Where Winter Ends

Again, I was woken, dragged from the harsh cold of the cryo chamber, my body trembling as it adjusted to the shift in temperature.

They locked me back into that same padded room, the walls now stained with more than just blood and time. Another reevaluation, another series of tests, all to ensure I remained obedient.

But this time was different.

They weren't testing commands or reflexes.

They wanted to see what would happen under extreme stimulation of the nervous system. Whether enough pain, enough trauma, could override my programming. Give me free will.

So, they drowned me.

Again and again, to ensure no resistance.

They shocked me, shock sticks pressed directly to precise nerve clusters, pulses ripping through my limbs until they convulsed and went limp.

Then came the worst part.

The cuts.

The stabs.

The gunshots.

They made me do it.

Each wound delivered by my own hand, at their command.

No hesitation.

Just screams, raw and hollow, tearing through my throat.

"A base physical result," they said, as if I was a lab rat and not a person.

When it was over, my body barely able to stand, I was instructed to follow one of Zola's assistants. A young woman, maybe no older than twenty-five, she led me silently into an exam room to treat my injuries.

She started wiping the pooled blood off my legs, thick crimson streaks where I had stabbed myself. Then, suddenly, her hand stopped.

"What on earth?! Doctor Zola!"

She bolted from the room, voice echoing down the hallway.

I didn't know what she saw. I couldn't move my head without orders, couldn't feel my legs. The shocks had left my limbs numb and twitching, nerves slow to come back online. Maybe I'd hit an artery. Maybe the damage was worse than expected.

I wouldn't know.

Zola entered a moment later, stepping in behind her. His eyes locked on my legs, and his face contorted, shock, curiosity, fascination, warring for dominance. He dropped to a crouch, reaching out and touching my skin.

"Do you feel pain here, Subject 13?" he asked quietly.

I shook my head. No.

The question caught me off guard. No one had asked me anything in so long. Not since the first weeks after I was taken. What was happening?

"Follow. We must test this further."

Test what?

I obeyed, following him back into the lab. As I walked, I noticed something strange: no pain. A tingling maybe, but no sharpness. No deep ache. I'd stabbed myself, shot myself in the thigh, there should've been something.

But I suppose I should've felt grateful.

Then, in the reflection of the stainless steel exam table, I saw it.

Blood smeared on my leg, sure, but no wound. Just skin. Smooth, unbroken. No bullet hole. No scar.

My scars were gone.

All of them.

What is happening to me?

Zola gestured for me to get on the table. I obeyed, heart numb with dread. He retrieved a scalpel and began to cut, dragging cold steel across my flesh with surgical precision.

In those moments, I prayed for death again.

I felt the blade, sharp, merciless, at first. But within minutes, the pain dulled, faded entirely. A tingling heat replaced it. Then… nothing.

Zola's eyes lit up. "Amazing."

"The formulas you were given," he mused aloud, "they must have triggered a regenerative effect. Fascinating." He continued his incisions, each one deeper than the last. Testing. Watching. Smiling.

"Zola," a voice barked from the doorway. One of the other doctors. "We need to deploy Subject 13. What's the delay?"

"Take the Winter Soldier instead," Zola replied casually, not even turning around. "I have more tests to run."

"He hasn't been prepped, will he function?"

Zola waved him off. "My assistant will ensure he's fit for duty. Now go."

I should've been relieved. I was spared deployment.

But the cruel truth was, I wanted to be deployed.

Not because I wanted to kill.

Not because I enjoyed the violence.

But because maybe… maybe… I wouldn't be the one hurting.

Maybe, just once, it could be someone else.

A twisted thought. But what am I now if not twisted?

I wasn't a soldier. I never enlisted.

I never wanted this.

I never deserved this.

So is it wrong, these thoughts?

Zola kept cutting. Kept testing. An animal on a table, nothing more.

When he was no longer content with just incisions, he escalated.

Bone fractures.

Joint separations.

Amputations.

He started small, a single toe. When it regrew within an hour, he escalated. My entire leg.

That took longer. I couldn't see the clock, but I counted the times they brought him food, the endless scribbling in his notebook. Five hours maybe? Maybe more.

The room was soaked in my blood by then. The walls echoed with my screams, until I could scream no more. My throat dry and shredded. My mouth a desert. No sound left.

I passed out. Over and over.

Each time, they jolted me awake. Kept me conscious.

He wanted data.

I wanted death.

The Reaper didn't come.

What sins had I committed in a past life to earn this?

A warlord? A tyrant? A godless monster?

Maybe that would make this make sense.

Zola loved every second of it. I could see the joy behind his glasses.

I had nothing left. Just thoughts.

They became my only sanctuary.

I slipped into them like a warm bath, far from the metal and blood and pain.

I wonder how long it has been?

Time meant nothing. Days, months, years, I couldn't tell.

Zola was older now. His face more sunken, a cane in his hand. He coughed often. Raspy. Sick.

Had it been another ten years? Had I lost even more?

Was my father still alive?

Had my sister married?

Did she remember me?

What was the world like now?

Then I heard it.

"AAAAAAHHHHHHHH!"

A scream, raw, torn from the throat.

Bucky.

That familiar, gut-wrenching cry. I'd heard it so many times before. He was being wiped again, most likely.

I wonder if he hears me when I scream?

Does he wonder who I am?

The world keeps turning, Bucky…

Even without us.

We've been forgotten here.

After Zola finished his tests, he declared the results confidently:

Subject 13 had achieved regeneration.

True regeneration.

He cut, I healed.

He poisoned me, I endured.

He stopped my heart… I came back.

I came back.

Every. Single. Time.

It was a joke. A sick, twisted cosmic joke.

He had created the perfect weapon.

I cannot die.

I cannot speak.

I cannot move unless commanded.

I am a gun, nothing more.

Congratulations, Zola. You made your monster. I can't die, can't scream, can't run. Just a loaded gun with no safety switch.

 And guess what?

You hold the trigger.