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Sam Wilson | late 30s-ish

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[bracchium]

[The Soldier grunts and struggles to move, eyes fixed on where his other handler disappeared. He needs to do something and he can't and that frustration builds the longer he's rooted in place. Behind closed doors, he feels that pull, the sensation of being dragged to his feet and then-

And then it's as if the chains are released. His feet move and he immediately puts space between them, shaking his buzzing head. No. Not a person. Doesn't-

He blinks up in Sam's direction, confused. No this is-

A rewriting of a handler? He's-

Is there a protocol for this? He can't remember. Snow wraps around the exposed gears, freezes the changes in place. Underneath the gears a large jade slate emerges from the snow, covered in names, including Sam's and Rumlow's. However Rumlow's slowly chips away, flakes into dust.

No, he doesn't want to lose any more pieces of himself. Don't-]

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[ The palms of his hands burn a little, a byproduct of the fact that his symbiote ability can feel his broodmate hurting and has no outlet save for collecting in the spot he normally releases it from. He wants so fucking badly to reach in there and scratch every single one of those names off, burn out everyone who ever thought Bucky was a thing to be controlled and not a person to be loved.

They'd known that this was going to write Sam deeper into the programming, that it'd twist them up more together - and hell, he's already experienced how much he's opened himself up to the programming trying to circumvent it, how he can feel the ice at the base of his skull and hear the static filled whispers of something he never should have touched.

Seeing his name written in there still makes him want to recoil, and the way he can feel Bucky's don't almost makes him just abort the hell out of this - except for the danger they're in here, and that pulling out and shutting down so suddenly like that is not gonna end up anywhere good.

And he thinks he knows what Bucky's really worried about. He remembers the sense of dread that'd come the last time they did this, when he expected to have his memories burned away. There was a hell of a lot that'd surfaced when that didn't happen, and Sam's honestly not sure if either of them are really able to handle any more memories that might come back right now, but that doesn't matter. He won't ever take Bucky's memories from him.

He stretches out again, sweeping through the gears until he finds the right ones, the places that glow a little with their brood bond and the changes they'd made last time - and breathes some life into them, shores them up a little stronger.

Your memories are your own, it's okay to remember. ]

You don't have to forget him. But he has no power over you. His orders mean nothing.

[bracchium]

[As each letter of Rumlow's name flakes away one by one, the snow builds around them in heaps. Bucky expects a rough pair of hands to shove him into a humming chair, the programming binds him, makes him docile. Whatever his handler commands he will do. However, no such orders arrive. He stares up at Sam, his blue eyes wide and, for a moment, unseeing as changes take hold under the surface. But as the last syllable of Rumlow's name falls into the snow, his vision clears and the remnants of the storm brush away.

He knows this feeling, waking up with no memories, with no idea of what he's done, who he's hurt. He wants to run, to get away from this sensation, but he doesn't know where to go, where he is.

Something happened, but he can't remember.]

Where am I? [He asks in Russian. He thinks his handler might know more.]

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[ continued here for AC purposes, since journal inboxes don't count anymore! ]