Author's Note: Welcome to my imaginings of Bucky Barnes' time as a WWII Hydra captive. This is meant to be choppy, as I think that's how he'd remember the experience. It does also go back and forth in time as Bucky goes between reality and his dreams/memories. Yes, there will be some Steve Rogers, but you much have some patience. Thank you for your time and support!

The Hydra camp reeked of sweat, oxidized metal, and humanly odors so overwhelming the smell was nearly tangible. Amid the pops and creaks of metal and steam were the stifled sniffs and tears of grown men. In the small cages they were packed into, the soldiers of the US army disintegrated into the most base versions of themselves. Some sank to the floor, curling in on themselves, rocking back and forth while muttering incoherently. Some traded stories. Hearing stories of homes and dames helped to keep them sane. Then there were those who kept shifts rattling the bars and screaming themselves hoarse, promising to cut the Nazi-Hydra throats open before they could think to call for their mothers.

There were many who kept to themselves entirely, but only a few would sit, ever-stoic, with set jaws, hollowed cheeks, and angled brows. Bucky Barnes was one of these men who sat facing the cage door. Over the last few nights the silence and stillness embodied him so wholly. Initially he'd been one of the men yelling threats and strangling the bars. Fury rouged his cheeks and the tips of his ears, but his fury wasn't blind. Bucky was always a calculating man, knowing which battles were better left unfought. Rattling bars and screaming obscenities felt nice, but he knew it would lead nowhere. So he sat. He observed. The chances of a rescue team being sent out, he knew, were next to none. But Bucky could watch and plan. He could get his men out of there.

He hardly slept, but when he did, he dreamed of home. He dreamed of what tiny Steve Rogers would do were he caged with him. Steve would be at the bars, throwing all ninety-five pounds of his weight into shaking them. His threats would be big, but the guards would know he couldn't follow through. Of all the people, of all his favorite things about home, he missed Steve the most.

Sometimes, though not often, Bucky would drift into a nightmare he could never quite remember, save for snippets and flashes. The spray of dirt as bullets and bombs rained down…garbled shouts and muffled screams…the feeble frame of a soldier too small to have been allowed to fight. Each time he had a nightmare, Bucky snapped awake, certain he'd been shouting or thrashing, but a quick glance at his pen-mates proved either he hadn't been or no one cared.

Once a day, a guard would come by one of the cages, take out a key, and select a captive, dragging him out by the arm. One of the first times this happened, the captive asked the guard where he was going. "It's your lucky day," said the guard in a thick German accent. "You're a vital component in today's modern science breakthrough."

Those taken in the name of science never returned.

Each day, the men were given stale bread and a single ration of water in tin cups. After their meager meals, they were herded in single file, chains clamped and rubbing sores around their wrists, into a vast room packed with machinery. Fires glowed red behind grates and cast plumes of steam billowing upwards in swirls. Here, the men were made to manufacture parts for all sorts of weaponry and vehicles. Orders just specific enough were shouted, but not enough to decipher their purposes. The work was monotonous and brutal. Fine powdered soot clung to whatever it landed on—a black dusting over metallic tools and tables, smudging thick black streaks across the sweaty faces of the captive soldiers. Red and black rimmed the eyes of many soldiers, enhancing the exhaustion and dreariness they felt to the marrows of their bones. A balcony edged the massive room, and stationed every few feet was a Hydra soldier standing guard with a gun at the ready. Some could ignore their overbearing presence, but most continually glanced up, watching with a weary eye. Those who weren't furtive about it got a gun or two pointed at them.

. . .

Over the course of several weeks, breathing became difficult. Soot settled in everyone's lungs and sinuses, and no matter how often they coughed, they couldn't rid their system of the accumulated powder. Almost immediately, a few fell ill. That's when people started being taken for experimentation. It was almost an immediate response. You fall ill, you get taken. And for the guards, all they needed was for a prisoner to start coughing a little too often, to look a little too exhausted. When every breath burned like acid in your lungs and along your throat, hiding an illness was all too difficult.

Bucky kept his head down as he worked, hammering away at a metal sheet. His hands had become so callused that he no longer noticed new cuts made by the sharp edges. At first he had attempted to keep his mouth covered with his shirt as he worked, but it kept slipping and obstructed his breathing even more.

Night was worse. As soon as Bucky laid down, it seemed his lungs caught fire, consuming any breath, and cast him into a frenzy of coughing. Smothering it with his hands only meagerly muffled the deep, brackish rattling. More than anything, he felt as though he were suffocating. Between coughing bouts, Bucky lay limp, breathing rapid and shallow breaths. An ever-intensifying ache pulsed through his limbs. Sweat pooled along his hairline, though chills scraped over his skin.

Someone shuffled in his peripheral vision, and Bucky made the smallest motion to glance in his comrade's direction. He tried to, but couldn't, focus on the man's face. The man moved his mouth, and a low swirl of syllables lapsed over him. It wasn't until Bucky was almost unconscious that he heard…Hang in there, Buck.

. . .

As he pounded metal, Bucky tried to focus on anything other than his complete physical misery. Each breath triggered an ache in his lungs, urging him to cough. Each breath felt like breathing in gallons of water. The floor lurched beneath him, and Bucky clutched the edge of the workbench, taking a moment to steady his spinning vision.

"Hang in there, Buck."

He looked to his left and the soldier beside him gave him a weary smile.

"Fight it, brother. They're watching." His eyes flicked to the Hydra guards.

Bucky chanced a glance before shoving away from the table. "I'll do what I can."

His exhaustion screamed for him to stop moving, to simply collapse where he stood. But each second he remained standing was another second he'd successfully hid his illness. Just one more second…so was his mantra, the beat that propelled him onward until the guards lined them up, shackled their wrists, and herded them back to their pens like stock.

. . .

The ratting of keys jangled Bucky from a light sleep. Boots clomped to a slow march through the concrete hall. When the guard stepped into view, he was practically silhouetted in the low light. He walked with a straight back and firm shoulders—almost mechanized. Only his head was turned ever so slightly to the side so that he could peer into each cage of men as he passed, assessing which lamb to take to slaughter. Bucky watched him, his grey-blue eyes steeled and unblinking beneath his straight eyebrows. The guard seemed almost bored as he walked past potential victims. He reached the end of the row, peered in through the bars, and flicked his gaze over each miserable face. One of Bucky's comrades looked away from the guard and looked to Bucky instead. The fear and concern on his face showed what the both knew. Bucky tried to force his cracked lips into a smirk, but merely obtained a small twitch. He trained his eyes on the guard once more, though it seemed to consume all his energy to do so.

The guard eyed Bucky and sneered. "You. You're the lucky one today." With a swift flick of the wrist, he'd unhooked the keys from his hip and selected the key to unlock the door. Each pen-mate scurried aside when the door screeched on its hinges. The guard sauntered in. Bucky remained cold and stoic.

"Get up.

Bucky didn't even blink.

The guard clamped his hand around Bucky's arm, digging his fingers into his flesh as he hoisted him to his feet. Bucky's free hand coiled into a fist. The guard attempted to drag Bucky forward, but he held his ground. Weak as he was, Bucky was going to put up a fight. When the guard turned back to face him, Bucky loosed his fist into the guard's jaw. The guard staggered back a step or two, and Bucky took his chance to attack further.

Another collision to the jaw sent the guard to the ground. Bucky knelt over him, grunting with the exertion of each punch. He hadn't heard the trampling of fellow Hydra soldiers coming to save their comrade. Bucky released a final jab to the bloodied guard's cheek, and the guard's skull slammed against the concrete floor. He didn't move. Bucky was still flailing when the other guards pulled him back. He tried hooking his feet behind his captives' legs to bring them to the ground, but he was unsuccessful. His voice had quickly gone raw from screaming such guttural and feral sounds. Blood trickled over his chin from the split in his dried lips. There was a sharp prick and a dull throbbing in is neck. In his peripheral vision, Bucky could see the fine needle's point pulling away from his neck. Sluggishness consumed him, rusting his limbs and dulling his mind. Still he fought, but his flailing had given way to sporadic twitching. He tried to continue to yell, but it came out in dull mumblings.

The shadows on the walls began playing tricks with his mind. At one point, he was certain Steve was running along side him, urging him to not give up. Bucky tried to tell him that he was so tired, but it came out as a low moan caught in his throat.