What If...? Rumlow Turned Against Hydra: Book One

21

He was prone, slightly curled up, for what had to be days, though his sense of time was no longer reliable, on the cold cement floor of the room they had placed him in. He was alone most of the time, unless there was someone giving him another injection, but that was short, only seconds to insert the needle, then leave him to deal with the effects alone. The injections were different, all producing different effects. Some made him physically sick, until he would curl up tightly on the floor, shivering in agony, covered in sweat as his body ached from dry heaves. Others would make his sense of reality waver, cutting him off from any thought of where he was, any idea of his surroundings being real. In those moments under the influence of whatever they'd forced into his body, he would touch the cement of the floor and walls over and over, seeing flashes of color where there should be no color, feeling the floor spring back as if it was made of rubber. The hallucinations shook his sense of who he was, of what he knew about anything and everything. Other drugs would make him heavy, sleepy, unable to know anything in a haze of half consciousness. Often these drugs were administered all at once, so he would feel all of the effects as one. He began to believe he was insane. He began to hope he would die.

Once in a while, he had no idea if there was a schedule, the entire room would be sprayed with water from somewhere in the ceiling. The water was harsh, cold, with an odd smell to it, as if it had some form of chemical within it. The sprays of water hurt, battering him from every angle, leaving him no way to avoid it. Once the water stopped, what was in the room would be drained in the corners, leaving him to lay under the bright, unrelenting lights and slowly dry off. In his more lucid moments, he realized the water was probably the most efficient way to clean him, with the chemical in it some form of sanitizer. He'd had little food or water, but he'd seen through the wavy hallucinations that a saline drip would be attached to him, keeping him hydrated. He hated seeing the saline bags, and if he could have done so, he would have broken them open, watching the liquid splash down onto the floor. They were keeping him alive, but he'd rather not be alive. He'd rather not give them what they wanted.

His awareness would return, slowly, each time. Some things were gone for good, it seemed, so hard to remember that they didn't matter. He had fought in a war but couldn't remember what war it had been. Maybe it was all wars, and that made some sense. He was, after all, Captain America, and all Captain America did was fight. That wasn't quite correct, but it took too much energy to try and find out why it wasn't correct. His name, Steve, was still there, most of the time. Some of the time, he forgot his name, while wondering how anyone could forget their own name. Maybe it was because his name wasn't really his name. He needed to find out his own name, eventually, but it didn't seem to be a large issue. He didn't speak to anyone, he was almost entirely alone, so why did he need a name at all?

He never slept, but he did lose consciousness, partially, on occasion. He woke himself up from one of the states of near catatonia by saying the name "Bucky" over and over. It seemed like a strange name, it wasn't his name of that he was certain. Why would he be saying that name so much? It had been pleasant when he hadn't been fully awake, there hadn't been any pain, or sickness or strange hallucinations. He preferred not to be awake. As he tried to push himself back into the numb, semi consciousness, his eyes opened wide and he remembered, really remembered Bucky. James Buchanan Barnes, his friend. His oldest friend, almost like a brother. He stood as he remembered what had been done to Bucky by Hydra. He was Steve Rogers, a captive of Hydra, who'd been secretly rebuilding themselves over seventy years in the heart of the U.S. government.

They had to have been watching him somehow, monitoring his responses, because as soon as he was showing real consciousness, a real understanding of his surroundings, the heavy door opened, the white coats entered followed by the black-clad STRIKE team. Steve knew it was coming, he had been noticing things his mind wasn't able to fully comprehend, but he was enhanced by super soldier serum. The damage to his mind and body was always repaired. He attacked his captors, throwing them aside or down as he ran out of the room, pausing only to decide which way he would go. His mind was clear for the first time in too long as he ran, reveling in the strength he could feel once again. He was ready to do what he'd vowed to do after Bucky fell from the train: not stop until all of Hydra was dead or captured. He currently preferred dead, unable to rise again, not allowed to force their twisted vision onto the world.

He saw others in the white lab coats at the end of the hall, increasing his speed, intending to slam them against the doors until they stopped moving. To his shock, he fell, not as if he had tripped, but as if he'd been thrown to the ground by someone else. There hadn't been anyone in his immediate vicinity, but he was down, and he couldn't stand up. He managed to turn his head, seeing an electrical field around him. It was then that the agony of it filtered through his previous narrow-minded focus. Every muscle was paralyzed by blasts of energy that were burning through him, raising welts and blisters on his skin that would swell and burst, only to sizzle until they were black in the unrelenting current. Smoke was rising from his body as he was helpless, caught in a trap meant for a super soldier.

The Hydra personnel in the lab coats approached him, making notes on electronic tablets as they discussed what they were seeing. One came closer, looking at where the electricity had to be coming from, making other notations. Steve couldn't scream, his body wasn't his to control. As he was becoming convinced he would die, the current was shut off, leaving him convulsing on the ground, unable to regain control of his muscles. He looked at himself, appalled at the scorch marks on his skin, the raw redness of third degree burns and weeping open sores. The smell of burnt flesh – his burnt flesh - was strong as he struggled to try and stand.

"Captain Rogers," one of the onlookers said, in a dry academic voice. "This was an excellent test. You not only proved that the poisons and drugs you were given are not causing long term physical damage, but we also had an excellent test of our defenses. Not even a super soldier can withstand this energy field. It would kill a normal human being of course, but you should heal quickly."

Steve wanted to hurl insults at them, to crush their bodies into a pulp with his bare hands, but he was grievously wounded. He would heal but not in time for him to escape them. He did manage to choke out: "who did you build this for? Was it me, or was it for Bucky?"

"Of course it was for you, ever since you came out of the ice, we've been prepared."

"You're afraid of him, aren't you? You always have been." Steve coughed with the smell of his own cooked flesh in his nose. He took a strange satisfaction from pushing at them, throwing their fears back at them. He knew he was right; they had feared Bucky, he could see it in their faces.

"It doesn't matter." The dry academic voice became brusque. "He won't be able to withstand this any more than you did. When he's back with us, we will have both of you under our control."
"If you think he will ever be under your control again, you're the one whose sense of reality is skewed." Steve's voice was already stronger, he was almost able to stand. The Hydra personnel were looking at him with alarm, some calling out to restrain him. He was dragged back to the small room, doused with the sanitizing chemical and left once again. Through the pain he smiled. He had to hold onto Bucky, even if he lost himself, Bucky was his hope, and it was through Bucky he could keep himself safe from them.