What if...? || 𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘷𝘦𝘭 𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘵𝘴

⤷ 11 ...Bucky still knew you from Hydra?

*repost because i want to preserve the first comments. the edited full version is on my profile, it's called „the mechanic"*

[Trigger warning: mention of an unanaesthetised operation]

It was late afternoon and you guessed that the sun had to be high in the sky by now. You had no way of knowing though, because you only ever operated in the dark and busy hallways of your base.

You still remembered the warm sun rays on your arms as if it had been yesterday when you got out last time. It hadn't been yesterday. And also, not the day before. You'd stopped counting by now but estimated it to be around four or five years that you've worked here. Maybe even six. Time doesn't seem to pass at all down here. And if it does, nothing changes for you.

The same routines for years have numbed your brain. In the beginning, when you still were young and lively, it had been harder to do everything they asked you to do. But now you just follow the orders. And you're good at it. While losing hope of ever getting out of here, you've learned lots of new things, especially in mechanics. Whatever broken machine they give you, even if they don't give you any explanation about its purpose, soon you'll have figured out how it works, what's wrong, and how to fix it.

That's what you've been doing for at least two years now: Taking the special weapons in, examining them, and repairing them. Repeatedly. Over and over again. Sometimes you find out new things. You realize how to build different mechanics so that they do exactly what you want. But it won't help you, so you stopped caring. Turned off your thoughts.

You are lost.

Trapped.

You would have to spend the rest of your life down here, in the dirty dungeons of a Hydra base.

There was nothing interesting about your life anymore.

That was until a soldier was moved into your department. You were head mechanic by now, even being assigned to invent new weapons every once in a while. Recruiting as well as teaching new mechanics was part of your job by now.

So it is late afternoon when they carry in a tall and muscular man with short, dark hair on a stretcher, and you think of the outside world and the sun. His eyes are closed, and he isn't moving until they set him on a chair, built for this occasion. You frown in confusion when he slowly lifts his head. His gaze flickers all over the room and he doesn't seem to hear or see anything. His mouth moves slightly as if he's trying to say something. You don't react until you look at his upper body.

His left arm is missing.

You don't flinch. You've seen way worse injuries than this. But why is he sitting on that chair? It's not an operational chair, so much you can tell.

Your boss comes in right after the men with the stretcher. He pats your shoulder in a friendly manner and leans down to whisper in your ear.

"You see his right arm? Well, we need one. Except, we need a left one. Because he doesn't have one. You've never done anything like this before. But I believe you're up to the challenge. What do you think?"

"Yes, sire," you reply because it's the only right thing to say when your boss wants something of you.

He nods and smiles and then waves to the man for you to inspect his arm. Only a few guards and him are left when the medics leave, and the doors close with a metallic bang.

You don't say anything as you bend down to the unknown man and examine the place where the arm was severed from its body. It's a clean cut and you assume that it didn't get ripped off like you thought at first. Your boss probably got a medic to cut it off. But why would he do that? It couldn't have been that badly broken.