Awakening of the Ghost: Ready to Comply (solo)

“Prep him and wipe him.”

The words trickled slowly into his mind… words that never meant anything good.

Words that only meant pain.

He tried to move as the restraints were removed, but his body refused to respond. Like a toddler with no control over his own limbs, he slumped forward onto his knees. Before he could collapse completely, two soldiers caught him, dragging him forward across the floor.

His skin… no, his entire body still felt cold.

Cold from the cryostasis chamber. His senses were only beginning to return, slowly, painfully. Everything felt distant, muted, as though he were underwater, struggling toward the surface. Then he felt himself being lowered into a seat.

A soft sigh escaped him. The chair was metal. It always was. Metal and a thin layer of insulation. Always cold.

They strapped him in, leather restraints pulled tight against his bare skin, biting into his arms and chest. They dug into him as though they hated him. As though they had been designed to. Maybe they had.

He wanted to speak. To fight. To scream.But his tongue felt thick and sluggish in his mouth. His jaw trembled - not from fear, though it could have been, but from the aftershock of freezing, from the weakness still crawling through every nerve ending. He tried to lift his head, but even that small movement felt impossible.

Above him, fluorescent lights buzzed, harsh and sterile. They cast a clinical glow over the room, illuminating the rust in the corners, the bloodstains scrubbed into the floor, the figures in white coats and black uniforms moving around him like shadows.

One of them approached.

A man with thin glasses and even thinner lips. He didn't look at Bucky. His eyes remained fixed on the clipboard in his hands. “Subject shows signs of cognitive latency. Begin stimulation sequence.”

Bucky heard the machine power up before he saw it. A low hum crawled beneath his skin, rising into static that seemed to settle deep within the bones of his skull. The chair shifted, tilting backward, positioning him like a specimen.

His left, metal arm jerked against its restraints with a soft clank. No use.

Someone approached with a mouthpiece.Bucky bared his teeth like a cornered animal. But when the silicone was pressed against his mouth, he sucked in a sharp breath and bit down hard.

Then the frame came down around his face.

Bucky tried to hold onto something.

Anything.

His name.

His memories.

The feeling of grass beneath his back and warm sunlight against his face.

Steve.
Steve's face.
Steve's voice.
The gentle touch of his hand.
Coney Island.
Rooftops in Brooklyn.
The quiet moments when it had just been the two of them, sitting together with nowhere else they needed to be.

He knew that once the machine started working on him, all of it would be taken away.

He knew.

He felt the metal press against his right cheek, then his left, locking his head into place. Electrodes snapped against his skin.

Then came the light. Blinding… Disorienting…

It wasn't meant for his eyes. It was meant for his mind. Designed to fracture it.

Pain exploded behind his eyes, sharp and white-hot, like fire racing through his nerves. His spine arched against the chair as every muscle seized at once, straining uselessly against the restraints.

A muffled grunt escaped through the mouthpiece. His scream was stolen before it ever reached the air.

The first jolt.

He tried to picture Steve. Tried to hold onto the image of blue eyes and a gentle hand reaching for his own.

But the colors were already beginning to fade. The warmth was being leached from the memory piece by piece.

Again… Another jolt… Another burst of pain....Again… Again….
Over and over, the machine sent electricity through his skull, tearing through his thoughts until the pain itself became intertwined with a voice.

A Russian voice. The handler.

Somewhere behind the machine, a man began to speak.

The trigger words, the words that could shut Bucky down. The words that could awaken something darker.

Something colder.
Something far more dangerous.
Something HYDRA had created.

“Zhelaniye. Желание.” Longing.

“Rzhavyy. Ржавый.” Rusted.

“Semnadtsat’. Семнадцать.” Seventeen.

“Rassvet. Рассвет.” Daybreak.

“Pech’. Печь.” Furnace.

“Devyat’. Девять.” Nine.

“Dobrokachestvennyye. Доброкачественные.” Benign.

“Vozvrashcheniye na rodinu. Возвращение на родину.” Homecoming.

“Odin. Один.” One.

“Gruzovoy vagon. Грузовой вагон.” Freight car.

Bucky fought every word. He fought to stay himself.
He clung desperately to the fragments of memories still left to him, but they were slipping through his fingers one by one.

Steve's face… Gone.
The warmth of the sun… Gone.
The sound of laughter… Gone.
His own name - Bucky - fading.

The other one inside him was growing stronger with every word. And Bucky… Bucky was crumbling.

Fading.

Making room for him.

HYDRA's fist.
A living ghost story.
An unseen killer.
The Winter Soldier.

The pain stopped.

Silence followed and for several seconds, there was nothing.

Then the handler stepped directly in front of him.

Cold eyes met his.

There was no recognition in them.

No warmth, no hesitation.

Only emptiness.

The handler spoke in Russian and there was only one response.

“Ya gotov otvechat! Я готов отвечать!” Ready to comply!

Silent and perfectly still in the chair, the Winter Soldier waited for his next order.