Dawn in New York brought with it a constant, dull rumble, a chaotic symphony of horns, engines, and hurried footsteps on wet asphalt. From his high-rise apartment in Brooklyn, Bucky heard everything as clearly as ever, though most of the time he tried to ignore it.
His apartment was simple, almost spartan. He didn't need much stuff, and he didn't want it either. A couch comfortable enough for Alpine to curl up on, a multi-level scratching post where the white cat spent most of the day, a small table, a closet where a handful of functional clothes hung, a medium-sized television propped up on a piece of unadorned furniture, and a bed… which he never used.
Sleeping was an activity that still eluded him, a beast he could never quite tame.
With the sleeve of his gray sweater rolled up to his elbow, Bucky held his coffee cup in his right hand. The other, the metal one, rested on the table as he watched Alpine move with feline grace around her empire of wood and rope. The cat glanced at him indifferently before leaping nimbly into his lap, curling up there as if it had always been her designated spot. Bucky sighed and ran his fingers through the soft fur.
The coffee was hot, strong, black as night. He liked it that way, no additives, no distractions. He drank it in small sips as he looked out the window, watching the sun rise over the skyline. Instead of 1940s Brooklyn, where neighbors knew each other and life was slower, he pondered what it would have been like to grow up in that city.
It never really slept, and though he had learned to move within its shadows, he never stopped feeling like an outsider. Too many people, too much speed, too much stimulation for a brain still readjusting to the idea of freedom.
Sometimes, when he walked the streets, he could feel the whispers, the furtive glances, the recognition. No matter how hard he tried to hide, there was always someone who recognized him. Not as James Buchanan Barnes, not as a man trying to get his life back together. But as the Winter Soldier.
The phone rang. He stared at it for a moment, reading the name on the screen before answering.
“What’s wrong, Steve?” he asked, straight to the point.
“Fury called an emergency meeting. We need to be at the tower in half an hour.”
Bucky narrowed his eyes, running his tongue along his back tooth in annoyance. “Do I really need to go?”
“Clint was called in. He was on vacation.”
That was all he needed to hear. If Barton’s self-imposed retreat had been interrupted, it meant the situation was dire enough. He sighed and set the cup aside, lightly scratching the wood with the metal tip of his fingers. “Fine. I’ll go as fast as I can.”
There was a moment of silence before Steve spoke again, this time in a less urgent tone. “How are you?”
Bucky didn’t answer right away. There were few things in the world that were harder for him than answering that question, especially when it came from Steve. He knew the concern was genuine, but he didn’t have a clear answer either.
Ultimately, he opted for the easy way out. “As always.”
Steve sighed on the other end of the line. “If you need to talk, you know…”
“I know.” Bucky ran a hand over his face, exhaling slowly. Steve knew him well enough to know he wasn’t being rude. “See you at the tower.”
They said goodbye and he hung up, staring at the phone screen for a few seconds before setting it down on the table. Alpine stared at him with a blue stare that was a mix of indifference and curiosity.
“Don’t start,” he muttered, scratching her head before standing up.
He didn’t like meetings. To him, they only meant one thing: danger. Another threat, another mission. And while part of him enjoyed dismantling HYDRA bases, cutting off what had once possessed him, another part hated being a soldier anymore.
There were times when he fantasized about another life, a simpler one. A house in the countryside, far from the noise, the war, the memories. He wasn't sure if he could ever have something like that, but in his mind he imagined it clearly: animals in the yard, maybe a goat, a cow, even a piglet if he got ambitious. Maybe not with someone at his side... or maybe yes, if he could get over the visceral terror that human contact caused him.
But that was a dream, and he was not a man made for dreams.
He didn't need identification when he reached the tower. He went straight to the 99th floor in the elevator, feeling the slight hum of the machinery under his feet as he ascended. When the doors opened, the first thing he saw was Steve and Sam, chatting by the entrance. Sam was the first to notice him and gave him a half-smile.
“Well, Barnes, I thought you chickened out.”
“I considered ignoring the call,” he admitted. “But then I remembered you wouldn’t leave me alone.”
Sam patted him on the metal shoulder with excessive confidence, causing him to roll his eyes in mock annoyance. Steve, with his unwavering patience, smiled and gestured for him to come in.
Inside the meeting room, the atmosphere was tense, but not critical. He quickly scanned the room, taking a mental note of each one. Tony was leaning over the table with his fingers interlaced, clearly deep in thought, as he chatted with Rhodey. Bruce was checking something on a tablet, while Clint was fiddling with an arrow between his fingers, looking like someone who would rather be anywhere else. Natasha, as always, seemed unfazed, cleaning her nails with a small knife. Wanda and Pietro stood in a corner, exchanging words in their native language, while Vision stood impassively beside them.
Only Thor was missing, and with him, Loki. But that was never easy or quick.
Silence settled on the room like a stone when Nick Fury entered. His posture was rigid, his expression unfazed. He did not greet or exchange glances, he simply advanced to the head of the table and dropped a black folder with the inscription "CONFIDENTIAL" in red capital letters.
“You’re going to sign this,” he announced, his gravelly voice leaving no room for retort. “Now.”
The Avengers looked at each other with varying expressions: confusion, discomfort, a hint of reluctance. But there was no choice. If Fury had papers to sign, it meant that what was about to be said couldn’t leave this room.
Bucky felt his jaw tense as he took the document Coulson handed him. He skimmed through it quickly: a high-level confidentiality agreement. If anyone leaked information, SHIELD had the authority to take drastic action.
“Is this really necessary?” Natasha asked, turning to Fury with the pen between her fingers.
“I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t, Romanoff.”
There was no room for negotiation. One by one, the heroes signed. Bucky scanned the lines of text with growing unease. Something in the air was off. His instinct, the one forged in shadows and ice, told him that what they were about to hear was not good.
Finally, he left his signature on the dotted line.
Fury picked up the documents without ceremony and motioned to Maria Hill. She walked over to the projector without a word, and after a few seconds, an image appeared on the screen.
It was a SHIELD file, a detailed file. On one side of the screen, an image. A girl. No, a teenager. Pale, with deep circles under her eyes and an alarming thinness. Her blonde hair was unkempt, dry, as if it had been mistreated with cheap products and left to its own devices. In the image, her hands were in front of her, surrounded by a black, disturbing fog.
Bucky felt his breathing become heavier.
Coulson handed out copies of the file, and when the sheet reached his hands, he felt his world shrink to the words in front of him.
“PROJECT G01.”
The air grew thicker.
Fury crossed his arms and began to speak.
“Two and a half weeks ago, a SHIELD team was sent on a routine mission in Siberia. What they found was anything but routine.”
He was barely listening. His eyes scanned the file with disturbing speed.
Full name: Gwendolyn.
Surname: Unregistered paternal. Golubeva, maternal.
Alias: Project G01.
Height: 1.68
Weight: 48kg (105 lbs).
Gender: Female.
Birth: November 14, 2001 (15 years old - turns 16).
…
Recognized data: Mutant. Possibly at a higher level than the Maximoffs and Sergeant Barnes. Has accompanied the Winter Soldier on missions: DO NOT MENTION (hysteria). Born and raised in a Siberian HYDRA base and trained like a machine, most likely her stance on ferocious killing.
His stomach clenched, his heart pounding. His fingers clenched at the paper as if it would disappear from his hands.
Fury continued.
“The base was heavily guarded, more so than we expected. But all those HYDRA agents weren’t protecting classified information or weapons. No. They were protecting a cell. This cell.”
The images on the projector flashed forward, showing a dark hallway with metal walls and traces of what looked like dried blood. Then, a cell. And inside it, the girl.
Her face had a blank expression. A face Bucky had seen before.
It couldn’t be.
His mind took him to memories that weren’t entirely clear, but they were there, buried in the darkest part of his consciousness. A small shadow moving beside him on missions he didn’t quite remember. Sky-blue eyes watching him through the gloom. A voice in Russian, soft, barely perceptible.
“What’s that?” Clint’s voice brought him out of his trance. He pointed at the image on the screen, specifically the dark mist emanating from the girl’s hands.
Fury gave him a quick glance before answering. “Her ability. Or one of them, rather.”
Silence.
“We have reason to believe her training was as extreme as the Winter Soldier’s. The extent of her abilities is unknown, but we have evidence that she can manipulate shadows on a molecular level. She can deprive people of their senses and even, theoretically, rip out souls. We don’t know to what extent.”
The words hung in the air like a death sentence.
Gwendolyn had been with him. On his missions.
At some point in his life, Gwendolyn had been a part of his world. Maybe he hadn’t recognized her, maybe he hadn’t known her by name, but the memory of that girl, her silhouette, washed over him like a wave of pain that forced him to grip the armrests of his chair, staring at Fury.
“Gwendolyn has demonstrated, on several occasions during initial interrogations and assessments, a bitting demeanor. She is not content with simply being a lethal weapon; she seems to have a conscience of her own, a kind of survival instinct that makes her react in an almost animal-like manner to any attempt to obtain answers. We have observed that, despite her young age, she possesses a mastery over her abilities that far exceeds what one would expect from a 15-year-old.”
As Fury continued to lay out the details of the operation, Bucky found himself recalling fragments of his own existence in the dark laboratories and bases of HYDRA. Every mention, every description, brought back those moments when indifference was the norm and violence was the order of the day. Her mind wandered into thoughts that mixed bitter nostalgia for a lost era with the conviction that those times should not be repeated. How was it possible that a girl, so young, could have been molded into a killing machine?
What kind of monsters were hiding behind those frozen walls in Siberia?
The answer seemed to lie in the complex web of power and corruption that HYDRA had woven over the years. Gwendolyn, or Project G01, represented the pinnacle of that perversity: a human being transformed into a lethal tool through genetic manipulation and relentless indoctrination. But unlike other failed experiments, a glimmer of something else had been observed in her: an almost poetic ability to merge with darkness, a macabre dance between life and death that defied all logic.
“You must not remove the chains from her ankles or her hands at any time. Any attempt at physical manipulation could trigger an unexpected reaction. In addition, it is imperative that you avoid touching her neck so as not to activate the electric collar that, as you know, is used to keep mutants under control.”
Wanda’s body tensed as much as his own, remembering the moments under that collar, the threats and the volts hitting directly at the inside of her neck.
Each instruction seemed written for a situation of maximum containment, almost as if Gwendolyn’s very nature defied any attempt at normality. Bucky was surprised at the coldness with which these guidelines were laid out, as if it were a simple maintenance routine rather than the life of a child. However, there was no room for empathy in this context; the priority was safety, containment, and obtaining answers.
“In addition,” Hill continued, “we have observed that prolonged exposure to certain stimuli can trigger changes in her behavior. Therefore, it is essential that low lighting be maintained in the area where she is located, although not so dim as to make it difficult to observe her face. The girl’s eye sensitivity is remarkable, and any excess of light could trigger adverse reactions.”
The room sank into a kind of silent consternation. Each word hinted not only at the latent danger Gwendolyn represented but also at the cruelty inherent in the process HYDRA had used to create her. Bucky, staring at the screen, couldn’t help but feel a pang of compassion mixed with bitter rage. He had lived through the darkness of experimentation, abuse, and manipulation. Now, seeing a child mired in that same abyss was a brutal reminder that the fight against HYDRA was not over.
Attention shifted back to Fury, who, without taking his eyes off the screen, gave way to a new block of information: the conditions of containment and handling. “Gwendolyn has been ordered to receive constant sedatives. However, her body shows an alarming ability to adapt, so the doses will have to be reviewed and adjusted periodically. It is crucial that any changes to her medication be made gradually, to prevent her body from developing resistance or, worse, trying to counteract the effect of the sedatives.”
As he listened, Bucky heard a pang of hopelessness in Fury’s authoritative voice. He knew that behind such meticulous protocols lurked a fear of the unknown: a fear that, at some point, Gwendolyn might become uncontrollable, or at best, that her lethal potential might overflow and cause irreparable damage.
“In addition,” he continued, “we have stipulated a special protocol for interaction. Her chains must not be removed, and any physical contact must avoid the neck area, as she goes agitated when this is the case. Her diet has been modified to liquid foods, as it has been proven that her stomach cannot fully sustain solids. Finally, it has been established that, as an incentive for proper behavior, she will be allowed to listen to music for at least 15 minutes daily and will be granted an evening walk through the internal gardens, always avoiding the labyrinth, which could trigger unexpected reactions.”
The meticulous exposition of each protocol made it clear that the situation with Gwendolyn could not be handled lightly. The mixture of science and brutality that HYDRA had employed to turn her into a tool of war was, in many ways, a distorted reflection of humanity. For Bucky, who had been both a witness and a victim of such manipulation, each directive was a painful reminder of how thin the line between control and destruction could be.
In a brief silence that seemed to last an eternity, some of the agents exchanged glances. Bucky, however, remained distant, lost in his own thoughts. Images of young Gwendolyn were mixed with fragments of memories of past missions and decisions that, although made in the name of duty, had left indelible scars on his soul.
Clint, who had remained silent until then, raised his voice again, this time with a mix of disbelief and concern. “And what do we do with her? Do we keep her in maximum custody, or…?”
Fury immediately interrupted him, with the same coldness that had characterized him throughout the meeting. “There is no discussion. The young woman is a key piece to understanding a facet of HYDRA that is still unknown to us. As long as we do not have answers, Gwendolyn will remain in strict custody, and all established protocols will be followed. This is not negotiable. Your only job, ladies and gentlemen, is to obtain those answers.”
The meeting continued with the presentation of additional reports: preliminary analyzes of Gwendolyn’s abilities, medical evaluations, and proposals for methods to contain and ultimately understand her power. Each slide that passed on the screen revealed technical data and figures that, despite their apparent coldness, had very real and painful implications. There was talk of “biological adaptation,” “resistance to sedatives,” and “potential risks in the event of a failure in the containment system.” The magnitude of the situation was undeniable, and Bucky felt helpless in the face of the vastness of the challenge that lay ahead.
In one of those moments when silence took over the room, while the images continued to scroll on the screen, he closed his eyes briefly, trying to separate the cold logic from the report of humanity that he could still recognize in the girl’s face. He thought about the possibility of redemption, about the idea that, perhaps, behind that terrifying gift was hidden the spark of something more: the opportunity to rescue a life lost in the abyss of control and manipulation. But the brutal pragmatism that reigned in the headquarters quickly drowned those thoughts out.
Fury took up the floor again, now addressing each of the agents with a look that seemed to pierce their souls. “We must be aware that we are dealing with a unique case in the history of SHIELD. Gwendolyn, despite her young age, possesses a power that could change the balance of force. We cannot allow HYDRA to regain control of this girl. Each of you has the responsibility to ensure that the protocols are fully followed. Errors will not be accepted.”
The words echoed through the room with unwavering authority, and Bucky, his face expressionless but his heart heavy, wondered how much longer the looming shadows could be kept at bay. The past, with all its scars and betrayals, seemed to want to resurface at that very moment, bringing with it a fate he had tried, unsuccessfully, to avoid.
The presentation ended with a final warning from Fury, whose tone became even more severe and loaded with determination. “Remember: the priority is containment and security. We cannot allow Gwendolyn to have access to any element that could amplify her power or, worse yet, for HYDRA to find a loophole to recover her. This is a matter of life or death, and every mistake, every carelessness, could cost us much more than we are willing to pay.”
And after that, a deathly silence filled the room. Hill turned off the projector and, in a gesture that seemed to reflect both resignation and urgency, stepped back with some agents to let each process the magnitude of what was being said. It was Wanda who spoke, her tone calm and determined, but also tinged with compassion and responsibility.
Bucky looked at her more closely. Wanda understood. Not like Bruce, who was looking at the file like a scientist looking at a genetic anomaly. Not like Steve, who was still processing the fact that a teenager had been raised as a weapon. Not like Tony, who was already crossing his arms, preparing to make a sarcastic comment. Wanda understood because she had been there. She had felt the weight of control on her own skin. She had been turned into a weapon, too.
“I… I take responsibility for this. We can’t just leave Gwendolyn to her fate, not just because she is part of the assignment Fury left us, but because… because I feel there is something more, something human in her. She needs help, not punishment.”
Wanda's voice, always so full of empathy, echoed in the room, and her eyes met Steve's, who were quick to respond. Steve, with his characteristic determination and gaze filled with fatherly concern, replied, “I'm with Wanda on this. After all, she's still a kid.”
At that precise moment, Natasha, who had remained in the background until then, intervened with an almost instinctive correction. “Teenager, Steve. She's not a little girl; she's already a teenager, and what's happening to her is even more serious because of the magnitude of what they've made her live through.”
Tony snorted. “Sure, sure. But to Capsicle, everyone is a child, right? How old am I, Rogers? Ten?”
Steve gave him a look, but didn't take the bait. Tony always did that: he took the seriousness out of things with sarcasm. But the expression on his face betrayed that he was just as disturbed as everyone else.
Bruce, who had been looking through the file with a frown, finally spoke up.
“She’s a total genetic mutation,” he said, closing the file and removing his glasses. He rubbed his eyes before continuing. “Barely human. Completely overpowered by the gifts they implemented into her body.” He exhaled slowly. “I didn’t know they could do all this.”
A shiver ran down Bucky’s spine. Bruce spoke in scientific terms, but what he said felt deeply personal. HYDRA had always gone the extra mile, always pushing the boundaries of what was considered possible. Bucky was proof of that. But Gwendolyn… she was something else.
“And they can do more,” he muttered, unable to help himself.
Everyone turned to him.
It was Tony who broke the brief pause that formed. “Are we just going to ignore that Barnes here worked with her?”
Bucky closed his eyes for a second. It wasn’t something he could deny, not when the file had made it so clear.
“I have no definite memories of my time as the Soldier…” he admitted, feeling the weight of the words. He forced himself to open his eyes and meet the questioning gazes of the others. “…accompanied.”
The silence was heavy, uncomfortable. They knew what that meant. It was common knowledge: they all knew Bucky remembered his time with HYDRA. They knew he remembered the missions, the kills, the blood. What he didn’t have were clear memories of people, of interactions. His mind had been fragmented too much, his consciousness broken and rebuilt so many times that only shadows of his past remained.
But Gwendolyn…
“Only shadows,” he murmured, not realizing he was speaking out loud. His eyes locked back on the image on the screen. “And her eyes.”
No one knew what to say to that.
Tony ran a hand over his face, clearly frustrated. “Fine. Since Fury has left us with more questions than answers, I guess it’s time to look for some of our own.” He turned back to the table and moved his fingers over one of the control screens. “Give me a second. I’m going to see if I can access the security cameras.”
Bruce leaned in close. “Do you think they’ll let us access—?”
“It’s not a matter of permission, Banner.” Tony was already typing on the screen. “It’s a matter of outsmarting SHIELD’s security system.”
Clint let out a low whistle. “And you can do that?”
Tony smiled without even looking at him. “I can and I am.”
The image on the screen changed. The SHIELD logo appeared for a moment before being replaced by a series of miniature screens, each showing different sections of the facility where Gwendolyn was being held. Tony quickly filtered through until he found what he was looking for.
The cell.
The image zoomed in, and suddenly, everyone could see her.
Gwendolyn stood in the center of the cell, her hands and feet chained together. The metal around her wrists and ankles was thick, clearly designed to withstand superhuman strength. A thick collar encircled her neck, with a red dot that blinked slowly, menacingly, like a constant warning.
The light in the cell was low, but enough to illuminate her face. And her eyes…
Bucky felt a lump in his throat. Her eyes were filled with emotion. It wasn't fear, exactly. It wasn't anger. But it wasn't resignation, either. There was no emptiness in them, though she was clearly trying to pretend it was. There was something alive in there. Something alert, something that hadn't completely shut off.
There was no way to tell how long she'd been in that cell. But her body betrayed the wear and tear. She looked thin, too thin. Her wrists had red marks where the chains had hurt her. Her lips were chapped. Her hair, dyed blonde but messed up, fell messily around her face.
And yet, there was something about her posture. Something that told Bucky she wasn't completely defeated. Constantly alert. Ready to attack or flee at any moment.
It was the same look he had in his first days free from HYDRA.
“God,” Sam murmured, breaking the silence.
Tony exhaled, rubbing his forehead. “Well, it’s official. Fury has put us in another one of his nightmares.”
Wanda stared at the screen in complete silence. Her hands were tense on the table. “She looks… terrified.”
“She’s traumatized,” Bruce corrected, his voice low, as if speaking in a louder tone might alert her even through the screen.
“She knows we’re watching her,” Natasha whispered.
Bucky blinked and looked back. Natasha was right. Gwendolyn wasn’t looking directly at the camera, but there was something in her posture, in the way her fingers flexed slightly, as if she was sensing something. She wasn’t asleep or zoned out. She was alert.
And then, as if she heard it all, as if she knew they were there, her head slowly turned.
And she looked straight into the camera.
Bucky felt goosebumps rise on his skin.
Those eyes.
God.
He knew them too well.