The Seventh Avenger: Memories Never Die// Bucky Barnes

THIRTEEN: THE FILE

          Relief courses through my veins as the sight of the door to the soldier's workshop looms in front of us. It only increases at the realisation that the two guards that we had miraculously managed to remain hidden from mere moments before had been the guards posted outside this very door; so far the plan is working. But there may only be a short window for us to go in, grab what we need, and get the hell out of dodge before Jasper and the rest of the guards figure out that there is no fire. I want to be as far from here as possible by the time that they discover the truth. Not just for my sake, but for the man's beside me as well.

          The soldier's grip on me is still tight as we continue to hurry down the last corridor, a sense of urgency underlying our every step as we move. Maybe our close encounter with the guards has put us even more on edge. Maybe it's just inevitable that the longer we are out here in the open, the more nervous we become. Either way, it seems that he is just as keen to get this over with as I am. We have already had one close call; I have a feeling we won't be as fortunate if we were to have another.

          He comes to an abrupt halt outside the door but places me gently on the ground. Pain flares up the back of my calf, and I hiss as he guides me to the wall. Throwing my head back to rest it against said wall, I watch from the corner of my eyes as he reaches for the door handle. Panic briefly clenches my heart in a tight vice at the possibility that the guards had locked the door before they had left. The thought hadn't occured to either Riley and I during our planning; if it's seriously locked after everything we've been through to get to here-

          The solider opens it with ease. A huff of relief and disbelief at the guards' stupidity slips past my lips as the door creaks open. Idiots.

          Even though the chances of someone being in the workshop with the fire alarm going off is slim to none, the soldier still pokes his head through the gap between the door and wall to ensure that the coast is clear. Satisfied that we are alone, he rocks back on his heels and turns to look at me. "It's empty."

          I nod and inhale sharply before pushing myself back off the wall. The solider is quick to move back to my side and sling his arm around my waist in a firm hold. He uses his other hand to push the workshop door open the rest of the way, and hurriedly moves us into the room. Unlike outside, the room is completely dry, and I would have thought that the guards have finally figured out that there is no fire and turned the sprinklers off if it wasn't for the water still pouring from the roof outside in the hall. There must not be any built in here.

          The workshop isn't as big as I thought it would be. Glass cabinets line the wall to our left, revealing tubes of colourful liquids, stacks of papers and scientific instruments within them. Medical equipment such as sphygmomanometers and IVs, as well as computers, have been placed against the right and far wall, and a large wheelie table with a white cloth thrown over the top of it sits just to our right.

          But what catches my attention the most, is the piece of machinery placed directly in the middle of the room. At first glance, I would have guessed it to be a chair. But upon closer inspection, I see that there are hand manacles built into its arms, and some strange machinery juts out from behind it. My eyes trace over the circular equipment, and upon closer inspection, I finally notice what looks to be a sort of clamp attached to the arms of the machine, hanging just where a person's head would rest if they were to sit in the chair. The more that I look at this odd structure, the more uneasy I feel. What it's used for I don't know, but something in my gut is telling me that I don't want to.

          I turn to inform the soldier of what it is that I need to get in here, but the words die in the back of my throat when I see the look on his face. His plump lips press into a thin, tight line as he stares at the chair in front of us. His dark brows furrow together, and there is such a profound sadness in the pools of his eyes that only grows the longer that he looks at the machine. It's enough to make my stomach drop with dread as I realise that he knows full well what happens whenever his handlers turn on the chair. He knows from experience, and the look on his face only confirms my belief that it isn't used for anything good.