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mournthebird · 22 days

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The Brand

Warnings: Hydra Trash Party, dehumanization, mentions of physical and psychological abuse, mentions of sexual assault and torture, body modification, medical descriptions, non-consensual surgical procedure, non-sexual nudity, conscious body mutilation, branding. Do not read if these make you uncomfortable.

a/n: Yay first writing post. I wrote this a few weeks ago in time to celebrate the 10 year HTP celebration but my work got busy and I couldn't finish it in time. It might seem rushed at the end and isn't the typical writing style I go with, but I wanted to try something new.

I have a lot of ideas for HTP, they won't be written in such a narrative way, they'll be more involved and not seem so empty when you read it. I wanted to practice this style of writing to get back into it. My future works will be more gritty I promise lol.

Not edited because I am impatient.

WC: 4618

If there was one thing that defined Hydra, it was their insatiable need to flaunt, to ostentatiously display their dominion over all they claimed. The agents of Hydra took a perverse pride in their control and indecorous displays of power, viewing them as a testament to their might and dominance. At the pinnacle of their assets stood the Winter Soldier, the first and arguably most potent weapon in Hydra's formidable arsenal. He was their most prized asset and possession, their most favorite plaything.

To Hydra, the Winter Soldier was nothing more than a weapon, an object to be wielded with ruthless efficiency. Or on certain occasions, he was seen as a toy, something to be played with by his handlers, depending on the day and the specific handler's whims. His existence was one of unending servitude, of being used and abused by what seemed to be a never ending pool of agents. There were times when Soldat liked to convince himself that he had grown accustomed to the pain, to the torment that was his existence. He liked to believe that he had seen everything, that there was no form of cruelty that could surprise him anymore. The agents of Hydra were nothing if not creative in their methods of torture, to put it mildly.

Yet, as each day passed, each time he was awakened from the frigid embrace of cryostasis, he was starkly reminded of how wrong he was. Each new day he was graciously kept out of cryostasis brought with it fresh horrors, fresh cruelties that served to shatter his illusions of desensitization. His life was a grim reminder of the depths to which humanity could sink in its quest for power and control.

He remembers more than what they would like, despite how many times they ‘put his brain in a blender’ as Rumlow would say. Shards of his past that were shattered into an intricate puzzle; the scattered pieces were handed back to him in a cruel game where they never quite fit together. Much of what he is able to recall stems from his intense, grueling conditioning at Hydra or the earliest, most brutal of his tortures. He has vivid recollections of the cold, unfeeling metal table and the burn of harsh straps binding him to it. His memory of those moments is hazy, his sight blurred by the glaring white light looming above, piercing his eyes and blinding him. Vague memories of the sun flashed in his mind, the wet streets of New York and himself as a child running through puddles as the sun shone down on him and provided warmth after the downpour.

At that time, he still possessed a significant portion of his left arm, the remaining limb extending just above his elbow. But the people who held him captive, the people who sought to manipulate and control him, they couldn't allow him to retain that, could they? It simply wouldn't work, wouldn't align with the function of the arm that Zola had painstakingly and so preciously created.

Zola wasn’t the one to amputate the rest of it. The faces of the medical personnel were indistinct to him - were they doctors, or were they scientists? Did the specific roles they played truly matter at this moment? It was a question he didn’t find himself pondering for long.

He remembered tensing as he heard the sickening sound of his muscle being ruined by the small, handheld rotary drill as it raked through his flesh, the wielder running it up and down his arm as if he were cutting through dough. At first, the sensation of his flesh being ripped away so viciously didn’t register in his brain, but his eyes glanced down at his arm, and saw they were taking it in segmented pieces. Seeing it seemed to get his brain to work faster now. The hot vibrations from the bone saw sliding so effortlessly through his exposed humorous nearly made him want to vomit. His wide, icy eyes were glued to the tool despite how badly he wanted to tear his sight away, the inch long piece of raw bone fell off, hitting the metal table with a small *clink* sound. A cloud of pure dread flooded his already struggling mind as he realized what they were doing. Instead of a simple amputation surgery, they were taking their sweet time, ensuring he felt every bit of it in a cruel introduction.

They only took away an inch of flesh and bone.

His anguished cries for mercy were coldly ignored, and the indifferent medical team didn't care that he was fully conscious during the gruesome procedure. Even now, years later, with his state-of-the-art prosthetic arm replacing the one he'd lost, he is haunted by phantom pains that serve as all too vivid reminders of that fateful day. The biting chill of the snow on his raw, open wound is something he can still recall with unsettling clarity, as are the sensations of the invasive surgical tools mercilessly working against him as he writhed in futile resistance against the unbending straps that held him firmly in place. In the quiet moments of solitude, he often has to take a moment to gather his thoughts, to refocus his mind, and remind himself that the gruesome ordeal is long past and that his own flesh and blood arm has been replaced with a sophisticated, very expensive piece of high-tech metal. Yet, the past refuses to be so easily discarded. His mind, an intriguing labyrinth of denied emotions and memories, continues to replay the ordeal, showcasing the fascinating, yet at times cruel, capacity of the human brain.

Unfortunately for Sergeant Barnes, that was all just the beginning of a seventy year long nightmare. His first session inside the seemingly ominous cryo chamber was a jarring experience that he hadn't expected. All he can remember is the sudden, abrupt sensation of being hurled into a sizable, and he's not too proud to admit, an intimidatingly scary device. He would soon learn it was a merciful gesture to be frozen, over the years wishing for it rather than being kept out for them to play with.

This chamber made of metal and steel only had a minuscule, circular window that seemed to serve as his only connection to the world he was leaving behind. Before he could even allow himself to succumb to the primal instinct of panic, the very air around him seemed to solidify. It was as if the invisible molecules of oxygen were suddenly turned to ice, encasing him in a frosty cocoon. He couldn’t even process his initial shock before he began to feel the icy tendrils of cold seeping into his body, freezing him from the inside out. He had mere seconds, fractions of timeless moments, to register the chill before his senses were overwhelmed and everything around him plunged into an abyss of pitch-black nothingness.

The tales of his time spent within the sinister depths of Hydra would surely elicit a shiver of sympathy from the devil himself - such was the magnitude of his torment. Every excruciating moment, every instance of his suffering was meticulously documented by his pitiless handler in that dreaded, damned red book. This was a book that he grew to loathe, a constant, tangible reminder of his puppet-like existence. It contained detailed instructions on how to manipulate him, how to control each string tethered to his spirit and body, turning him into a marionette dancing to their dark symphony. Every mission he was sent on, every dangerous venture he had accomplished was recorded in it. This included even the less polished operations from the early days of his career, when he was still learning the ropes and the art of subtlety.

His few failures, those moments of human error, were written in a cruelly conspicuous red ink. This was a color that symbolized his pain, his struggle, and his sacrifice, forced to pen down these failures himself. He would sit on the cold, hard floor of his bleak holding cell, his hand shaking as he held the inkless pen. This pen would then be dabbed into his body and would stain the pages of the book with dark, inky crimson, watched all the while by his unflinching handler.

He quickly understood that he was not valued as a human being, but was seen as nothing more than a tool for amusement, a commodity to be used and discarded, an object of entertainment for those who controlled him. His training, harsh and unyielding, began abruptly and without mercy, and with each passing day, he was forced to hone his abilities, to transform himself into a more efficient, more deadly assassin. He was taught the art of strict discipline, and the punishing consequences that followed if he failed to meet their exacting standards. Physical torment became a part of his existence, a brutal routine that he had to become accustomed to, but that didn't mean he was immune to the pain. Each strike, each wound was a stark reminder of his position. Hydra taught order through pain after all, and pain was nearly second nature to him by now.

But arguably, what was even more devastating was the mental torture he was subjected to. The psychological torment, the manipulation, the systematic breaking down of his spirit was a pain that transcended the physical. No amount of bodily harm could ever compare to the anguish of having his mind, his very sense of self, twisted and reshaped to suit their needs and desires.

He was slowly, painstakingly being reconstructed with fragments and shards that belonged to someone else, not him. As if the core of his very existence was being invaded, they were diligently, ruthlessly weaving pieces of brutality into the tapestry of his soul, fundamentally altering his essence. He was no longer the man known as Bucky, no longer James Buchanan Barnes, a name that once held so much significance. Hell, he couldn’t even recall his own name anymore, only the harsh, unkind labels they assigned him. ‘Soldat’...mostly. But there were other names, too, cruel and derogatory terms that were as far from his true identity as could be. His sense of self, his identity, who he was at his core, had been brutally stripped away, leaving him nothing more than a hollow shell of the man he had once been.

Over the years, he had found himself under the supervision of many handlers, the names and faces of most he could no longer remember. The current handler in charge of him was Alexander Pierce, who had remained his handler for the longest duration of time compared to the others. Pierce was the kingpin, the mastermind, the one who held all the reins, the dominant head of the Hydra. There were instances when Soldat was temporarily handled by either Rumlow or Rollins, but these periods never lasted too long. Despite his brutish demeanor and cutthroat attitude, Pierce was incredibly possessive of Soldat, almost obsessively so. He didn’t appreciate it when others caused harm to his possessions, like that mattered. And that was exactly what Soldat was to him, a mere possession, an object to be owned and controlled.

Pierce did not view him as a person capable of experiencing feelings and emotions. In his eyes, Soldat was just a thing, devoid of any humanity. Soldat was at his mercy, a mere puppet under his control. He could dictate Soldat's every move, treat him however he pleased, and the asset wouldn’t dare to retaliate. There were fleeting moments, few and far between, seemingly minor delays where the asset would show a hint of defiance, a subtle insubordination that manifested itself in the way he might take an extra second or two before following an order. These moments of resistance, however slight, were met with brutal and harsh punishment, administered by the man who had been assigned to handle him. Pierce was notorious for his severe punishments. Rumlow, too, was cruel in his own right. He took perverse pleasure in blending physical and psychological torture, pushing the boundaries of what the asset could endure. But Pierce...the mere mention of his name by another agent in the presence of the asset, especially during those rare moments when the asset dared to be rebellious, would strip him down to nothing but a small, quivering ball, a mass of fear and anticipation as he awaited for his true handler to lay his harsh, punishing hand.

Pierce liked to think of himself as the asset’s owner, not even just a handler. He liked playing mind games with him, ensuring his submission. He was a master of deception, delivering his taunts and insults with a veneer of charm and affability that belied his true intentions. He had a unique way with words, much like a bee that knows how to produce honey while also being capable of a deadly sting. He liked to create an aura of comfort and ease around the asset, luring it into a false sense of security. Just when the asset would start to relax and let his guard down, Pierce would shatter this illusion of safety. A backhanded strike would come out of nowhere, causing his head to jerk from the unnecessary force. Or he would give a sudden, painful tug to the asset’s chocolate locks, locking his fingers into the asset’s hair and yanking him around as if he were trying to pull his hair out.

These acts of cruelty were always accompanied by seemingly gentle words, and perhaps a caress to his head, creating a confusing and distressing dichotomy that further brought on emotional and mental confusion to the asset. Over time, the asset learned to be wary of Pierce's words, no matter how sweet they seemed on the surface. Kindness was always a precursor to cruelty, and trust became a luxury he could no longer afford. The asset began to anticipate the worst at all times, and unfortunately, this pessimistic expectation was almost always met.

Soldat found himself yearning for the majority of his day to be spent in the confines of the small, austere cell in which he was held captive. This was his preferred solace when he was not being subjected to the whims of numerous Hydra agents who took turns with him; their demands were a source of deep loathing for him. The task of satisfying such a multitude of people was not only mentally draining but also physically excruciating. Despite his body having been enhanced by the serum, it was painfully evident that he was not designed for the purposes for which they were exploiting him. No one would be. He could feel everything at an amplified level, and the agents cared not how he felt during the assaults. Sadistic and barbaric in their violent rutting, the asset was often left motionless in his cell, his breathing jagged and quick before dying down to the deep breaths of plagued sleep.

The discomfort was inescapable: he found it impossible to sit properly due to the chronic pain from his backside, not only the constant throbbing and burning in his anus, but the welts and wounds scattered along his thighs and ass. He was forced to lean at an angle on one side of his backside instead of sitting upright in a normal manner. This odd positioning offered some degree of relief, but not much. His cell was void of any comforting amenities or distractions - it was a cage after all, not a home.

The walls of his cell, a stark combination of cement and metal, were expertly crafted to withstand the immense strength he possessed. This meant that even when he wasn't restrained in chains in the corner of the room, his attempts to break free would prove futile. The stone floors were unexpectedly damp, a surprising observation considering that the cell was completely buried underground, devoid of any direct exposure to the elements. He thought there might be a hidden leak somewhere, a fissure in the stone that allowed the intrusion of water. The thought of snow stirred a melancholic feeling within him. It had been an eternity since he had experienced the outdoor world, the simple pleasure of feeling the crisp winter air against his skin, the sight of pristine, untouched snowfall, or the peaceful silence that came with it. His memories of these sensations were fading, blurred by the harsh passage of time. He was trapped in an endless cycle of monotonous days and nights, to the point where he couldn’t even remember just how long it had been since his last glimpse of the outside world.

His train of thought was abruptly disrupted as the hefty, imposing door started to creak ominously open. The harsh sound of metal scraping against the cold concrete floor echoed throughout the room, sending an eerie screech that sent chills down his spine and made him suppress a shiver. Agent Rumlow stood imposingly in the doorway. Looming ominously behind him was a group of other guards, each of them armed with an assortment of menacing weapons. Among these were electric prods that he had grown to despise. The guards had a tendency to press them against his skin for prolonged periods, the sharp, unpleasant sensation something he could never get used to.

He wasn’t an animal. Right?

Rumlow began to speak, his voice carrying a smug undertone that was all too familiar to Soldat. It was a tone that grated on his nerves, driving him to the brink of madness. He found himself despising the self-assured, arrogant way Rumlow spoke, as if he was perched high on a throne that was untouchable, immune to any form of downfall.

"Rise and shine, we have a unique surprise prepared just for you today," Rumlow declared, sauntering over with a gait that oozed the arrogant confidence he always fronted. His steps were strong and assured, resonating a kind of authority that was hard to ignore. Soldat barely had time to process the situation before he felt the cold presence of the guards clustering around him. Almost mechanically, they secured a thick, intimidating metal collar around his neck and arms. They had done this many times, and were experts at securing them before the asset had time to react.

Tiny rings punctuated the cold metal, attached to long, unwieldy bars. It was an apparatus designed for control, allowing them to maintain a safe distance from him while forcibly guiding him to move according to their whims and direction. The sudden and rough manhandling sparked a primal instinct within Soldat. He began to struggle against his captors, his body twisting and turning, writhing in the unforgiving grip of the bindings.

"Alright, that's enough. You should realize by now that struggling gets you nowhere," Rumlow sternly declared. He then turned on his heels, initiating their journey through the winding, oppressively dark corridors of the clandestine underground base. The team had forcefully guided him along, feeling the solid resistance he put up against his restraints. Despite his efforts, his legs continued to move forward in a mechanical fashion, carrying him onward to an unknown fate. The asset was exhibiting more resistance than usual, a defiance that was palpable in the tension of his body. Yet, Rumlow didn't pay any mind to this show of rebellion. He was well aware that after this ordeal, the asset would inevitably become much more compliant and manageable, stripped of his will to resist.

As Soldat was roughly manipulated through the threshold and into the new room, he wasn’t surprised that it held no distinct visual difference from the rest. The room was devoid of any unique color or material that would make it stand out from the other rooms he had already seen. The walls were the same drab shade, the floor was made of the same cold stone, and the air smelled just as musty. The only detail that caught Soldat's attention was Pierce, who was standing by a small, yet fully functioning smith’s furnace.

Pierce's back was turned to them, his arms crossed over his chest in a display of casual authority. He was engrossed in his observation of the red hot coals in the furnace, appearing to be in deep thought. The coals glowed with a mesmerizing intensity, casting flickering shadows that danced across the room. Tiny embers floated gently through the air, creating a surreal, fiery snowfall whenever Pierce moved around a long iron pole that was submerged in the heat. The pole, silver and gleaming, was halfway buried in the crackling coals, absorbing the heat that radiated from them.

Before the asset could even begin to comprehend the situation, he was forcibly stripped of his clothing, manhandled and roughly shoved against a harsh, unforgiving metal wall. His arms were yanked above his head with such force that it caused a painful strain on his muscles, particularly on the side where his cold, mechanical arm was attached. The pull of the metal limb was relentless, tugging insistently at the already stressed muscles of his back. They then made sure his ankles were securely bound, making it impossible for him to twist or turn his body, effectively rendering him helpless and restrained. His cheek was pressed firmly against the icy cold silver of the wall, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from his flushed skin. His eyes, wide with confusion, darted around as he tried to make sense of his predicament, his brows knitted together in a deep furrow.

He was at a loss. He didn’t understand what they were doing to him. Could this be a part of his training? He had been subjected to just about everything, becoming accustomed to various forms of physical and mental torture. But this…he had no clue what this was. He was beginning to feel an inner battle, his brain suddenly felt too loud. He wasn’t used to hearing so many thoughts, the repetitive wiping and cryostasis ensured he was emotionless and focused on a single mission or task. He must be due for another brainwashing session.

Pierce appeared to be lost in a sea of deep thought. The weight of their impending plan lay heavy on his shoulders, a battle between rising to rule or plummeting into the unforgiving abyss of defeat was fast approaching. It was Hydra's chance to shine, to finally establish their supremacy. He seemed to be carefully considering the possible scenarios, weighing each outcome against the other. Although he held a firm belief in their imminent success, he was starkly aware of the risks involved. If they faltered, if they failed, there was a very real possibility they’d lose their most valuable asset. This was not a prospect he relished. As much as it irritated him, he wanted to ensure his legacy, a lasting mark of his leadership on Hydra and ownership of the soldier who became the fist.

In a moment of introspection, he reached out, stirring the metal rod amongst the glowing coals. He observed silently, captivated by the mesmerizing dance of the embers as they burst from the coals and elegantly floated down to the floor. They disappeared just as quickly as they appeared, leaving behind nothing but their fleeting beauty and the whispering echo of their sizzle, a stark reminder of the transient nature of power and control.

In one swift, deliberate motion, he pulled the rod from the smoldering coals, the tip of it glowing yellow, a color that faded gradually into a vibrant orange as it traced down the length of the shaft. Pierce turned around slowly, his dark suit miraculously untouched despite him being in such close proximity to the blazing heat of the furnace.

With measured and unhurried strides, he walked over to the asset, his predatory gaze observing the man's body with a level of intensity that was almost wolfish. His countenance, however, remained stern and unyielding, betraying no hint of emotion. Pierce was good at that. He held out the rod towards the asset, the end that burned the hottest bearing the symbol that the asset served - the emblem of Hydra. Fear caught in the asset’s eyes before he could hide it, he found himself doubting whether they were really going to go through with this.

But was that such a thing here? This place, this Hell on earth.

It wasn’t like he had time to react before he felt white-hot pain erupt from his lower back, right above the left side of his ass. The pain was excruciating, and he bit his tongue trying to hold in any sort of discomfort…but it was pointless. No amount of struggle could hold back the scream that left his scratchy throat. The rod melted his flesh and scorched his poor nerves, he could feel it in the tips of his toes, and he swore his metal arm felt hot. This was almost as bad as being wiped in that torturous chair, but at least after a few long seconds even that seemed to fade with his mind melding against his trigger words.

This was different, it got worse as the seconds dragged on, and Pierce didn’t seem like he was going to pull it off anytime soon. He held the rod taut, pressing firmly into the asset’s scarred skin, not like the asset could struggle much with his restraints anyway. With a calculated mind and a discerning eye, he strategically found a spot that was devoid of many scars. He wanted the emblem to stand out, to show without any competition from the numerous other marks that littered the asset’s body. It would shine out prominently against the skin, the deep, bold mark of it. This emblem wasn't just any ordinary mark - it was a sign of ownership, a declaration of dominance. The thought of it, the sheer power it represented, brought Pierce an overwhelming rush of sadistic satisfaction.

When he finally pulled the rod away, it had all but cooled completely, so parts of the asset’s skin were ripped away. The cauterized wound reopened as the metal was torn off roughly, Pierce let out a small grunt from the gesture. He carelessly tossed the pole back into the furnace, now not caring for it. The asset could smell the remains of his flesh burning in the furnace, it made him sick. The asset felt genuine fear, even after the deed was done, he couldn’t see it but the feeling was so agonizing he didn’t want to look at his new branding.

In an agonizingly slow pace, he was methodically detached from the wall by the nameless, faceless agents. As the restraints were removed, his body gave way, too weak to support his own weight. He crumbled to the floor, his body convulsing and shaking as if he were in shock, a reaction to the branding he had been subjected to. Unlike before, the agents didn’t bother with the formalities of restraining him to move him in the same manner. There were no thick, oppressive collars or tight bindings this time. Instead, they carelessly slung his limp arms around their shoulders, and he was unceremoniously dragged out, back to the cold, harsh reality of his cell.

He must’ve been deemed harmless by now, a muzzled, drugged dog without the will to fight. His mind was clouded, foggy with pain and fear by the time he was tossed back into his holding cell, discarded like a worthless ragdoll they had grown tired of. The asset felt his fear of Pierce, the orchestrator of his torment, multiply tenfold. During that horrific branding, the barbaric and dehumanizing torture, he remained as even as stone…Pierce didn’t utter a single word.

He didn’t have to.

..........

Thanks for reading.

-🕊

#my writing #hydra trash party #winter soldier #bucky barnes #bucky barnes whump #winter soldier whump #brock rumlow #dead dove fic #darkfic

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