Chapter Text
Bucky’s bare feet slapped painfully against the cold, polished floor.
John’s desperate shout pierced through the fading confusion, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t . If he stopped now, reality would catch up to him—raw, and soaked in blood. Sam’s blood. Bucky’s stomach churned violently as another flash hit him, the recoil of the gun, Sam stumbling back, shock and pain twisting his features.
Bucky crashed through the next set of doors, ignoring the sharp sting as the edge caught his thigh. He vaulted a bench, nearly slipped on the polished floor, pushed past a stunned security guard who only managed a strangled, “Hey—!” before Bucky was already gone, pounding down the hallway.
He burst through a side exit, flinging himself into the biting air. He didn’t care that the jacket he’d taken barely covered his trembling torso or that pedestrians froze in open-mouthed shock at the sight of a half-naked, wild-eyed man fleeing in terror. He just ran, chest heaving, lungs screaming, heart pounding in his ears louder than the sirens swiftly closing in behind him.
Fragments of memory swarmed him as he stumbled blindly into an alley—blurred, chaotic images, a dizzying collage of faces and voices. The Tower, laughter around a table, arguments spiraling into shouting matches. His chest burned with shame. The scar on his abdomen throbbed. He knew he’d been shot, that much he could piece together; he remembered Cho’s voice, urgent yet gentle, machines beeping steadily around him, Sam’s voice drifting in and out.
But now, none of it seemed to matter, because in a split-second of confusion and terror, he’d hurt someone else—someone he’d trusted more than anyone, someone who had trusted him back. The sudden shock of clarity made him stumble, collapsing heavily against a dumpster. The metal was cold, digging sharply into his bruised shoulder as the adrenaline drained away and pain took hold.
Bucky clutched his head, gasping raggedly, as broken, splintered memories sliced through him—his desperate attempts to reconcile with Sam, the harsh accusations thrown between them, his own stubborn pride, and finally, the blinding moment of his awakening in the cryo-chamber, violent and disorienting, his mind caught between nightmares and reality.
And then— the trigger . The echoing shot. Sam’s shocked face as blood seeped from his chest.
“Oh God,” Bucky whispered, his voice raw and strangled, horror choking him, drowning him. “Sam…”
Shuddering breaths ripped through his chest as he pushed himself off the dumpster and kept moving. Every step was agony now, muscles protesting violently. The sudden, brutal awakening had left his body weak, joints stiff, and the world swaying around him in nauseating waves. His vision blurred in and out of focus, and he barely managed to avoid collapsing again as he reached a hidden entrance into the city’s sewer tunnels.
He shoved the grate aside, the scraping metal echoing ominously as he descended into the oppressive darkness. The icy water stung his bare feet and calves, but he didn’t care. Bucky stumbled deeper into the tunnels, driven only by fear and confusion, until finally his legs betrayed him completely. He crashed heavily against the slick wall, sliding slowly to the filthy, freezing floor.
He had shot Sam. He’d pulled the trigger without thinking, without recognizing his friend. He’d lost control again—reverting to what Hydra had always wanted him to be: a weapon, mindless and deadly.
“No…” Bucky rasped, dragging shaky fingers through his damp, tangled hair, gripping it tightly. “Please… no. Not again.”
His chest felt impossibly tight, his heartbeat thundered painfully in his skull. One thing was painfully clear, though: there would be no explaining this away, no quick forgiveness. Not after this. The world would see only the Winter Soldier—the assassin who’d attempted to murder Captain America.
They’d hunt him again. Imprison him. Lock him away forever, branded a traitor, a criminal. And the worst part was, Bucky wasn’t even sure they’d be wrong.
He sank deeper into despair, head dropping onto his knees, shivering uncontrollably.
Bucky forced himself to keep moving, every muscle screaming, knees buckling from exhaustion and pain. His bare feet splashed through the filthy water of the tunnel, his stolen jacket clinging damp and useless to his skin.
He couldn’t stop replaying the last hour—It felt like the world had cracked and he’d slipped into the void between the pieces. Every step sent shards of memory slashing through his mind: Why had he run? Why hadn’t he just dropped the weapon and surrendered? The answer felt out of reach…
Think. He had to keep thinking. But his mind was a frayed wire sparking in the dark—memories half-formed, names like broken glass. Steve. Sam. Yelena. Bob. The Thunderbolts. He knew these names, but their voices, their faces, the why of it all slipped between his fingers like smoke.
Hydra. No, he wasn’t with them anymore. He knew that. Right?
Then why did everything feel like he was being hunted again?
He stopped near a rusted access ladder, the iron slick under his palm, and let his head fall back. For a moment he almost laughed—he’d done it again, hadn’t he? Gone right back to square one, hunted, alone, the monster in the shadows. His thoughts flickered to the faces of those who’d once called themselves Thunderbolts, to John’s wary stare, to Ava’s dry humor, Yelena’s sidelong glances, Alexei’s booming laugh, even Bob’s awkward silences. He’d fought tooth and nail against the very idea of that team, yet somehow their memories were what cut the deepest now.
He’ll never trust me again. None of them will. Maybe they never should have.
That was when he heard it—the soft, methodical stamp of boots on concrete, followed by a cold bloom of white light flooding the tunnel. Bucky’s instincts snapped taut. He shielded his eyes with one trembling hand, heart leaping into a sprint, and spun away from the ladder, only to find more figures emerging from the gloom. All dressed in black, faces hidden behind mirrored visors, rifles steady and silent.
He whirled, desperate, but a second team blocked the passage behind him. How had they moved so quietly? Why hadn’t he heard them coming? His vision blurred, his legs suddenly felt like lead, the adrenaline finally burning out in his bloodstream. He sank to his knees, one hand scraping at the moss-slick wall for balance, but refused to yield, teeth bared in a snarl. They circled, keeping a careful distance.
He lunged . His bare feet slapped through shallow, filthy water, every nerve ending on fire. The first soldier to reach him got a vicious elbow to the throat for his trouble—Bucky spun, using the momentum, shoulder-checking a second man so hard he bounced off the tunnel wall and went down hard.
The others moved like wolves, tightening the circle. Bucky barely registered their shouted warnings—his mind was all angles, escape routes, the weight of muscle memory screaming move, survive, fight . He ducked a baton swing, grabbed the arm, twisted, and snapped the wrist with a sickening crunch. The man howled and dropped his weapon, but another soldier clipped Bucky across the face with a stun baton. Blue-white pain ripped through him, jaw snapping shut, blood on his tongue.
Snarling, Bucky surged up, grabbed the baton, and flung it into the darkness.
Three more converged at once, two from the front, one from behind. Bucky rolled, metal arm slamming one attacker aside, but he was outnumbered, body screaming protest with every movement. He caught a knee to the ribs, gasped, then a heavy boot caught his ankle and yanked—he went down hard, hands scrabbling for purchase, but the ground was slick and he was still weak from the cryo and injury.
A soldier tried to cuff him. Bucky twisted violently, nearly breaking the man’s grip, then kicked out, knocking another into the sewer wall. But someone jabbed a syringe into his shoulder—cold liquid fire spreading through his veins. He roared, shoving back up to his knees, arm swinging wildly—metal fingers closing around another throat. The fight was desperate. Two more tried to hold him—one almost lost an eye to Bucky’s thumb before someone managed to wrench his metal arm behind his back with a crackle of pain at the joint.
“No—no, no—” he gasped, clawing toward the wall, reaching blindly.
The sedative was taking hold. His vision blurred, but Bucky fought on, muscles straining against three men holding him down. He twisted, bit down on a gloved hand hard enough to draw blood through Kevlar. “Who are you?!” he growled, but his voice was already thick, the world slipping sideways.
It took all six to finally pin him—two on his legs, two on his arms, one crushing his shoulders into the concrete while the last snapped reinforced restraints around his wrists, clamping both flesh and metal so tight he couldn’t move. They jammed a second set of cuffs on his ankles, and for good measure, zip-tied his arms to his torso.
A boot pressed hard between his shoulder blades, holding him down in the stinking water.
Then—shoes, slow, clicking against wet stone.
“I warned them,” the man said—smooth, and familiar in the way nightmares feel familiar. “You can’t keep a weapon like you locked in a cage. You were always going to run.”
Bucky’s vision blurred again. “Who the hell—”
The man stepped closer, crouching just enough for Bucky to see the faintest glint of glasses and the ghost of a smile beneath them.
“You’re far too valuable to lose, Sergeant Barnes.” The voice was ice over velvet. “Welcome back to the program.”
He tried, one last time, to wrench himself free—but the strength was gone, the drugs drowning his senses. The man straightened, nodded to the soldiers. “Let’s get him out of here. And be careful—he’s worth more in one piece.”
Bucky’s vision went dark around the edges as they hauled him up, the clank of heavy cuffs echoing in the tunnel, and the final, soul-deep humiliation of being dragged away like a rabid animal. The last thing he saw before it all slipped under was that stranger’s cold, satisfied smile.