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JANUARY 4TH, 1979
THE GUN SHOTrang out throughout the night.
Cynthia looked over, the open window casting rain onto her and the machine she was hooked up to. Cynthia wanted to go run to the slightly open door that cast a yellow light in the small doorway. More gunshots rang out, and a man's scream was heard.
It was her father—he had been the one to scream. But whose doing was it? Was it the Winter Soldier that her father had idolized so much that he had forced her to try and become a Winter Soldier herself?
Footsteps pounded in the hallway. Cynthia was so exhausted that she almost didn't care. But she didn't want to die . . . So perhaps she would have to take matters into her own hands. Trembling as her small hand picked itself up from her fragile, bony lap, she struggled to take off the strip of tape that held an IV. Cynthia was too weak to pull it out—from the starvation her father had started to put her through, all she had been doing recently was wasting away while sitting in the chair.
The loud, pounding footsteps then stopped in front of her door, and she slowly drew her eyes up to the tall, muscular figure standing in the hallway. She felt tears spring into her eyes when she realized who it was.
The Winter Soldier.
Maybe she had mouthed the the words, because now he was moving closer to her. Oh god—oh god, he was going to kill her, wasn't he?
All of a sudden, Cynthia felt herself falling out of the chair, and onto the floor, where she dragged many wires after her—the Winter Soldier still following her. She then remembered the words her father would always say to bring her out of her trance while training. And in Russian, she started reciting the words. She wasn't that audible, but . . . They seemed to be working.
The Winter Soldier stopped walking. Stopped breathing for a second. Pausing, he seethed, "Stop talking," Then continued walking towards her, yet—slower. Not as violent. His steps were lighter than they were before as she swallowed down her dry throat, her voice breaking as she raised her voice to say more of the words.
She crawled over to a bookshelf, where she pressed herself against it. His hand was trembling as she said the last word, and took a deep breath. A deep, relieved, breath. One she hadn't taken since her father had begun his tests on her.
The Winter Soldier froze before his hand shook before putting his gun away. Cynthia's eyes flickered over to the small security camera high in one of the corners of the room, before she looked back at the Winter Soldier. He slowly removed his mask, his hands shaking.
"My father was obsessed with you," Cynthia whispered. "He tried to make me like you. But he failed."
His eyes were softer now—not the harsh tone they had displayed minutes ago. His eyes were blue, she noted, a nice blue. A soft, comforting blue, and she could imagine him as a man who had lit up places wherever he went.
"Who are you?" Cynthia asked. "Your name is obviously not the Winter Soldier."
His eyes flickered over to her as he dropped the mask. "My name was Bucky," He said, his voice breaking. "I—" He stopped talking.
"I need you to help me, with something, Bucky." Cynthia said, struggling to get up. Bucky slowly and carefully made his way over to her, afraid he would break her if he tried to hold her. "There's a room down the hall—I need you to take me to it."
Nodding, Bucky carefully picked up the girl, ripping out some of the IVs she had stuck in her in the process. She hissed in pain, and Bucky whispered to her, "I'm sorry."
"Don't be. They were going to come out of me one day." Cynthia replied. She led Bucky down the hall, towards a metal door, unlike all the other, wooden doors. "This is it," She said, "Put me down."
Gently standing her upwards, Cynthia steadied herself using the walls around her. She didn't dare touch Bucky, in case he snapped back into the Winter Soldier. She punched in the passcode to the room, the door opening, and Bucky hesitantly helping her down the cool metal hallway.
"My father told me that this was where he would take me for my final test," Cynthia explained, "But he never told me what it was. Just that it would complete my training."
The two walked into the room, and what laid before them scared Bucky. Only because he had seen it. It was what HYDRA used to wipe his mind every single time. Stumbling over, and falling into it, no thanks to the help of Bucky, who was standing frozen in the hallway. Cynthia managed to buckle herself in, and she pressed a few buttons on the machine next to her.
But what happened next was something neither of them expected.
Faster than he could blink, lights flashed all over her skinny body, restoring her to her natural size, and healing all wounds she had just received from her IVs and many other things her father had done to her the past couple of weeks. Her brunette hair, that was laying down in a mop on her back, sprung up with electricity; turning a whiteish blonde color.
When the machine powered down, Cynthia took a few moments to breathe and calm herself. Bucky was standing opposite her, staring at her as if he was a deer in the headlights. Cynthia no longer shook as she unbuckled herself, and walked perfectly fine down the hallways. No stumbling. She didn't even trip.
Bucky slowly followed her, and when she came to a stopping point, he asked, "What the hell was that?"
"I'm not sure, but there's something I suspect." Cynthia replied. She turned her head to look at him. "Would you . . . Like anything to drink?"
Bucky quietly sat down at the table and said, "Stop trying to be a housewife."
Cynthia froze in front of the fridge. "I don't want you being someone you're not. Obviously you're programmed to be someone else. Don't let that define you." Bucky said from behind her.
Turning, Cynthia asked, "So why haven't you tried?"
"This is the first time I've been able to use my voice in I don't know how long," Bucky explained. "Now . . . Go. You're supposed to be dead. Your family was my mission."
"Family?" Cynthia paused. "I don't have a family. My mother died at the hands of my father years ago. What other family would I have?"
"You . . . A sister," Bucky replied, "But . . . She—she's gone now. I'm sorry, it was my doing—"
"It was your mission," Cynthia replied, stopping Bucky mid sentence. "Now—go."
She turned towards the open door, walking towards it slowly. Once again speaking in Russian, she said loudly, "Longing."
Bucky froze. "Rusted. Seventeen. Daybreak." She was saying the words faster than he could think.
"Stop that," Bucky seethed.
"Furnace, nine, benign, homecoming—"
"STOP THAT!" Bucky screamed in agitation. He fell to the floor, seething in pain.
"One. Freight Car."
Bucky stood up straight. A robot. A Soldier.
"Go report, Soldier."
Cynthia heard a grunt behind her, and footsteps thundering towards her. She looked back in fear when she saw Bucky running towards her.
