Originally, I had this up years ago, but I'm putting the new-and-improved version up, now, lest I be driven crazy by the typos. I'm sorry guys, but I couldn't stand it any more.
I don't own. Has to be said.
Bucky coughs harshly into his hand. Then he sighs heavily and triggers another coughing fit. Leaning his head back against the bars of his shared cell, he groans. Having pneumonia is bad enough when it's at home in Brooklyn, let alone while he's a POW in a Nazi work factory. Constantly coughing, never getting enough air, and nearly always feeling like he's going to keel over, with of course getting broken ribs from the inhuman overseer, it's the cherry on top of the ice cream while he's working like a slave.
"How ya doing, Jimmy?" Dugan says at his elbow.
Bucky levels a glare at him. 'Quit callin' me Jimmy, Dum Dum. My name is Bucky."
"Why would you want to go by Bucky if your name is James?" James Montgomery Falsworth asks, curled into himself for warmth.
Bucky lets a chuckle escape his lips, careful to not alert the guards. They seem to have something against their prisoners being happy. "'Cause James is a name for a stiff, not a ladies' man like me."
Falsworth raises an eyebrow. "American women would prefer a man named after an animal than one named for a king?"
"We're Americans. We've got a bit of a problem with kings," Jones tells him, causing some chuckling from the three Americans.
"Besides, Monty," Bucky says, "I think I'm a dear." Everyone starts laughing, even Frenchie. His English must be better than Bucky thought. "Dames love danger, and Bucky's better for that than James."
"Let me guess: you woke up one day during puberty and tried to get a girl by playing tough?"
"Not quite." Really, his name had come from his sister Rebecca, who hadn't been able to differentiate Buck-tooth (a group of bullies' name for him that he'd quickly set them straight on) from her brother James at age three, so James became Buck and Buck became Bucky. It was a better name than James in any case.
"Then tell me again why you don't go by James or Jim or something of the like?"
"I told you, Bucky gets more dames. And it lets people know not to mess with us."
"Us?"
Bucky glances at him, realizes his slip, and chuckles. "My best friend, Steve. He's always getting' into fights he can't win. I usually end up finishing 'em for him." Homesickness clogs up his throat, keeping him from explaining more.
"Is he a soldier?" Jones asks. Bucky shakes his head.
"Wants to be. He's got asthma." Plus a list of diseases and disabilities as long as Bucky's arm, but he wouldn't go into that.
"Why would he want to be a solider?" Dugan asks offhandedly.
"Don't get me started, Dum Dum." Really just don't. Steve's complex with fighting went over Bucky's head and he's known the punk since he was seven.
"Well, is he the type of guy that−"
"Silence, dogs!" The group of POWs' attention snaps to where the guard had yelled. "Stand up now! All of you!"
The group, and all the others, slowly stands up, Bucky using the bars of the cell for support. He leans against it, focusing on the figures of the two guards walking from cell to cell. No, not guards, a tall man in a black, full-length trench coat and a small, portly man with glasses. Sadly, he recognizes them from previous visits. He swallows and turns to his cell mates. "I don't think the private made it."
The rest of them swallow nervously too. Dernier begins to fiddle with a fold in his shirt.
"At least he made it longer than the others," Jones offers. "Maybe he's letting up."
"Sorry to burst your bubble, Gabe, but living three weeks instead of two ain't my idea of comfort," Dugan interjects.
"Quiet, they are coming," Dernier says, speaking English for a rare moment.
They fall silent as the two Nazis draw closer. The taller one is speaking. "…insist on continuing this project?"
"It would be an advantage over the Allies, sir. We would have an ultimate weapon," the fat one replies, glancing in at the men in the cells.
"And what are you searching for, Doctor?" the first one asks as they approach Bucky's cell. "Choose one for your experiments and be done with it."
"Erskine stated quite clearly the need for the right type of psyche for the subject. I can only use what resources we have."
"You will find no strong men here." The taller one gestures at the POWs. Bucky's knuckles whiten. "They do not submit."
"I do not need the strongest man, I need…" The fat one trails off, noticing Bucky's murderous look. "Человек, который не боится получить кровь на его руках. Guards!" They appear at his shoulder. "Take that one," he says, pointing at Bucky. "Bring him to my laboratory."
"No!"
"He has pneumonia, for heaven's sake!"
"Vous ne-"
"Don't, he'll die!"
The guards shove the others aside and grab Bucky. They drag him out of the cell and in front of the doctor. "Your name, rank, and serial number," he says simply, looking over Bucky with interest.
Bucky grits his teeth, experimentally twisting his arms in the guard's grip. "James Barnes. Sergeant. 32557421."
The doctor's kind smile doesn't match the sick satisfaction in his eyes. "Try to remember that."
Name. Rank. Number.
James Barnes. Sergeant. 32557421. Bucky exhales heavily, but carefully, and repeats it in his mind. James Barnes. Sergeant. 32557421. He breathes again. James Barnes. Sergeant. 32557421. Breathe. James Barnes. Sergeant. 32557421. Breathe. James Barnes. Serg− The pattern he had started is interrupted by a coughing fit that Steve would find impressive.
The doctor walks in at the tail end of it. "And how are you feeling, Sergeant?" Bucky glares at him. "Now, now, that's not how you treat your superiors in America, is it, Sergeant?"
This time Bucky scoffs. This guy is a psycho. "You will treat me with respect." He gives a small eye roll. The doctor grabs his face and forces him to look at him. "Do you know who I am? I am Doctor Armin Zola, head scientist of Hydra and the greatest mind in the world. And you, Sergeant Barnes, are going to be the new fist of Hydra. Наш самый большой актив."
Bucky spits in his face. Zola flinches, but returns his gaze to Bucky's face, reaching for something in Bucky's blind spot. A syringe. "We will see if you usefulness lasts, Sergeant." The needle goes into his neck and things went black.
Name. Rank. Number.
James Barnes. Sergeant. 32557241. Named for the fifteenth president. Part of the 107th Infantry of the U.S. Army. Given a number like the thousands of other men the government sent out in the battlefield. Captured by Hydra instead of everyday Nazis and currently being used as a human experiment by a nut job doctor.
Better live as a dog than die a lion has become Bucky's philosophy. Steve would hate it, but, honestly, he doesn't care how mad it would make the punk so long as he would make it back to him in Brooklyn.
"Now that you have successfully recovered from your pneumonia, Sergeant, we are going to start the true experiment," Zola says to him walking briskly into the room with a sheaf of papers in his hands. He stops by Bucky's bedside and smirks at the prostrate man. "I trust you won't disturb the other prisoners with pointless screams."
Bucky's chest tightens. This nut job! He'll kill him! His emotions must show on his face, because Zola clucks disapprovingly.
"Sergeant, as a soldier, you must understand that your life has been on the line since you enlisted, yes? The American government cannot hope to win, yet they insist on sending their fathers and sons out to die. So pointless." He gives a fake sigh of pity and smirks again. "But, without their foolish lust for glory, we would not be here, would we? So, America's government has done something sensible for once, да?"
Blood pounds in Bucky's ears. "Screw you," he says, and Zola's eyes harden.
"I take it your military leaders never trained you to speak to your superiors with respect."
This is too easy, he's setting himself up. Bucky smirks at him. "Superiors? Don't worry, they did."
"As I was saying," Zola continues, trying to gather his dignity, "you are finally healthy enough to be put to good use, and we will be able to truly start." Bucky's stomach turns to lead as Zola walks to a table beside him and fills a syringe with a thick, syrupy fluid. "Do not move," he orders pushing the tip against Bucky's neck. It breaks skin, and the liquid gets pushed slowly into his blood.
Liquid ice seems to go spread through his veins, freezing him in place. It goes into his lungs and his heart, frosting everything it touches. He swears the air steams as it touches his body. His eyes lock, frozen by the ice. Somehow, his lungs keep working despite to chill. He whimpers. "Stop…"
He can hear Zola's smile through his voice. "It cannot be stopped, Зимний Солдат, the procedure has already started."
Name. Rank. Number.
James Barnes. Sergeant. 3255721.
Bucky Barnes. Steve Rogers' best friend. Forever Steve and Bucky, resident punk and jerk. The stubborn little guy who never ran away and the tough guy who finished his fights.
His neck hurts. Why? And why doesn't he know? What does he know? His name is Bucky Barnes. He's a sergeant in the U.S. Army, serial code 32557421. His best friend was a ninety-pound asthmatic punk that never knew when to run. His favorite food was…Steve would always be on his side for… it doesn't matter. But where is he? Brooklyn? He's from Brooklyn.
"Solider." Zola. He will punish him if Bucky doesn't respond. But he needs to know where he is. "Soldier." Why doesn't he know where he is? And is Steve here too? Is he alright? "Soldier!" He always said to Steve that he'd be with him 'til the end of the line. Bucky needs to get to him, protect him, keep him safe from bullies and Hydra alike. "Solider!" A hand slaps his face, hard. His eyes open and find Zola immediately.
Bucky glares defiantly at Zola. The doctor's expression twists with displeasure, then changes to completely calm. "You must learn to respond quickly to your superiors, soldier. Guards!" he calls behind him. Heavy boots approach the table. "Удар эту собаку."
He doesn't know which one starts, but he can feels the sharp blows on his face as he loses consciousness.
Name. Rank. Number.
James Barnes. Sergeant. 32557421. It feels wrong though. James Barnes. James. No. James…Jim…Jimmy…Jimbo…James Buchanan…Buck-tooth…Bucky…Bucky. His name is Bucky. Bucky Barnes, part from his middle name and part from the overbite he'd grown out of. Only his ma, sister, and brother could get away with…he doesn't have a brother. Yes, he does. Skinny, stubborn, constantly sick with a list of problems as long as Bucky's arm…Steve…the little guy…who would never run away.
But, Steve isn't his brother. They are best friends, but not brothers. Not by blood anyway. But by love and trust and all that crap, most certainly yes. Bucky supposes that's enough to make Steve his little brother.
"Soldier," he hears, and he knows the voice is Doctor Zola's. He opens his eyes and looks up at him. "Think of old memories? Of your home?" The doctor's voice is sympathetic, kind. Bucky doesn't trust it, but he nods. "A lover you left behind? A friend? Family?" He nods again. "You know, they have abandoned you. But we will stay. You are now Hydra's soldier. Гидра никогда не откажутся от вас."
Bucky shakes his head. Steve didn't abandon him. Bucky left him safe in Brooklyn where the biggest danger was meathead delinquents that would be drafted in the next month anyway.
"You do not think so?" He shakes his head again. "You must believe your superiors, soldier."
"Didn't abandon me." It's defiance, and he'll probably get hit again, but he know Steve didn't and never would abandon him.
Zola sighs again, he's always sighing, and starts filling the syringe. Bucky tries to move away from it, making a fair bit of noise, but Zola just ignores him and pumps the syringe full with a green liquid. He punches the needle into his neck again, but instead of filling with ice, his brain seems to slow down. Things fade like they do before he falls asleep, but he stays awake and things start to fade more, the thought of Steve safe in Brooklyn flying away, quickly followed by other things: Corporal Harrison praising his aim in training, Steve throwing up at Coney Island, Steve… Steve? Steve…he never ran…
Name. Rank. Number.
James Barnes. Sergeant. 32557241. Bucky. That's his name. Bucky Barnes. A soldier. No, a fighter. He fights in alleys. Bucky fights bullies. Он борется за Гидры. No, he doesn't fight for them, he fights for…his best friend…the little guy…he never ran away…
"Soldier." Doctor Zola says. "Do you know what day this is?" He doesn't. "This day marks that you have survived the procedures longer than any other. How exciting, no?" How long? It's all blurred. "Your persistence is truly amazing. We are even considering taking you to Heimdall Base."
"No…" He doesn't want to go to another base. Bucky wants to go home.
"You speak as if you have a choice, soldier." He has a choice. He's American. Americans chose their fates. Американцы хотели бы вызвать хаос в мире. "You are our prisoner. Это можно сделать как мы скажем, чтобы."
"No."
He hears Zola sigh. "Disappointing. But not unfixable." He knows what will happen. He tries to pull away as the doctor fills the syringe with yellow liquid. "You must not move, soldier." He keeps struggling, twisting and pulling, but the needle buries its head in his neck and Doctor Zola's face fades.
Name. Rank. Number.
Bucky. No, James. James Barnes. Sergeant. 32557241. But, Bucky. He was Bucky. He is Bucky. He is a sergeant in the U.S. army. He is from…New York? Yes, New York. Brooklyn. He is from Brooklyn. He is an American. Он солдат Гидры. Он подчиняется приказам. No, he is an American soldier. His superior is…was…
Orders. Повиноваться. Name. "James Barnes." His throat feels dry. Rank. "Sergeant." He swallows, but his throat stays dry. Number. "32…557…241."
"Ah, soldier, awake already? Wonderful." The doctor. Doctor Zola. He was the one with the needles and the instruments. He gave the orders. Он обработчик. No, he isn't. James Barnes…Bucky…he isn't Hydra's soldier. Who is he?
He is from Brooklyn. He is an American. He fights. He decides to tug on the straps he could feel on his chest, shifting his weight from side to side. It is too tight for him to break.
"Now, that will not work, will it, soldier?" Zola again. He is right. Обработчик всегда прав. No. Zola is not his handl− leader. He does not have a handler. He would fight the handler if he had one. He would fight…that little guy would fight too. They would fight together.
"Don't move." He obeys. There is a hand on his forehead, keeping him from moving his head. Then there is a needle in his neck, liquid cold being pushed into his artery. His mind starts to swim. The cold burns in his head. He yells. "Stop screaming, soldier."
He stops.
"Good. Now, имя, звание и серийный номер."
His head hurts, can he answer? What is it? The first part… "Jay…James." The words start flowing better. "James Barnes. Sergeant. 32557241."
He hears Zola sigh. The doctor is disappointed. He hears him speak to someone, not him, "Bring me another syringe!"
He feels something wet on his face.
Name. Rank. Number. Name. Rank. Number.
"James Barnes. Sergeant. 32557241…"
Name. Rank. Number. Stop screaming. Don't move. Orders. Повиноваться. Имя. Ранг. Серийный номер.
"James Barnes… Sergeant. 32557…"
"Bucky?" Bucky? His eyes open in surprise. Someone had said his name. That was his name, wasn't it? Besides James Barnes, his name was Bucky. No one called Bucky anymore. Even the people he was in the cage with. They either called him Barnes or Jimmy. He didn't like being called Jimmy. He preferred Bucky. Forcing his eyes to move, he looks up at the person that had called him by his name. "Is…is that…"
"It's me. It's Steve," the person–Steve–said. A warm feeling started in his chest, triggering a wide grin. The name made him remember days laughing, finishing off fights, seeing a movie.
"Steve?" Steve's face elicits more memories: Mrs. Rogers' apple pie, the best pie in the world, always choosing after Steve first when he got to be team captain because the punk would be last if he didn't, holding Steve while he was sick to share his warmth. He remembers being the alley way tough guy with a stubborn, idealistic little brother that always got into fights. He remembers being Bucky.
"Steve."
Russian translations:
Человек, который не боится получить кровь на его руках. = A man who isn't afraid to get blood on his hands.
Наш самый большой актив. = Our greatest asset.
да? = yes?
Зимний Солдат = Winter Soldier
Удар эту собаку. = Beat this dog.
Гидра никогда не откажутся от вас. = Hydra will never abandon you.
Он борется за Гидры. = He fights for Hydra.
Американцы хотели бы вызвать хаос в мире. = Americans wish to cause chaos in the world.
Это можно сделать как мы скажем, чтобы. = You do as we command.
Он солдат Гидры. Он подчиняется приказам. = He is Hydra's soldier. He obeys orders.
Повиноваться. = Obey.
Он обработчик. = He is the handler.
Обработчик всегда прав. = The handler is always right.
имя, звание и серийный номер. = name, rank, and serial number.
Имя. Ранг. Серийный номер. = Name. Rank. Serial number.
French translations:
Vous ne- = You can't-
Used Google Translate for foreign languages.