You are brave, Звезда." The doctor holding her spoke. "You are unbreakable, Звезда."
The girl's face scrunched up as the scalpel started to cut through the wing.
"Hey—hey—" James tugged against his restraints, "—what the hell are you doing?!"
He wouldn't just watch this. She was a fucking kid for god's sake. He tugged and pulled at his restraints as sharply as he could. The metal hand didn't hurt, but his flesh arm was tearing at his efforts. The girl continued to cry as one of her wings was cut off, like it was nothing– like it didn't hurt her.
He let out a roar as he tore his metal arm out of its restraint, ripping off the one on his arm. Adrenaline burst through his veins as he broke the cuffs clinging to his ankles. He lunged across the room. The doctors scattered but they didn't have any place to run. He gripped one of the doctor's throats, crushing it with the clench of his hand. He grabbed a scalpel and turned swiftly on his heel, throwing one directly at their eye.
The doctor screamed, collapsing to the ground before James kicked his head into the table. His lips curled into a threatening snarl, until the child ran across the room. He stopped, eyes wide. He looked between all the doctors, before turning on his heel and lowering himself in front of the child.
He grasped a hold of her, wrapping her in a soft embrace. She continued to cry and shake so he adjusted his arms to circle her in a more protective way. He let his fingers move through her hair, careful to comb the strands away from her face and across the
"It's okay." He murmured into her ear. "It's okay."
He let out a breath of relief as the child nuzzled into him. He lifted his throat so she could push into the crook between his shoulder and neck.
He carefully kept the little girl between his arms, maneuvering around her wings as she clutched onto her plushie. She was so out of place in this area—a soft, dragon plushie in a HYDRA facility? That was so horribly wrong. Slowly, he rose to stand at his full height. He moved his hand, pausing only when the girl started to lift her arm. She moved one hand away from his shoulder, opening and closing her fingers as she grabbed at the plates.
Her mouth fell open in awe and James did not move as her fingers brushed over the metal of his arm. He was dangerous—how could she not know that? He had killed the scientists here, would have killed Dr. Zola if he was still—
"017." One of the scientist's who'd been smart enough not to move, spoke. "Come here."
James felt fury burn in his gut. Did he just—did he just call her by a number? He clenched his jaw, trying his best to remain calm so he wouldn't scare the kid.
"Now." His voice was so sharp and authoritative that James drew back sharply, flinching.
James looked down as the little girl started to push and shove against him. He carefully placed her on the ground but he didn't let go of her. There was no way he was going to let her go to the fucker trying to cut her limbs off. But the girl was insistent and started to kick him—it didn't matter, he couldn't possibly let this girl go.
The doctor slowly lowered to the ground, moving his hand.
The little girl stopped kicking at him.
James opened his mouth to speak a threat–
"Sergeant Barnes." Dr. Zola's voice hit him like a slap across the face.
His eyes grew wide as he looked at the doctor who tormented his life. Somehow his anger was overridden by fear and disappointment and consequences because he had said– compliance is rewarded. And James had ignored it– had ignored him–
His grip tightened around the girl's wrist. He couldn't let Dr. Zola take her away. She was going to be hurt– he knew so. She was going to be hurt if he let her go and she couldn't let the little girl have her wings chopped off, like it didn't hurt her at all, like she hadn't cried and kicked–
"Release her." The white coat continued. "You're hurting her, don't you see?"
He hesitated, before looking down at his hand.
The girl's wrist was becoming red around the edges.
He released her, horrified that he hadn't realized how strong her was– that her wrist would be mottled and bruised because he didn't know how to control himself. The child didn't move, remaining still like a statue. Then, the doctor who spoke to her the most let out a low-pitched whistle.
In an instant, the girl crossed the room, throwing herself at the doctor who had allowed the others to cut her open.
James wanted to yell at her, tell her that they were bad– bad– bad–
"She's– she's just a kid." His eyes remained wide as he looked at Dr. Zola. "Don't hurt her."
Slowly, Dr. Zola started to approach him, a hand outstretched to him, as if to calm him down. He clenched his jaw, because he wasn't a fucking dog. He wouldn't just listen to the fucking doctor who water boarded him, who cut him open on the steel table, who hung him just to see how long he could last without oxygen, who– who caressed his cheek and told him how good he was–
Dr. Zola chuckled and James flinched.
"You are wrong, Sergeant Barnes." Dr. Zola stated.
He started to walk toward the girl and James wanted to punch him across the face, throw his glasses off that smug expression. But he was frozen, unable to move out of fear that the doctor might hurt her. He watched, stiff as he spread one of her scintillating wings, letting the light bounce across the limb. It sparkled like the stars, something he hadn't seen in years– decades?
He couldn't stop staring at it.
"She's not a child, she's what we call a Cryptid." Dr. Zola explained slowly. "What child has wings, thin as glass but sharp as knives?"
"She's. . ." James's brows furrowed as confusion formed on his expression, "but she's still– she's still young. Don't–"
Pain unfurled across his expression and he lifted his right hand– the hand which wasn't coated in silver. Something trickled down his skin, and he blinked furiously as he tried to comprehend what was happening. The skin on his hand had split like he'd wrapped his hand in thin chains, needle-like cuts littering across his fingers and his palm.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Blood dropped from his hand and he stumbled backwards into the wall behind him.
He was. . .bleeding?
"Oh, Sergeant, you should have been more careful." Dr. Zola shuffled closer—James flinched harshly when the doctor grasped his hand. "017's hair is just as sharp as her wings."
He wasn't like all the other ones; he was never afraid of him.
He pressed against the wall, his hand trembling as Dr. Zola took his own handkerchief to wipe the blood away. His hands had become gentle again, and James wanted nothing more than to pull away.
Or not.
Somehow, the kindness was comforting.
"Come now, Sergeant," Dr. Zola adjusted his glasses, "I might as well introduce all of us, don't you think so, Kazimir?"
The doctor holding the child— Kazimir?—turned his eyes toward the older man, annoyance flicking between his eyes. He scowled, petting the child—017's?—hair. He did not bleed like James had, instead his fingers moved across glistening white locks with a featherlight touch. He carried 017 in his arms, padding up to him with nothing but vexation in his eyes.
This doctor was the second one who had no fear in his eyes.
"Dr. Sokolov." Kazimir—Dr. Sokolov—introduced, his fingers moving continuously through 017's hair. "You are 56898, yes?"
His voice reverberated with such authority that James couldn't correct him. He was not a series of numbers— he had a name. But something told him not to be stubborn; something told him not to lash out. Maybe it was the fact Dr. Sokolov was carrying a child—maybe it was the fact James was afraid the girl would get hurt.
He didn't know—
He didn't know anything.
"Yes he is." Dr. Zola replied for him. "But he still has a lot of behavioral issues, don't you?"
James clenched his jaw, something fiery burning in his eyes. He wanted to wrap his fingers around the doctor's throat, watch as he gagged and choked, clawing at the hand he created. He wanted to see him bleed out, see the light leave his eyes and burn him alive—
But there was a little girl here.
His eyes darted across the room. What had he done? His lips trembled as his eyes blew wide with horror. The scientists who'd been tormenting him, experimenting on him like he was nothing but a specimen, were all sprawled across the medical room, blood pooled around their corpses.
"Do you like her?" Dr. Zola suddenly asked.
"What?" James couldn't stop the question from leaving his lips.
He flinched, expecting something to hit him, the sound of a belt snapping in his ears. But this wasn't the Correctional Room, and there was no agent slapping him across the face with the metal end of a belt. He wasn't in the Correctional Room? So, where was he then? Why—why wasn't he understanding?
Everything was confusing and his head was starting to hurt again.
Dr. Zola didn't lift a hand, smiling instead.
"Do you like her?" He repeated, like she was some sort of object to be sold.
James clenched his jaw again.
"I—" his eyes darted to the little girl as she slept peacefully, clutching onto her plushie, "I don't want her to get hurt."
"Then you should comply, shouldn't you?" Dr. Zola's voice was gentle.
James's eyes darted frantically back and forth, afraid of what he was meant to say—afraid of the consequences if he tried to snap at him, to tell him that he was a twisted son of a bitch, and deserved to rot six feet under. Because—because 017 was going to be hurt.
His eyes lifted to meet the doctor's eyes.
"Yes." He whispered.
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