Once... There had been Bucky Barnes. Sometimes he knew that to be true. Sometimes it felt like an itch at the base of his skull. A tickle in the soft matter of his brain, just beyond grasp behind the solid barrier of his skull – as though he should be able to bash through the matter of his body and free the knowledge of who or what Bucky Barnes was – but the best moments, the least painful moments, were the ones where he was nothing but Soldat. The moments after they said the words and the panic stopped, the icy grip of all fight slipping from him like a bad dream, the moments after his handlers said the words.

"Желание, Ржавый, Семнадцать, Рассвет, Печь, Девять, Добросердечный, Возвращение на родину, Один, Товарный вагон."

The moment after. That was the best moment. His piercing blue eyes laser focused forward, awaiting command, ready to comply. He was silent, he was a weapon, a machine, nothing. The soldier. Soldat. In that moment there was no Bucky Barnes. No itch hidden in the viscera of his mind.

That moment had come less since he came to this place. The Red Room. He had been here for months now and they had only wiped his mind twice. His orders were simple, his thoughts should have been clean. Find the most promising assassin, train her, make her as good as him. There was no room for argument, no brokering agreements, clean.

Now they were walking to her ballet practice, her rebellious head held high – she had fought with another handler and they had told him to intervene. He did. He had beaten her, her hands lifting to stop him, his metal hand plummeting through her fragile human hand into her stomach – it hung limply at her side now, purple, swollen, useless. His stomach churned at the sight of it, but he remained silent behind her.

He watched as she tried to slip on her pointe shoes, her swollen fingers incapable of tying the knots no matter how hard she tried.

Moxie. The word entered his brain unbidden like a phantom from another time, another person. Bucky. His sharp blue eyes looked around to be sure no one was close before he knelt, he could feel her tense beside him – but his hands were gentle as they slid the shoes onto her feet, delicately tying the ribbons around her calves. "Behave yourself, little spider." He said gruffly, as he rose to his feet, stepping back from her, his eyes betraying him as they moved to her battered hand, softening traitorously. "Dance with your sisters." He waves her toward the adjoining room, dismissing her, he needed to be alone, to regain his control, no matter how much she made him feel like someone else – he was a weapon. Soldat. The Winter Soldier.