A/N: Chapter titles are from Terrible Lie by Nine Inch Nails. Thank you to everyone who has followed/favorited me or any of my stories, and I hope you enjoy this one :) Please read and review!

1. Why are you doing this to me?

The sky was white, far above his head. Sometimes wisps of blue appeared between the clouds, but it was a grey day. Not that there was much sky visible from his location. He wasn't dead, not yet, but it was only a matter of time. The actual temperature was unknown, but it was certainly cold enough to snow, and he was soaking wet. He'd pulled himself out of a river, he vaguely recalled. There was something unpleasant, horrifying, about it, which he did not want to think about. If he pressed himself, his brain skipped along to other thoughts and refused to focus on how he had gotten here. That was okay, he decided. It probably didn't matter.

After a while, he didn't feel cold anymore. Or in pain. Everything seemed very calm, and the earlier desperation he had felt seemed silly now. There had been a mission, it was important, but now it had gone on without him. He could just lie here, in the snow, and wait until it was all over. There was no reason to worry. He watched calmly as it began to snow, soft flakes landing on his face and coat and hand. They didn't melt. Not even when they landed on his eyes, which he considered blinking, but didn't always.

Suddenly, noise invaded the serenity of his mind. It caused him to wince, closing his eyes at last. A shadowy figure appeared above him, between him and the grey sky. It moved close to his face, perhaps inspecting him, then shouted. He winced again at the shout, wanting to push the figure away but unable to move his arms. The figure disappeared, and he hoped it wouldn't come back, that he could just be left alone to lie here.

He was somewhat disappointed when he felt himself being grabbed by the shoulders and dragged backwards onto a different surface from the snow-covered ground. It was rough; wood, perhaps. It started moving lightly through the snow, and a figure appeared, following. It shifted in and out of his vision, but he was aware that the man was dressed as a soldier. Russian, some part of his brain supplied irrelevantly. They were taking him somewhere. He didn't know what he felt about that, so he closed his eyes instead.

He is aware of himself suddenly, shockingly. Breathing comes in deep gasps, his chest heaving. His body is restrained to a table and there is pain everywhere. His voice does not work, though he tries to cry out, and the pain intensifies to a point before vanishing completely. His eyes close again and he tries to return to his earlier calm.

When he becomes aware again, he finds that he is on his feet, surrounded by metal. A small window is before his face, and is edged in ice. The ice is melting, and he can feel the same happening on his flesh. His body shakes and he focuses on the window, trying to make out the room beyond. Before he can get more than the impression of a few men in white (lab coats?), the door is opened abruptly and he falls forward. He hadn't realized he was leaning on it.

Words float above his head as the men talk about him, but he can't focus on what they are saying or what language they use. He has landed on the cold concrete floor, on his side, and pulls his knees against his chest. His right arm wraps around them. His left he doesn't think about. The trembling is decreasing, though he is still wet and cold from the ice in the chamber. Or was it from the snow at the base of a cliff? Or from the river? He doesn't know, doesn't care. He wants to be warm again.

Arms wrap around him and haul him onto a platform of some sort; a gurney, maybe. He allows himself to be stretched out, but then they begin to fasten straps across his person. This causes him to react automatically and he struggles against them. The words floating around increase in volume and insistence, and more hands appear to hold him down while he is restrained. When these are secure, he gives up and lays back, staring at the light hanging from the ceiling perhaps ten feet above him.

His fingers flex against his leg as the men in coats walk around him and write things on clipboards. Some are very excited, gesturing. He waits patiently, some part of him insisting he do… something. Escape, maybe? He isn't sure why, or where he needs to go. But he shouldn't be here, he is certain. If he behaves, perhaps he will be able to take advantage of more lax surveillance. He closes his eyes.

His eyes shoot open and he screams when the whirring of which he was vaguely aware settles against his arm and is clearly a bone saw. He had taken care not to bump it, not to touch his left arm in any way, or allow it to be touched. And now they are cutting at it. The pain reaches his brain with explosive force and he loses consciousness.

Dark shapes flicker across his vision, moving between his closed eyelids and the light. He is aware of their movement, of the noises they make for a while before his brain attempts to make sense of anything. Something slows his thoughts and his reflexes, more than just the restraints attaching him to this place. There is something else. He feels… heavier, maybe. The feeling is unsettling and he holds very still. Industrial sounds greet him, and he is further confused. What is going on?

The straps across him are unbuckled and he forces himself to stay relaxed, in hopes of convincing them, whoever they are, that he does not need to be tied down. If they leave him unfettered, maybe he can fight against the odd heaviness and the presumably drug-induced lethargy to escape this place. To go… somewhere. To find someone. Someone. Someone who he followed, who gave him orders. But not just a superior officer, a friend. Someone he'd known his whole life. His brow furrows as he presses his scattered thoughts. Steve! Steve Rogers, Captain America, he remembers suddenly.

His eyes open and he looks around, looking for Steve. But, no, Steve wouldn't be here. Steve was where he was, before. Before he fell. Something motorized, but on tracks. A train! Steve was on a train. So was he. Their mission was there, for some reason. But he fell. Had they failed? He didn't know. He had, he supposed. Clearly, all of this was not part of the mission. Whatever it was. There are three doctors near his feet, standing close together and talking animatedly. He can't tell if there is anyone else in the room. It is sparsely furnished.

One of the doctors moves closer, standing at his side and writing something. Then he notices he is awake, begins gesturing and speaking gently to him. Some part of his brain supplies that the man is speaking English, though in a thick accent, but the words do not catch onto anything and he doesn't understand. The man motions to his left side, smiling slightly, seemingly explaining something. He lifts his hands and is surprised to have both again. One is metal, though. The man motions to him, to the arm, and talks more. He glances toward the other two men, who are calm and seem only politely interested, and sees no one else in the room.

The metal arm moves when he tells it to. It is heavy, but feels not unlike his original arm of flesh and blood. He lifts his fingers and wraps them around the man's throat, squeezing, and sits up. Before he can get any further in his poorly-thought-out escape attempt, someone runs up and jams a needle in his chest. A sedative, he thinks vaguely before everything evaporates like mist.

"Sergeant Barnes," a voice invades his consciousness.

At the sound of his name, he brings himself back, feeling like it is a great distance he must traverse. He opens his eyes and sees a man bending over him, smiling at him. A small man, with glasses. A familiar small man with glasses. He frowns, trying to follow his thoughts to find a previous time he has seen this man.

He is aware that the man has been talking to him, excitedly. He gestures and smiles and seems very happy. Frowning deeply, he forces himself to focus. "You will be the new fist of HYDRA," the man continues.

HYDRA, HYDRA, HYDRA. That means something. Something he doesn't remember. It isn't good, he decides. The name doesn't make him feel good. Unlike that other name, the one he thought of earlier. Of that man he knew. What was it? Oh, yes, Steve. Steve something. Captain of something. Rogers. America. That name makes him feel good. That's a good name. HYDRA isn't.

The little man in front of him has a name, too, that he feels he once knew. He doesn't now, though. He frowns at him, wondering if he seems a bit older or if that is just his imagination. The man is still talking. He doesn't listen, the words are meaningless. They float passed him and he considers paying attention to them, but can't seem to do so.

He becomes aware of the man being increasingly agitated. He forces himself to focus again, frowning deeply as the man repeats himself. Motions accompany the repetition, and he thinks perhaps he wants him to move his arm. The new one, the one that isn't real. He hesitantly complies, noting with a hint of satisfaction how the little man moves back when he lifts it from the bed. As before, it moves easily, though it is accompanied by a soft whirring. He watches it, amazed that a hunk of metal could so closely resemble and replicate something as complicated as the human arm.

"You will be called the Winter Soldier," the little man's voice breaks into his thoughts. Why this got through and the other things didn't is a mystery. The man shows him via a mirror at a careful distance that there is a red star on his new arm, and smiles again. He just watches him, silently.