Reality like a pane of glass..
Arthur’s eyelids fluttered open, a sharp, disorienting brightness assaulting his senses. His body felt heavy, his muscles weak and sore. For a brief, terrifying moment, the world around him was a blur—a haze of light and shadow. His mind was foggy, and he couldn’t make sense of anything.
But then, as clarity began to creep in, a memory jolted him awake—a memory so vivid, so terrifying, that his heart skipped a beat. The cold, sterile room. The endless rows of metal chairs. The cruel hum of machinery. The fear—the overwhelming, suffocating fear.
His breath hitched, a chill sweeping through his body as panic surged in.
The chair.
He was in the chair again.
A sharp intake of breath was followed by the sensation of cold metal straps tightening around his wrists. He could almost hear the clinking of chains, feel the pressure of the cuffs digging into his skin. The distant sound of the machines whirring, the cold presence of the people who used to stand over him, observing, calculating his every movement. The endless injections. The experiments.
His hands shot out, palms pressing against the unfamiliar surface beneath him, but it wasn’t metal. It was soft. Fabric. A bed.
A bed?
Arthur’s eyes shot open fully, his breath coming in ragged gasps, panic seizing his chest like a vice. He was no longer in the cold, white room. He was somewhere else. Somewhere warm. But his mind couldn’t comprehend that.
The sensation of freedom was foreign. His hands, though still trembling, weren’t bound. His body wasn’t strapped down.
But that didn’t matter. His mind was already spiraling.
“No… no no no…” he mumbled, voice strained as his chest tightened further. His heart was thundering in his ribcage, his pulse racing faster than he could keep up with. His breath was shallow, jagged. The panic was all-consuming.
His legs kicked out instinctively, a desperate attempt to push away from the invisible threat. He barely noticed the dull ache in his limbs as he scrambled to sit up, his head spinning with the disorienting sensation. His hands reached to push himself off the bed, but the room around him felt like it was closing in, shrinking with every passing second.
The chair.
He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t focus. The memories flooded in, the flashes of the worst moments in his life, and he was back there again, back in the depths of his mind where everything was dark, cold, and endless.
His body went rigid with terror, every instinct telling him to flee—but he couldn’t escape. He was trapped, locked in the grip of something far worse than chains.
“Soldier.”
The word sliced through the haze of his panic, cutting him open. His entire body jerked violently at the sound—Russian. It was Russian. They were here. They had found him.
“NO!” he cried out, his voice broken, raw, as he struggled to push himself away from the bed.
He didn’t know where he was. He didn’t know if it was real. His brain couldn’t make sense of the surroundings. Was this another trap? Another lie?
His mind was stuck in a loop—HYDRA… chair… experiment… and now this—this bed. It felt wrong. It felt like he had been pulled from one nightmare just to wake up in another.
He couldn’t take it. His breathing quickened to a frantic pace, his chest rising and falling with a speed that threatened to overwhelm him. His body shook with the intensity of it. Panic clawed at his throat, suffocating him with every breath.
“Soldier!”
He screamed as his mind fractured under the weight of the trigger, the word snapping him further into the depths of his terror.
Inside the Compound
Steve, Bucky, and Tony had been gathered in the medical bay, discussing their next steps, when a loud, panicked cry echoed through the hallways. It was so raw, so full of terror, that it immediately froze them in place.
Without another word, Bucky was already moving, his feet pounding against the floor as he rushed toward the sound. Steve and Tony weren’t far behind.
When they reached the door to the room where Arthur had been placed, Bucky didn’t hesitate. He pushed it open with a single motion, his eyes scanning the room in an instant.
Arthur was on the bed, his hands bracing against the mattress as he tried to push himself away from it. His chest heaved with the effort to breathe, his face pale and contorted in a way that made Bucky’s heart drop.
Bucky’s instincts kicked in immediately—he moved toward Arthur, his voice calm but firm.
“Arti, hey. It’s me. It’s Bucky. You’re okay. You’re safe.”
Arthur didn’t seem to hear him. His head was whipped back and forth, eyes wide and panicked, his body trembling with fear. His legs kicked as though he was trying to escape something that wasn’t there. The look in his eyes was pure terror, and it cut deep.
“Soldier!” Arthur cried out again, his voice hoarse, desperate. “No! No, please… not again…”
Bucky’s heart broke as he dropped to his knees next to the bed, placing a hand gently on Arthur’s arm. “Arti, listen to me. You’re not in HYDRA’s hands anymore. You’re safe. I’m here, okay? You’re okay.”
But Arthur’s mind was too far gone. His breathing was ragged, his eyes darting around the room, as though looking for something to escape. He seemed to be drowning in his own fear, unable to pull himself back from the brink.
“NO!” Arthur screamed, pushing against Bucky’s touch. His body was rigid with panic. “Not again! I can’t… I can’t…”
Bucky felt helpless. He had seen Arthur in pain before, but this was something different—something that was breaking him apart. His mind was still trapped in the nightmare of the chair, and no matter what Bucky said, nothing seemed to reach him.
“Arti, please,” Bucky whispered, his voice breaking. “Please, listen to me. You’re not there anymore. You’re here, with us. With me.”
Tony and Steve entered the room, their faces etched with concern. Tony immediately moved toward the bed, his gaze fixed on Arthur as he spoke in a quiet, steady voice.
“Arthur, you’re not alone. You’re here with us. We’ve got you, okay? You’re not in that chair anymore. We’re here. We won’t let them take you.”
Arthur’s body trembled violently, but slowly, his eyes began to focus on the people around him. His breathing remained rapid, his chest still heaving with panic, but there was a flicker of recognition in his eyes—a small, fragile thread of reality that tried to ground him.
“Please… no more...” Arthur whispered, his voice raw, breaking with emotion. “I can’t… I can’t handle it.”
Bucky didn’t let go of his arm. He squeezed it gently, his voice low but determined. “You don’t have to handle it alone, Arti. We’re here. We’re not leaving you. We’re with you, every step.”
The words seemed to reach Arthur, if only for a moment. His breathing was still erratic, but his body had stopped thrashing. His eyes fluttered, exhaustion tugging at him, the panic beginning to ebb—just a little.
But it was clear. The road to recovery wasn’t going to be easy. And Arthur’s fight—his internal battle—was far from over.
To be continued…