Bucky Barnes AU

1

Where was he?

Oh.. oh! He was there. 

With a sense of dread, he realised he's been here before; the first time he was caught by the Kremlin.

Looking down, he also notices they've chained him to a chair. Cold metal biting into bruised flesh. The copper taste of blood sits on his tongue, stains his teeth. It makes him sick.

Sweat covers his chest, his face, his lips. Mixing with the blood that stains his worn out Levis and ripped trainers. It hurts to breath, he can't help but notice: His canvas like abdomen was covered in water coloured bruises; his collar bone shattered like porcelain, heavy white bandages sloppily held onto teared flesh.

He eyes the small room, the one he's been locked in, warily. There's blood on the walls, not fresh, but still there. What other victims had suffered the same fate he was doomed to at the hands of the KGB? They won't go easy on him, not this time.

He can hear them, through the thin paper walls, speaking their mother language. It sends chills down his spine, makes the hairs on his arm stand up. Though he was born and raised in the art of espionage, every spy knew not to mess with the KGB.

They had no morals, no conscience, no humanity in his eyes. If you were the enemy, you were dead. And by God, did he know he was their enemy.

The large, rusted door that kept him in and the KGB out slowly opened, sending his heart pounding. It seemed like an eternity had passed before they had managed to open it, the hinges letting out a shrill cry. Bile rushed up his throat, as the all too familiar boots loudly marched through the door.

"James..." A heavy accented voice called to him, like a parent calling a child. "Oh James, here you are again." The voice mocked. "Did you think we wouldn't find you? Did you think we'd allow you to escape a second time? No, no no. You knew the score. How does it feel being back in Cell 406?" He cruelly cackled. James met the eyes of the KGB agent, and to his horror he found nothing.

No emotion, no warmth. His sunken eyes were dead. The agent slowly stalked over to him, lying a leather hand on his shoulder. Within a second, the agent had Jame's face, pulling him up to his level. The chains that held James to the chair protested, cutting into his wrists. Tears welled in his eyes but he blinked them back, refusing to give the agent the satisfaction. 

"Jamessss!" The Agent hissed, specks of spit landing on James' cheek. "You were so stupid, so stupid! You could of got away." A sadistic smile slowly crept onto his face, "But now I suppose it ends here, doesn't it?" He said almost wistfully. "Кошка наконец поймала мышь. Such a pathetic place for a man like you to take his last breath. I'd pity you but, we both knew how this would end." The Agent threw James back onto the chair; the force of the impact sending him flying to the ground. He stood over him, menacingly. Predator looking at prey. He seemed to bask in James fear.

"Are you ready?" He asked softly, pulling out the gun that would silence the cowering American spy forever. James nodded. Eyeing the gun, he felt his entire body go numb. In his last moments he thought of fireworks, ice cream and the Yankees hitting a home run. He thought of his Mother and sister and of his best friend, Steve. 

"...I'm ready."

An older man, a shriveled toothless creature, sat at his desk waiting. When he heard the door open, he did as he was instructed; turn the radio on, block out the noise. He hummed along to the song, not really listening. He couldn't hear anything other then the song that blared out of the gramophone, nothing seemed out the ordinary.

Until a single gun shot from Cell 406 echoed down the dingy, dark, soviet halls.

"Long live our Soviet motherland, Built by the people's mighty hand..."