Where Winter Ends

After it was over, Bucky was taken from the room. I remained on that table.

Broken inside, a tear streamed down my face.

The doctors moved around me, organizing tools, charting something, whispering things I couldn't make out. Their movements were so casual. So unaffected.

As if I was nothing more than a slab of meat to poke, prod, and file reports about.

I wanted nothing more than to get up off this table and gouge out those arrogant eyes.

Cut his barking tongue from his mouth. Take his voice too.

Then strap him into that damn shock chair, turn it to max, and leave him there to fry.

Let him know what powerlessness feels like. Let him beg.

"Get dressed, you'll unfortunately have to be awake for a while now. Makes so much more work for us," the doctor muttered, like I was an inconvenient lab rat ruining his coffee break.

He continued doing paperwork as I dressed myself, my body trembling slightly, my soul screaming.

"Let's go."

I followed behind him like a dog on a leash, hating myself for obeying. My legs moved, but it felt like someone else was inside my skin.

The room they brought me to was nicer than anything I'd ever had here.

A cot with white sheets and a thin blanket. Nothing fancy, but still better than the floor. A small porcelain sink in the corner beside a basic toilet.

A single light bulb dangled overhead, swinging lazily as the doctor tugged its chain. It flickered once before humming to life, casting a dull glow over the concrete.

"Stay here. Clean yourself up and sleep," he said flatly, closing the heavy steel door behind him with a loud clang.

I heard the mechanism of the lock slide into place, not some simple latch, but a reinforced bolt. Military grade. Secure enough that even Bucky or I would struggle to get through.

Despite the sheets and working plumbing, it was still a cage.

Just a prettier one.

I stood at the sink, using the rough rag they'd left behind to wipe the grime from my body.

When I finally laid down, the cot creaked beneath me. The blanket scratched at my skin.

Feelings surfaced that I shoved below, churning, howling grief.

A wave of disgust, of rage, of hopelessness.

Everything I've gone through, and somehow, this was the worst.

This wasn't a mission. This wasn't pain for control.

This was violation. Intimate and cold. Systematic and dehumanizing.

And what if it worked?

What if I actually got pregnant?

What would I do? What could I do?

Let them raise my child into another weapon? Another monster molded by their hands?

Or worse , let them indoctrinate it into thinking all this is normal? That loyalty to Hydra was something to be proud of.

No. I had to fight harder than I ever had before.

I needed to break the programming. Crack through it.

Something had already started slipping, bleeding through the cracks.

I had to focus. Keep pushing.

For the next seven days, they had Bucky, and I breed daily, and that's the only way to describe it.

It wasn't romantic. It wasn't human.

It was mechanical, crude, clinical.

Orders barked. Bodies used. Emotions numbed.

Then Bucky was gone, cryo, I guessed. Or maybe another job.

I was left alone in my little concrete cage.

They didn't cryo me this time, probably being cautious with their "incubator."

Instead, they gave me minor tasks , smuggling, pickups, drop-offs. Things with low risk and high control.

I was tested weekly. Examined. Prodded.

Seven weeks later, I was pregnant.

Pregnant.

Something I used to dream about, back when I was free.

Back when I imagined it, I'd fall in love, probably with a soldier. A gentlemen.

I used to picture him coming home, his boots heavy on the steps, the door creaking open.

I'd run into his arms, giddy with excitement, tell him the news. He'd lift me off my feet, spin me around, kiss me like we were the only three people in the world.

I always wanted a girl first. Then a boy. Maybe even twins.

I thought that would be nice. Magical.

Now? I didn't know what to feel.

Did Bucky know?

Doubtful. They'd just scramble his brain the moment after telling him.

Maybe it was better if he didn't know.

Maybe it was worse.

My thoughts spiraled, looping endlessly.

Objective one: get my free will back.

Should be simple, right?

Control over my own body, the most basic thing.

And yet, it was everything.

Still, it was happening. Slowly.

I was left awake more often, alone longer.

Motion returned in tiny waves.

A twitch of my eyebrow.

A scrunch of my nose.

Then, one glorious day, a finger moved.

First a twitch. Then a full wiggle.

It was small progress, but it was mine.

I had time. If I stayed pregnant, they wouldn't risk putting me back under.

I figured I had at least seven months to keep fighting.

But somewhere in the ninth week… the baby was just gone.

No bleeding. No pain.

Just... gone.

The doctors said my regenerative body might have treated it like a parasite, a foreign entity to be purged.

Maybe that was true.

Maybe my body saved me.

They didn't give up. Of course not.

Bucky was pulled from cryo again. Another week of hell.

Five weeks later, pregnant again.

This time they monitored everything obsessively. Daily scans, constant measurements. I caught glimpses of the screen now and then, just a blur, a blob.

But it was kind of cute.

Was that what being a mother was?

Finding beauty in something barely formed?

Eight days after I tested positive, it was gone again.

Still, they didn't stop.

After several failures, they stopped using Bucky directly. I overheard arguing, doctors snapping about the frequent wake ups and the effect it could have. How he wasn't designed for this.

Modern methods, they said, were better anyway.

They could collect what they needed and use it without him being present.

Still violating.

Still horrifying.

But at least it wasn't a week-long ordeal. Just one procedure. One quiet horror.

At the beginning of 2013, they announced they had found a "surefire" way to keep the baby to term.

Zola's notes had offered insight, they claimed.

They even said they "spoke" with him, the ghost in the machine.

Apparently, my body prioritized healing based on the vitality of injuries.

If something more threatening existed, like blood loss or organ damage, my body would heal that before terminating the pregnancy.

So, they made me sick.

Once I was confirmed pregnant, they strapped me down in a reinforced chair and began their experiment.

For months, I endured a new hell.

Beaten , everywhere but my stomach.

Poisoned.

Cut.

Blood drained.

Fingers and toes sliced off and left to regrow.

Ribs cracked.

Bones broken.

All to keep my body too busy to reject the child inside me.

And yet… I didn't hate the child.

I thought I would.

Thought I'd blame it.

But I didn't.

This child, this little thing growing inside me, didn't ask for this.

It didn't choose any of this.

It was mine.

Around month four, I regained control of my vocal cords. I couldn't speak yet. But I could hum.

So I did.

When the "doctors" left for their breaks, satisfied after cutting something off me, I hummed.

It was a tune from my childhood.

One my mother used to hum when I was scared.

I hummed it to Jamie too, back when she was little and crawled into my bed crying from nightmares.

I forgot the lyrics long ago. Or maybe I never knew them.

But the melody was burned into me. Etched into my soul.

It kept me human.

How old is Jamie now?

God… she must be in her seventies.

I wonder if she had a good life.

If she laughed a lot. Fell in love. Had kids. Grandkids.

She's probably a grandma now, knitting little sweaters, telling stories to children with wide eyes.

It's funny, she was my little sister once.

Now she's older than I'll ever look.

I still look twenty-seven, give or take. I wouldn't even know what age to tell someone if they asked.

And this baby, are you a boy? A girl?

I don't even have a name for you.

I remember one of Dad's patients once talked about using a baby name book.

I don't have one of those.

But I'll figure it out.

I'll name you something strong. Something that means survival.

And someday, I'll get us out of here.

Somewhere safe.

Somewhere warm.

Maybe an island. With a beach and gentle waves.

You can run barefoot in the sand. Build castles.

Laugh like I used to.

I'll make sure you're free.