MOSCOW, RUSSIA
2004

June wanted to die.

In that moment, she knew she truly did. So many hands grabbed at her, groped at her, tore off her clothes and thrust her into a thin piece of fabric. Hands so cold they had to be dead. Hands so rough they had to be those of men. She was screaming. Her throat was bleeding. Something frigid pressed against the nape of her neck, and suddenly someone forced her head back and a knife tore through her hair, slicing the tresses unevenly and close to her scalp. This made her sob harder, her chest shriveling as the thick pieces of hair fell in a ring about her. Her wrists and ankles were bound with steel; she could not fight back. June gasped for breath over her hysterics as she somehow screamed with her whole body, eyes squeezed shut in paralyzed terror.

Please, let me die, she prayed to any god that was listening, tears falling over her eyelashes and onto the floor to be stamped on by scuffling boots that ushered her to a dim room, empty save for a ring of narrow, dingy cots surrounded by vital monitors. The swarm of black-garbed men wrestled her onto one of those cots, and then did the last thing June expected; they cut her bonds. Her freedom was short lived, (though she was already so beaten and bloody, any sort of escape would be in vain) for the next moment a needle like ice was stabbed into the soft flesh of her forearm, and her muscles went limp. June cried out in frustration and fear, powerless as a gloved hand snatched up her wrist and handcuffed her to the iron bedframe.

So she laid still, helpless and afraid, teeth chattering as her body trembled in protest against the foreign drug swimming through its blood. Suddenly the men like shadows dispersed, making way for a man June could only describe as the devil himself.

His eyes were aggressive and snappish, ice blue and mean, the right one magnified slightly by a modernized monocle. His hair was buzzed close to his head, his frame cloaked in black that sank into the dark around him. He regarded her with a belittling and depersonalizing gaze that made June feel alienated by the world. When the perturbing man spoke, voice thick with a German accent, it was like rocks grinding against each other.

"You speak English, Fräulein?" he asked her slickly.

June could not have replied if she wanted to, but the man continued without confirmation.

"You must be afraid," he said coolly. "I understand. This will not be an easy transition. For that, I apologize," he smiled wickedly. "I am Baron Wolfgang von Strucker, and you, my dear girl, have been handed an unsurpassable honor."

His eyes danced madly. "You are to be the rebirth of Hydra."

June shot up in a frigid sweat, gasping for air. Her hair was sweat-sodden and plastered to her cheeks and neck as tears spilled from her wide eyes. A strangled noise escaped her throat, like that of an animal choked by a snare. June was frozen amid a sea of disheveled sheets for many long moments. Eventually the paralysis waned from her limbs and she tore away the blankets that had enthralled her like a straightjacket. June heaved in lungfuls of air, her heart slamming against her chest so violently it physically hurt. A weak sob tumbled from her lips as the room began to spin, and her throat constricted tightly. She suddenly felt—knew—the walls were going to swallow her, the floor collapse beneath her, let her careen into blackness. In her daze, she caught a glimpse of the alarm clock by the bedside table. It was six in the morning, the moon was fading from the deep blue dawn, and June could not breathe.

An idea suddenly struck her. Quivering uncontrollably, June swung her legs over the side of the bed and groped around in the dark until her hands grasped her phone. She pressed in a number that was like a mantra to her fingers.

The dial tone drawled for five, ten seconds, before the call was answered.

"June?"

"Steve?" her voiced quaked.

"June?" he repeated urgently, the reality of the situation suddenly dawning on him. "June, what's wrong?"

"I can't—I can't breathe—"

That was all she was able to choke out, but Steve was well aware of and well accustomed to June's panic attacks, which had preyed upon her much more frequently for the past two months, ever since the battle above the Potomac.

"June, I want you to listen to me," Steve commanded steadily, his voice low and gentle. "Just listen to my voice. Where are you right now?"

June was pacing, fidgeting, forcing back her cries. "The apartment."

"Be more specific."

June inhaled her first full breath since the nightmare had woken her up. "I'm in your apartment. I'm in your room."

June had developed a habit of sleeping in Steve's bed when he was away, (which was quite often) for it gave her comfort to fall asleep with her nose pressed into a pillow swathed in his pleasant scent. He did not seem to mind.

"Tell me what you see," he repeated the same command he always produced when talking June back into a responsive state.

She swallowed with difficulty, her pacing slowing slightly. "Um . . . it's dark. It's quiet. And still. It's almost morning." June felt hot tears slither down her reddened cheeks, but the hammering of her chest began to soften. Her eyes moved to the window. "The sun's coming up. Traffic is starting."

"How's your breathing?" Steve asked easily.

June wrung her hands, phone held between her chin and shoulder. "It's okay," she said quickly. "I just—I wasn't able to calm myself down before—" she broke off sharply, gasping in a short breath, struggling for a moment before managing to regain control. "It—was just another nightmare."

"Do you want me to come back?" Steve asked her sincerely. The offer was enticing, and June was tempted to accept.

"W-Where are you right now?"

"Upstate New York. Sam's with me."

June fought to keep her teeth from clacking together. "Did you . . . . You found a lead on Barnes?"

"We think so. It's hard to tell. Might be a dead-end," Steve said lowly, heavy disappointment in his voice. June sighed tearfully.

"Then, um . . . just—just keep looking then," she stuttered.

"You're sure?"

June shut her eyes tightly. "Yeah. Don't worry about me . . . call me if you find anything more."

There was a long pause. June gnawed on her lips nervously. Finally, Steve spoke again.

"I will," he assured her. "And June?"

"Yes?"

"Take care of yourself. Please."

June swiped at her eyes, blinking the tears away. "Of course. I'll see you soon."

"See you soon."

Steve hung up. June blew a breath through her teeth, looking again to the clock. It was only six-fifteen, but the sun was stretching through the blinds in pale beams of yellow light, spilling over the floor and illuminating her bare legs.

June's mind was still frantic and worrisome, anxiety spiraling through her, and she was certain she would not be able to be fall back asleep. So reluctantly, she slipped from the bedroom without a sound and padded into the living room.

She was aimless. June thought of putting on a pot of coffee in an attempt to jostle some of the tiredness from her eyes, but she remained glued to the floor in the middle of the room, arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her face was warm with embarrassment like it always became after one of her episodes, even though Steve was the only one to witness it. The attacks made her feel weak and there was nothing June hated more than feeling weak, and no matter how she tried to convince herself she was not, she could not shake away the self-disgust. An Avenger, Natasha had called her. Yes, quite the Avenger she would make.

As June stood unmoving, face twisted into a scowl of deep trouble, the oppressive silence was suddenly disrupted by a sharp rapping at the door.

Scowling, June crossed the floor, trying without success to rub the redness from her swollen eyes. Her fingers wrapped around the knob, and she swung the door aside.

Her first instinct was to scream.

A tall man in dark clothing stood stiffly in the hallway. Tufts of long, deep brown hair framed a square jaw, and a fraying baseball cap hid a pair of paranoid eyes, blue like the sky.

Bucky Barnes stood in June's doorway, hands shoved in his pockets and an unreadable glower on his face. He eyed June curiously, appearing slightly taken aback, as if he had been expecting someone different. June's chest pounded with impending panic. She was unarmed, her handgun and daggers stashed away in Steve's bedroom. It seemed, however, that Barnes was just as defenseless as she. He carried no weapon, and did not hold himself with an aggressive stature. Strangely, he appeared entirely docile, aside from a sweeping gaze that surveyed his surroundings obsessively, always looking over his shoulder, always wary.

June stared at him, helpless, cold fear coursing through her. She could think of nothing to say, nothing to do. So she stood, paralyzed, as Barnes regarded her passively. He was almost sheepish.

"Is . . . " he began slowly, his voice low and mournful. "Is now a bad time?"

• • •

and that wraps up part one! so this story will be split into four parts, part two taking place a little while before age of ultron. I promise it will break your hearts!!!