fugue // stucky

22. What Do You Need?

Steve stands next to me, idly stroking his thumb over my knuckles as we wait for the hand to signal us to walk. He's humming some song, probably one he has a dancing routine to, and swinging his hips back and forth absentmindedly. I chuckle and look over at the long line of traffic to my right. It's like the cars move an inch every five minutes. The lights aren't changing any faster.

I watch as one woman tries to finish her breakfast in the traffic, taking a massive bite of her pink donut. She lifts a cup of coffee to her mouth and takes a sip. Obviously, it was too hot, because she spits it out all over herself. I giggle and smile as she curses so loudly I'm sure they can hear it two blocks away.

The tip of my nose is turning pink at the brisk nip of winter. My cheeks are cold to the touch, and I almost regret letting Steve talk me out of staying in the warm apartment.

A loud, creaky car that was probably made in the 60s rolls up to the stoplight, an old man with a bald head and white mustache residing in the drivers seat. He slams the steering wheel as the car makes some weird gurgling noises. I furrow my brows and his eyes widen. BANG!

"No, please, I can't anymore," I choke. My voice is cracking, not making me sound at all convincing.

"Soldat, things would go better if you just cooperate," his German accent slaughters the words. His boots crunch on the floor, his red-stained hands stretching out his night stick, wiping off the blood.

I swallow and hold out my left hand. I'm in a corner, my knees on the ground. A sob slips out of my lips and tears leak out of my eyes. I gasp for breath as my ribcage almost closes in on itself, from all the times my ribs were broken and never healed properly. Another sob. I lean my head against the cold, stone wall and scream out. Sweat, tears, blood, and drool collect on my face. I cry because of the pain. I cry because this is my life now. This is all I'll do until they kill me.

"Get up."

"No, I can't-"

"Get up!" A sting surges from under my arm. I scream and clench my eyes, balling my fist up and hunching over. I press my flesh hand against my side and feel warmth spreading over my fingers. I don't even open my eyes to know that I'll have another scar resting there in a week.

I breathe in and out calmly and slowly rise to my feet. I swallow the shrieks and stare ahead. Tears fall steadily, leaving clean streaks on my grease-covered face.

"Are you ready to continue?" The HYDRA agent asks from my side.

"Ja."

"Ausgezeichnet. Prepare the machines!"

I bite my lip as more tears fall, my mouth quivering as the man leaves the room. Ahead of me, rows and rows of guns lay unmanned. They're lined up to tiny holes in giant glass windows. The rest of the room is solid stone, except for one heavy-duty metal door.

A box. A box is what I'm in.

Suddenly, the room before me fills up with a dozen soldiers, all hopping on different auxiliaries. I let out one single cry for mercy before they yell fire, and I'm left to try and defend myself from their bullets one by one with only my metal arm. BANG! BANG! BANG!

"Bucky? Oh, God, Bucky. Please, please, Buck," a man shakes my shoulders. I gasp and open my eyes. My hands reach above me and wrap around his throat. I squeeze and shove my knee into his gut, throwing him off of me.

"Wo bin ich?"

"Bucky," the man before me chokes out. His hand grabs his own throat and massages it, trying to coax out words.