REVAMP OF BUCKY, NO EXISTING RELATIONSHIPS ARE BEING CARRIED OVER FROM BEFORE. IF YOU WANT TO INTERACT, FEEL FREE. IF THIS WORKS OUT, I WILL BRING HIM BACK FOR GOOD!
the winter soldier project: brainwashed
department x conducted experiments in mental implantation during sensory deprivation that provided a breakthrough in vasily karpov’s twisted mission to make bucky useful to mother russia’s cold war against the united states. due to his amnesia post-drone plane explosion, he was essentially a blank slate, it was simple for them to reprogram his mind and give him a purpose — he became loyal to no one but them. he was ordered to kill without question, told never to fail, and as far as we know, was addressed as nothing other than winter soldier.
“My dreams are the worst I’ve ever had. Images of the Winter Soldier fold in on each other … I see things I forgot happened. Like a door unlocking in my mind … torture, slaughter, and training others in their use. So much horror. I wake up vomiting. And don’t feel much better afterwards. My bad dreams linger, but I wouldn’t expect anything else …”
An independent entity. He isn’t sure exactly how healthy that is for his psyche but it’s happened without him realizing it.
From the early 1950s through the fall of the Soviet Union, the Red Room was a training program in Moscow. One of many arms of Department X, the KGB’s experimental science division. It’s where Natasha was raised. Where she earned the rank of Black Widow. And where, in the late 1950s, she met me.
Winter Soldier #7
I discovered the writer, Leo Tolstoy, in a muddy ditch that held more blood than rain. One of the soldiers loved his words—and then, so did I. ”All, everything I understand,” he wrote, “I understand only because I love.”
That was so many years ago.
But words on a page didn’t teach me that lesson. I learned it on my own.
I learned it in trenched with bullets flying overhead; pressed back to back with grizzled starving men who would have laid down their lives for mine.
I learned it from a ribbon tied around my ring finger.
I learned it from a kick inside my belly.
I learned it from death, and hardship, and brief acts of inexplicable kindness.
I learned love from sacrifice. I learned love from living. And no matter where I’ve gone, or what I’ve done—all the dark things I do not regret, but will never speak of—that is the one part of my that I have always kept safe.
Imus was such a fool.
Tolstoy will live forever. Some people do. But that’s not enough. It’s not the length of a life that matters…just the depth of it. The chances we take. The paths we choose. How we go on after our hearts break.
Hearts always break. And so we bend with our hearts. And we sway. But in the end…what matters is that we loved and lived.