By Tom_9149
Chapter 1: Frozen Chains
Cold.
It was the first sensation. Not pain, not fear—just an all-consuming, bone-deep cold. I woke to the harsh bite of wind slicing across my skin, snowflakes drifting down like ash from a dead sky. My body ached like I'd just lost a bar brawl with a dump truck. Muscles screamed, joints stiff, lungs tight.
I was half-buried in snow, naked to the elements save for some scorched fabric barely clinging to my dignity. Awesome. Siberia, hypothermia, and no pants. Great start.
My eyes cracked open. Gray skies overhead. Trees leaned over me, heavy with frost like mourners at a funeral. There was no sound but the wind. It howled in my ears, almost like a voice. Whispering something I couldn't understand.
Then it hit me.
I didn't know my name.
You ever try screaming when your throat's raw and frozen? Don't. It sucks. I settled for a growl and pushed myself upright. My hands trembled. I felt like I'd been cooked and flash-frozen—probably because I had.
The snow crunched under me as I sat up. A crater yawned around me. Scorched trees, cracked rock, blackened snow. Like something had dropped from orbit and kissed the Earth without a second date. Like I had.
I glanced down at my chest. No open wounds. But scars crisscrossed my body, some old, some still red and angry. They looked like lightning bolts—and not the sexy superhero kind. Beneath them, something stirred. Not pain. Not adrenaline.
Power.
A low hum filled my ears—then, the crunch of approaching boots. I turned my head, teeth chattering.
Figures emerged through the fog. Black uniforms. Red HYDRA emblems. Rifles. One guy had the sort of jawline that made you want to punch him just to balance out the smug.
HYDRA.
Now, listen. I didn't know how I knew that. My memories were basically a scrambled egg at this point. But seeing that red octopus symbol triggered a very specific internal response:
Kill. Run. Hide. Repeat.
I didn't get a chance to do any of those. One of the soldiers shouted, "Он живой!"
Another replied, "Свяжите его!"
Then I got introduced to Mister Stun Baton. He was not gentle.
Woke up again. Different kind of cold this time—fluorescent lights buzzing, steel under my back. I was chained to a bench in a cell with all the charm of a Soviet dentist's office.
Concrete walls. One-way mirror. Cameras. If you've seen a villain's evil lair in a B-movie, congratulations, you've basically got the picture.
My limbs were sore, my brain foggy, and something was...off. Like I could feel the hallway outside. Like I knew when someone was coming before they arrived.
Spoiler alert: I'm not psychic. I'm something weirder.
Eventually, a lab coat entered with a guard. He was typing on a tablet and speaking like I wasn't even in the room.
"Subject 13 shows no signs of the X-gene," he said. "But his cellular resilience is extraordinary. Possibly extraterrestrial?"
Great. I was a lab rat with mystery meat DNA. Exactly the vacation I wanted.
They ran tests. Blood samples. Reflex drills. Electroshock therapy—because medieval torture never goes out of style.
I didn't talk. Not because I was being stoic. I literally didn't know what to say. I didn't know who I was. Every time I tried to remember something, it slipped away like soap in a prison shower.
But something started happening. When they came near me, I felt their emotions. Fear. Curiosity. Sadism. I knew when the next jolt would come. I saw things—brief flashes, like premonitions. A guard raising a baton. A scientist reaching for a syringe. I moved a second before it happened.
Once, I shoved a guard across the room—without touching him.
Everyone freaked out. Called it telekinesis. That wasn't quite right, though. It was more like... intention made real. Like gravity and thought had a baby and it hated HYDRA.
I didn't know the name for it. Not yet.
But I felt it.
The Force.
Also—side note—if you're reading this and wondering who the hell wakes up in a crater half-naked in Siberia with Force powers and no memory, trust me, I'd like an explanation too. Unfortunately, I'm not in charge of the plot. Yet. Anyway. On day... whatever, they decided I needed enrichment. Enter: murder yoga. They brought in another prisoner. Tall guy. Tactical gear. Black mask. Silent. Cold as the grave. Left arm? Full metal. They called him "the Asset." But I recognized him instantly—Winter Soldier. Yep. Bucky freakin' Barnes. You know, Captain America's brainwashed murder-buddy? That guy. "Testing neural response to high-stress combat," a tech said over the intercom. "Subject 13 versus Asset." Oh boy. Nothing says 'fun' like forced cage matches in evil science bunkers. The door slammed shut behind him. I stood, shaking the stiffness out of my limbs. He advanced slowly, every movement efficient and deadly. I raised an eyebrow. "So... you the welcoming committee, or do I have to punch my way to hospitality?"
No answer. He lunged.
It was like fighting a damn rocket. He moved with soldier precision and assassin brutality. I ducked, rolled, and caught a glimpse of his fist tearing through where my skull had just been. Concrete exploded.
Left hook incoming. Dodge. Palm strike—bad idea. Metal arm. Force? Yes, please.
I threw up a hand. Instinct flared. He flew backward, slammed into the wall like he owed it money. The guards behind the glass flinched. I grinned.
"Round two, metalhead? Or are we calling it early?"
He stood. Eyes locked on me through the cracked visor. Not anger. Not confusion. Recognition.
The alarms screamed.
Sirens. Yelling. Chaos.
He turned and punched a wall panel. Sparks flew. Doors hissed open.
He looked back once, blue eyes meeting mine. Silent question.
"Hey," I said, "you wanna get the hell outta here or what?"
He nodded.
Guess that was a yes.
Turns out escaping a HYDRA base is harder than kicking a door down and flipping them the bird. Who knew?
Okay, to be fair, we were off to a great start. The Winter Soldier—still silent, still terrifying—moved like he'd done this before. I mean, obviously. Man was a walking covert op. He led the way through winding corridors and mechanical shafts like he had blueprints tattooed behind his eyeballs.
Me? I was just trying not to die.
We kept low, fast, efficient. I didn't ask where we were going. Honestly, I didn't even know where we were. Deep underground? Snowy wilderness? Secret HYDRA lair number... whatever? Pick one.
But I trusted him. Not because he'd earned it. But because we were both prisoners—and I'd seen the way he paused when I used the Force. Like he recognized it. Or maybe just me.
We ducked into a side tunnel as boots thundered past above us. I pressed against a steel wall, trying to quiet my breathing. He held up a fist—universal signal for "shut up." I complied.
When it was safe, he moved again. I followed.
One staircase, two security doors, and one very unfortunate guard later (don't worry, he'll wake up eventually—maybe), we reached a maintenance corridor that smelled like grease, ozone, and sweat. Bucky finally stopped, turned to me, and spoke.
"Need power," he said. Voice low, hoarse. "Main grid. Backup controls."
My eyebrows nearly launched into orbit. "You can talk. Thought you were going full silent protagonist on me."
He just stared.
"Cool. Tactical brooding. Love it."
He knelt beside a wall panel and popped it open. I leaned over his shoulder, mostly because I had no idea what else to do.
He looked at me, almost annoyed. "You're... different. You felt it too?"
I nodded. "Force. Not the kind that makes you pay taxes. The other kind."
He gave me a long look, then went back to rewiring the panel.
While he did his thing, I took the moment to focus. Close my eyes. Breathe. Let the energy I'd been feeling since that crater move through me.
I saw paths—literal lines of possibility—stretching from our location. One led to a hangar. Another ended in gunfire. Another—death.
I opened my eyes. "There's a way out. That way." I pointed.
He didn't ask how I knew. He just moved.
We hit resistance. Shock troops. Armoured HYDRA thugs. Apparently, escaping test subjects was frowned upon. But I had something they didn't—well, besides a glowy Force core and sarcasm levels that could weaponize.
I threw a wave of power, lifting two guards into the air and slamming them into the ceiling. Bucky dropped the other three with mechanical precision.
"Starting to think we make a good team," I muttered.
He handed me a stun baton. "Take this. You'll need it."
"Unless I get a lightsaber first."
He looked at me like I'd grown a second head.
"What? Just saying. You've got the arm. I've got the weird telekinesis. We're halfway to cosplay already."
We burst into the hangar. Alarms shrieked. Red lights flared. A Quinjet-style VTOL sat at the far end.
I pointed. "That's our ride. You fly?"
"Enough."
"Cool. 'Cause I don't even know how to start a microwave right now."
More guards spilled in. I drew on the Force—felt it like wind beneath my skin—and shoved a shipping crate into their formation like a bowling ball. Strikes all around.
We sprinted for the jet.
Bucky slid into the cockpit, fingers flying over controls. I covered him, deflecting a plasma round with pure instinct. My hand burned. Didn't care.
The engines roared to life.
I dove into the co-pilot's seat just as the hangar doors exploded outward in a storm of snow and light. We shot out into the frozen sky, trailing smoke and gunfire.
I laughed.
It was wild, reckless, unfiltered.
"I have no idea who I am," I shouted, "but escaping evil science Nazis with a cyborg assassin? This is definitely top five coolest life choices I've ever made."
Bucky didn't answer.
But I swear—I saw the corner of his mouth twitch.