[A/N: I'm going to die writing this chapter. Also, v important question at the end of this! Please read it. Also, all the words in italics towards the end-speech, of course, is in Russian. I was too lazy to look up the translations.]

FORCED INTO a capsule similar to that of the Winter Soldier's, the Archangel sat calmly, refusing to meet they eyes of anyone but James. They were close together, but their captors were much too smart to put them in the same capsule. Much too smart, unfortunately for her. She had tried to teleport multiple times, only to be sucked back into her own body by some technology that managed to ground her.

He had only spoken once, to her, of course, very softly, blue orbs cast somewhere far away.

"You don't have to do this, Arch-don't have to be here, don't have to work for anyone. I know you, I know how you were-how you are," he whispered, knowing only she would be able to hear. The Archangel had only offered a small smile in response-a fake one, her lips barely curling and the ends of her eyes remaining velvet smooth.

"I chose to come here, James-Soldier. I chose this."

"You never got a choice, Archangel. And neither did I."

The Soldier gulped non-visibly, brown hair covering the half of his face that she could see. "You were sweet, before. Powerful, not like you are now. I remember you. You weren't in any museums-you should've been, none of us would be alive if you hadn't been there," the man began, head moving constantly as if he was trying to find something to look at. Anything but her. The Archangel didn't respond, her heart only racing in the cage of her ribs, confined to the space for eternity.

"On-on the Potomac, when Captain-Steve, when Steve said my name, I remembered two people. I remember him, and you," the Soldier stated, softly, trying to piece his words together in a way that made sense. The Archangel only shook her head-there was never a before, she had always been the Archangel. She had never been a human-born to be what she was, a weapon, a warrior. An angel sent by Hydra to save the world from itself.

"I know you don't believe me," he added, after a moment. "But I would never lie to you-Whoever I was, back then-he cared about you. And who I am now-I'm not the Soldier you were sent here, for, Arch, but I'm not him. But I care, too. And I think you understand that, even if you don't remember me, don't remember the missions," he murmured, glancing over at her from time to time. Her dark eyes couldn't focus on one thing-what he was saying couldn't be true, could it? Hydra had warned her the soldier would try to sow the seeds of disobedience into her mind, to avoid capture, to make her rebel as she had. With a pained groan, she tugged again at the metal cuffs again. An agonizing shock lit her body aflame, and she sunk back into the chair, defeated.

"I'll be punished for this," she muttered to herself, wrist twitching involuntarily. James glanced over at her, face grim. "You don't deserve to be punished," he responded almost immediately, as if on instinct. "Солат," she pleaded, dark eyes hooded. "Солатка," the man responded just as evenly, blue eyes questioning. After a moment, she released a frustrated huff. "Of course I do," she retorted. "I got caught. I'm in the system; it'll be harder for me to do missions now." The dark-haired man's eyebrows furrowed, the ends of his lips turning downward in a slight frown. But he didn't speak in response.

"T'Challa and I met years ago," she murmured after a moment, having a vague idea of the Soldier's thoughts. "I was on a mission in Wakanda-level 3 target, always armed-but cocky. That was my advantage. The King was with him, when I came. Sitting in his home, drinking tea. The Black Panther tore into me with his claws-I almost died, but he left an opening. I shot my mission in the head while the King threw me out a window."

A pause. "What story?"

"Second. I didn't hit the ground; I transported mid-fall, reported to my handlers." She could see James nod slightly in the corner of her eye, jaw clenched. "Did you heal?" he asked after a brief moment, not looking over at her. "I have scars. The Black Panther did what was required of him-protect the citizens of Wakanda. I was never bitter of the injury," she told him, honestly. She respected the Black Panther, out of all things. And, she knew he respected her. Because, before she had been thrown through the glass, she had broken his nose. An achievement, if anything.

A door opened.

Her and the Soldier's eyes snapped to attention-staring intently at the form in the dull lighting of the holding chamber-if that was what you could call it-they were in.

"Hello, Mr. Barnes. Archangel. I've been sent by the United Nations to evaluate you two. Do you mind if I sit?" The Archangel quickly took in the man's appearance-ethically calm, despite him being in the presence of two skilled murderers. Because, that's what they were. That's what she was, anyways, she thought to herself. She only glanced over at James-who wasn't looking at anything, really, blue eyes miles away in a place she never knew. Their evaluator had neatly combed, dark hair, which was a light shade of brown. His spectacles, moon-shaped, rested securely against his thin, matured face.

"Your first name is James?" The man asked after a moment, shifting the decent-sized bag he had with him. Turning to her, he said, "We do not have your name on file-Do you telling me what it is?"

"It's Victoria," James answered, almost mechanically, as if he had done it many times before. Perhaps he had. The Archangel was happy to admit she was incredibly unsure of what-who she was, what was happening. She still did not think of herself as-Victoria, as Steven had called her, but it was a suitable civilian name. Common, even. Used quite frequently in early Britain.

"I'm not here to judge you-either of you, just to ask you a few questions," the man stated-he had an accent. German, perhaps. It would make sense, she decided, looking at James and then the ground. "Do either of you know where you are? James, Victoria?" The man inquired, voice thin. These were simple questions, she noted. Questions her handlers had used to ask her. "Berlin," she answered after a moment, voice oddly flat. The man nodded, clearly surprised. She knew how to read signs, after all.

"I can't help you if you don't talk to me, James," the man said earnestly, calm, turning to her dark haired and silent companion. After a moment, the Soldier pursed his lips, he responded. "My name is Bucky," he murmured, voice rough around the edges. Unusual. The examiner nodded, before turning to a blank, white notepad and scribbling down words with a ballpoint pen. He hadn't done that before, which was odd, she supposed. Odd was her life, at the moment.

"Tell me Bucky-Victoria, if you remember-you've seen a great deal, haven't you?"

The Archangel inwardly cringed at the use of the name, yet keeping her face expressionless. "I don't want to talk about it," the Soldier responded, eyes dead-set on their evaluator. The Archangel had her dark eyes glued to the side of his face-dark strands of hair falling and covering it partially. Eyes as cold as a snowstorm.

"You feel that, if you open your mouth, the horrors might never stop," the man said. Those were the words of a question-but he had said it as a statement. The woman only raised an eyebrow in response, before turning away. Flexing her hand, she distantly hoped her powers were working. She was still soaked in blood-cheeks stained water-color red from her crimson tears. "Don't worry," the man assured, touching an invisible screen, "We only have to talk about one." "We haven't been talking much at all, really," the Archangel whispered, voice hoarse. But it went unnoticed.

The Archangel glanced over at James, who had the same concerned look as she did. The room went dark abruptly-The Archangel started screaming internally-her screaming would only make her look unfit for battle-knowing that something was wrong. Meanwhile, she wasn't free of her restraints-but she didn't care. The man wasn't Hydra-she knew every Hydra agent by face and name, and he wasn't one. They were in trouble.

"What the hell is this?" James asked, turning away from her, voice irritated.

"Why don't we discuss your homes-not Romania, not Brooklyn, no," he stated, visibly getting antsy. The man reached in the sack-grabbing a book. A red book. The Archangel began struggling against the restraints, the electric shock now gone. They didn't budge, but she didn't stop. "Your struggle is futile, Archangel. For the moment, at least," the man told her, voice somewhat pitying. She only snarled in response, kicking harder.

"I mean, your real home," the man resumed, taking off the moon spectacles. He rose, the red book in hand. James still hadn't seen the book-but she had. The Archangel let out a cry of pain as a jolting pain went up her leg after a particularly strong kick-but she didn't want to be turned to her cold self, who she was when the person said the last word, a soldier who had no room for thinking if she had a name, if she had ever known a man with sharp features and blue eyes. But, as the Soldier had said-she never got a choice.

"Longing."

"No," Bucky whispered, tilting his head back. She flexed her hands, hoping that the light blue energy would stream out, and she could stop this-Stop him from hurting her Soldier, because he didn't deserve it. She knew it, deep in her core, that James Buchanan Barnes never deserved a damn bit of what Hydra had done to him-but she was only now realizing it.

"Rusted."

The Archangel would have doubled over if she could, her brain slowly wiping away everything from before-turning into a machine programmed for chaos, death, gunshots- "Stop," Bucky whispered, voice pained as hers would have been if she could speak. They had been programmed with the same words-she never knew why, as she wasn't a Winter Soldier, not like Bucky was-but she was experiencing what he was.

"Seventeen."

She groaned, tears pricking the corners of her eyes. She didn't what to lose what she had found-what those words would make her, she would shoot even Jelly if her handler said so, without a second thought-she didn't want to lose Steven, who had helped her think for herself, or James,Bucky, who was a person who cared about her because she didn't care about herself.

Bucky's metal hand made a whirring noise as he clenched it into a fist. "Stop," he pleaded again, voice louder. "Please," the Archangel whispered, voice barely audible.

"Longing."

Bucky writhed in the seat, struggling to break free. The Archangel tugged again, so hard, she felt her wrist pop out of place. A pained scream escaped, colliding with Bucky's own pleas for the man to stop. The two screamed in unison, the woman throwing her head back against the metal chair. She screwed her eyes shut, pain appearing in places she didn't even know could hurt as she violently struggled to gain control of her body. She could hear the snap as Bucky freed himself from the restraints, with a loud, frustrated grunt. Mustering all the force she could, despite the liquid fire in her veins, she tried again, the pain fading into the background as a stream of blue energy completely destroyed the cuffs on both her arms and knees.

"Nine."

The Archangel shot blue energy at the glass; once, twice, three times. Finally, she resorted to her brute strength, driving her fist into the door repeatedly. She could feel the blood seeping from her knuckles, only to disappear as she drew her arm back again.

"Benign!"

The Archangel screamed, screamed as if she was being stabbed to death. Lines appeared in the glass, which only drove the man with the book further away. She was losing the battle, very, very quickly.

Bucky punched the glass, a repetitive smashing sound as he let out something between a grunt and yell as the metal prosthetic came in contact with the clear barrier. The state of the Archangel's capsule was similar; although, the smashed in glass was stained with vivid blood.

"Homecoming!"

The woman yelled in frustration in pain as she started kicking at the glass, the shock climbing up her leg and making her stumble back in the confined space. The blood travelled down her forearm, dripping off her elbow onto the ground. Her eyes were watery, leaving her vision blurred so that she could only see the two other forms in the dark with her-

"One!"

Bucky rammed his fist into [@/nicole dont u dare] the glass again, the pained, wild noises only growing louder. His mind was slowly pushing him-him, which wasn't actually him, because who he was now consisted of people, Steve, the Archangel, Victoria, even T'Challa, and now the man trying to take it all away. He brought his fist back, before sending it flying into the capsule wall again.

"Freight car!"

Silence. Both doors had succumbed, lying at the two dark-haired people's feet.

A man with the face of James Barnes rose-fists clenched, eyes cold and hooded. A woman with the face of a woman long forgotten by only but two rose as well, eyes no longer brown. They were as cold as the tundra, as bright as a Siberian husky's. They were unnaturally blue, and impossibly cold. Both stood, faces wiped and hidden. The man with the red book in hand strode closer, standing tauntingly close to the two killers.

"Солдаты?"

"Ready to comply."

"Mission report, December 16th, 1991."

A/N
First of all, I'm crying as hard as the rest of you lot.

Second, yes, there is something actually important! This book will NOT be very long, and im def not waiting 2 years to write a sequel. So, what comes next? A prequel! I need some help with the title and one other thing:

It'll last the length of TFA-TWS, so should i make it one book altogether, or two?

ANways, that was all, and now im gonna go bury myself