#long form

I did make an edit without Annabelle and Butch's names on their guns but I also headcannon that they'd have each other's names or initials embossed [idk what the correct word is here for putting letters into metal] BUT they'd definitely have an A and a B engraved [ ENGRAVED IS THE WORD] on the bit of their gun just above the trigger where their thumbs could brush over the letters

Anyways, i love them your honour....

[Please don't repost my work without permission...I worked so very hard on this]

The hallways seem brighter than Bucky remembers, and the doors are more spread out. He keeps track of them, looking for a repeating pattern, and he knows this place loops like an interwoven maze. It should also divide somewhere, breaking off into two other hallways. The Soldier will be in here, pacing, walking, in his own version of hell. Did he even know that time had passed? That he was stuck in a never-ending prison. 

Bucky comes to the juncture and sees him, not fully, just a flash of movement. He knew Bucky was here and was avoiding him, while continuing to watch him. An intruder in the lion's domain. Sighing, Bucky stops. There was no point chasing the Soldier or trying to get him to stop. He had to let the Soldier come to him. 

“Look, I know, this is weird. Really, really, weird. But I would like to talk to you, maybe we can-” Bucky sighs and slumps onto the floor. “We share the same brain. I am in a coma, but I don’t feel like it’s a coma.”

Around a corner, the Soldier stands; he looks like Bucky, but younger. The same face from when he had fallen off the train, his hair long, dark, and unkempt. The metal arm he wore was one of the first designs; it was loud and clunky, and the fingers didn’t move well. It was also heavy; Bucky could see the way he leaned as he moved. The Soldier blinked at him and then disappeared. This happened several times; he would come from a different direction, always quiet, nearly undetectable. Still, they were the same person, and Bucky often spotted him first.

“You can keep watching me,” Bucky calls out, “I am you, and you are me, or something. I think it's okay. to talk” 

The Soldier appears and stands in front of him, blue eyes shining from behind the black, smudged paint spread across his eyes. It was hard to get a read on him like this. Bucky watches him, interested in how he doesn’t bother to hide now. Pacing just out of reach, but never letting his eyes leave where Bucky sits.

“I am not good at talking,” Bucky sighs, “Your name is James Buchanan Barnes. From New York, Brooklyn, to be exact. Our best friend is Steve Rogers, though you might not recognize him anymore. The guy almost puts us to shame, though I think he holds back.”

He stops and leans against the wall, arms crossed, face still blank. Bucky clicks his tongue and debates whether to keep going or not. Did this matter? Was this actually going to help? He was in a goddamn coma, being worked on by Shuri. At least he hoped that was what was happening. His brain was still scrambled, and he didn’t remember what it had been like in the crypods.

“You’ve been in here for a few years now,” Bucky fiddles with the edge of his shirt. “Steve got me out, and Doc, well, she kept us out. Got us here, she is probably the best thing to happen to us.”

The man slid down the wall, his hand coming up and touching the mask on his face. Shoulders sagging as he stares down at the worn tactical boots. The metal arm whirs and grinds; it sounds so uncomfortable. Bucky knew it was uncomfortable.

Bucky doesn't move, but gestures at the arm. “That comes off you know. If you twist it counterclockwise, it will click, then pull down and turn back clockwise, it will slide off.”

There is silence for a moment, the Soldier just stares. Bucky shrugs; he wasn't going to try to make him do anything. He was already trapped here, Bucky wasn’t even sure he could touch him. Then the man moved, carefully doing what he had been instructed to do. The arm popped off, and the man visibly sighed as it hit the ground with a loud thump. He rolled his shoulders, the bones cracking and popping with the lack of weight.

The Soldier had more of his original arm than Bucky had now. The amputation was just below his elbow. It hadn't held up over the years; the joint had slowly degraded. They'd kept it for as long as possible before shortening it. Bucky vividly remembered them doing surgery on it. They couldn't keep up the anesthesia with his metabolism, so they had resorted to chaining him to the table. Bucky had lost count of how many times they’d cut into him. 

“There's no handlers coming," Bucky keeps talking; he doesn't know why, just that it feels like the right thing to do. “Hydra, well, the Hydra we knew is gone. There is a woman, Shuri, who is helping us get free. I don't know how it all works, but after this, you and I won't be controlled anymore.”

The Soldier’s face clouds, hand rubbing at the mask again. It was always uncomfortable, a muzzle, a guard, and yet he kept it on. Bucky could still feel the edges of the mask, how it dug into his skin. Often leaving deep grooves where it had been left in place.

“You can take the muzzle off, promise.” Bucky tries to coax him. The man just sat watching, listening, waiting. “Do you know Doc? Feels weird calling her our girl, she can't be contained or owned. I don't think either of us would want that. When Ultron -”

The Soldier sat up straighter, his human hand clenched in a fist. Bucky half expected him to jump at him. Blue eyes filled with rage at the name, breathing coming in tight, controlled inhales. The man’s body had started to shake with anger. Head turning to look up and down the hallway like he was expecting Ultron to appear.

“Yeah, he was a piece of shit.” Bucky keeps going. “They say he's gone now, can't hurt her or us.”

The Soldier gives a curt nod at that. Relaxing slowly back against the wall. Eyes closing for a moment, as he gets his breath under control. It was interesting to see how upset he got at that.

“Is it ‘cause Ultron hurt her?” Bucky prods, already knowing the answer.

He nods and swallows, fingers going behind his head to take off the muzzle. There is a deep red indent from it, sitting so long on his face, the paint had seeped under it. Despite being younger, the man looked worn and weighed down by his stay here. 

“She doesn't blame us.” Bucky sighs, shaking his head. “She should. Should have stayed far away, but I don't think anything would have stopped her. If I told her to stay away, she would; she respects us. That would have probably been the end of me and you. Not sure how, but I've thought of a few ways.” More silences follow, the Soldier nods at the statements occasionally. “If we make it out of this, we've got to do it together, as a whole person. Make a life for ourselves here, or somewhere calm. Not just for us, but for her too.” Bucky quietly says your name. “However, that looks like. I just can't do it without you.”

The Soldier turns to look at Bucky and nods his head. He was listening to him and understood what was going on. That was more than Bucky could ask for.

You sat there in front of the tank, leg on a chair, brace on it, tablet in hand, watching the readings. If something changed, and you’d noted it down, diligent as ever. It had been almost five days since James had gone under, five days of watching, waiting, and wondering. Cortisol had stayed the same; catecholamine, vasopressin, and gonadotropin barely fluctuated. You had carefully researched all the levels, and Shuri had fed it into your tablet.

Yet, nothing had fluctuated above normal or indicated that James was aware of what was going on. Scientifically, he was in the unknown, a world between worlds. Anaesthetic awareness was not well understood, which left you still hoping he wouldn’t remember what was happening. You clung to that hope with all you had.

“You're going for surgery tomorrow,” Steve had come in, handing you something warm. “Aren’t you supposed to be destressing?”  

Sighing, you take a sip of tea, something herbal and fruity, “This is destressing for me.” 

Steve chuckles and drags a chair over to you, “He’s stable, responding well to treatment. Shuri couldn’t be happier with how things are going. He’s got over a dozen people watching him.”

Worrying at your lip, you close your tablet. “You’re right, Steve. I am here cause I know I am going to be in a bed for the next several days, and I am scared. Honestly terrified. I would rather wait right here until this is over. Till I know James will be okay."

“I could probably come up with some speech,” Steve crossed his arms and ankles, as he sat, “None of them would make you feel any better, or change that Buck is in a frozen tube.” He worries his lip. “You and I both know he won’t want you waiting. He would want you to go to surgery tomorrow and take care of yourself. Trust the people around you."

You nod, still not feeling certain, “I know. It’s this last little bit of control that I have, and I know I can say no, keep waiting.”

“Or you could let it go. It’s a new chapter, a new day, for both of you.” Steve continues, you hate how logical he is. “It’s hard to let go of control, but take it from someone who had to come to terms with a lot. It’s better to let go and to try and move forward.”

“Making me feel bad here, Steve,” You tease, trying to let yourself settle down and not burst into tears. He was right, James won’t want you sitting here.

“Also, selfishly, I could kind of use both of you on my team.” Steve sighs, leaning back in his chair.

“Not sure how much we can help you, considering we are all on lockdown. Enders are still out, Zemo is in a black site box, people are dying, and the Avengers are handcuffed.” You continue, the two of you had already thoroughly discussed all of this. It was stressful, and the international governments didn’t want any extra problems. “On top of that, there is an insurgency of alien activities all over the planet, and we have no idea why.”

Steve nods, “Wanda and Vision haven’t been in contact, our two most powerful allies, in hiding. Tony keeps going on these tours like he’s dying. Man donated almost a billion dollars in the last few months.”

“So, what do we do?” You lean back and look at him.

“We keep going, keep living,” Steve explains like it’s a simple. “Carve out lives for ourselves, while helping those who want help. Whatever that looks like. I thought I wasn't doing speeches?"

A snort leaves you, as you turn back to look at James.“You're good at it, Steve. Help me keep me level headed while I feel like I keep rehashing the same thing,”

Reaching up, you touch the glass, wishing so badly that you could talk to James. It didn’t feel right leaving him here, knowing that you won’t be able to see him. 

“That’s why I am here,” Steve grins, patting your shoulder. “Can run all the thoughts by me as much as you want. And I will make sure you stay grounded and actually go to your surgery tomorrow. Or I will have to wake up Buck, and he will tell you.”

“Fineeee,” You whine a little, a small smile crossing both your faces, “I will. I am going. I promised James, and you, and Shuri. No putting it off, tomorrow.”

“You got this, Doc.” Steve squeezes your shoulder. “This is going to be over before we know it.”

Watching your own surgery was surreal. You had seen and been a part of hundreds of surgeries, but this was different. For one, you could feel what was happening, see how the robotic arms moved, and push at your own knee. Watch as your own body is slowly opened up and exposed for them to access. They had set up a screen so that you could see a closer view of what was going on. The cuts were a few centimeters for the arthroscopy to happen. Robotic hands operated by surgeons just beyond the plexiglass carefully cut and removed damaged tissue. The epidural made it so that you didn’t feel pain, but you could still feel the movements. 

Tugs and pulls, pressure that felt like it should hurt. Really, if you didn’t have the nerve block, it would. You knew this logically, and yet it was still wild to see. Just behind you, an anesthesiologist watched everything carefully. If you felt uncomfortable or like you needed to be put fully under, they would do that. 

“The patella will be removed, and the bone on the femur and tibia will be reshaped.” Shuri gave you the details over a communication device in your ear as the arms moved. She had given you several videos of similar surgeries that had been performed in this room. It gave you a clear itinerary of how things would progress. 

Small pieces were carefully pulled from the slits. Skin was incredibly flexible, stretching just enough that pieces could slip through. It took precision and careful understanding of the body to know exactly how much stretch a cut had before it would tear. Each piece was placed on a tray as other arms moved in with grinders and a vacuum; they would work in tandem to make sure no sliver was left. The tools moved with amazing precision. 

“Once the area is clear of damaged tissue, we will place nano-implants that will place exact amounts of antibiotics into the wound,” Shuri explained as you watch tiny microscopic pieces be placed inside the wound. “As well as similar ones that will help with pain and inflammation management.”

The camera zoomed in, and you watched as they opened up several small pieces of muscle to place the implants inside. They won’t even need to stitch them up, as the wounds started to heal almost immediately. Your mouth falls open as you watch them place each tiny capsule. Over time, they would release the antibiotics, then degrade and be eaten by your immune system in a little over a week. Lowering your chances of getting an infection by over seventy percent. It would make the healing process much easier.

“Next, we will be drilling into bone, creating a space for the new bone to grow into. This will be for both the femur and the tibia. Then we will carefully put in the new pieces of bone.” Shuri continues, you watch on the screen and look down at your own knee. “Like two puzzle pieces, be perfectly aligned with each other.”

It’s hard to see anything from your vantage point. Arms carefully dab away the residual liquid that leaks out, the blood that occasionally pops up through the medication. Other hands operate suction, while some use retractors to make sure the wound stays open and accessible. Lights are moved and turned in different directions. Cameras spinning and showing inside and outside. It was a technical dance of epic proportions. Something that felt more like it belonged in a movie than here and now.

A small cart is pushed in, on it is all the new implant material, carefully placed in hermetically sealed packaging. Each piece had been printed mere hours ago. They had been printed out of your own genetic material. It was baffling. Dr. Helen Cho had explained it to you a dozen times, but it was still mind-boggling. They made sterile genetic proteins, and then injected them with your DNA and ran it through a printer that could make whatever they asked it to. No need for donors, you could have a new set of lungs printed and be ready to go in within a day. It was revolutionary. 

As these processes spread into the world, they would change everything. It would decrease the wait time for operations. Creating new specialities, equipment, tools, and new schooling. It made your head spin. People would have options, choices that could reshape their lives. Getting a joint replacement would no longer be a last resort; it would be something that could improve someone's life without lengthy recovery times. These surgeries would lower the number of amputations that happen. There was so much to consider. 

“We will now insert the bone pieces through the slots.” Shuri details as the robotic arm takes a piece and slides it inside, before there is an audible click. You just barely register the pressure of it before another is put in and clicked into place.

Over the next thirty minutes, pieces are slid in. A bonding agent was injected, welding the bone to new bone. Creating a callus that would speed up healing. There would be no meta hardware, screws, or rods placed. Just bone. Your bone. Strong and new. As if your own body had regrown the pieces itself. 

“Injections will be placed in the articular cartilage, near the patella, synovial membrane, and both medial and lateral meniscus. This will help regrow the damaged soft tissue and make sure all the cushion, meniscus, etc, that has been missing is now regrown.” Shuri’s voice comes over the speaker. 

That was a whole other thing, regrowing soft tissues that often wore away with age. Meaning less pain, less wear. You had to stop yourself from shaking with excitement. The more you learned, the more you wanted to study it. Then share it with anyone you can. Shuri and Dr. Cho had both agreed to make it free to anyone, they’d hold the patent, and make sure that no one could put a price tag on it. 

A needle is put in the slit, and you can actually feel the liquid being pushed in between the joints. It was a weird feeling, not painful, but warm and tingly. There were dozens placed, the camera directing exactly where they had to go. As they did that, the actual patella packaging was opened up. It was the next piece to be slid inside. The cut was widened by just a further centimeter. The patella was printed so that it was soft, flexible cartilage, making it easier to place than fully hardened bone. It was similar to the bone implants and injections; they would solidify and heal over the next week. 

Through the next hour, they finish installing the patella, gluing things into place, and implanting more antibiotic and pain-killing nanos. They carefully started to stitch up from the inside out. Muscles and veins were carefully grafted back together. Muscle and skin tissue are layered perfectly over one another. The scarring would be almost invisible. Pure craftsmanship.

“This is amazing,” You say out loud, a little giddy, but making sure not to move your body. “The robotics, printed materials, and how it’s installed. Wow. Well done, to everyone.”

You aren’t sure how long you sit there, watching as they finish up. The leg is swollen, but not nearly as much as it could be. It would continue to swell for the next couple of days, and there would be pain and other issues. There were two small drains attached to keep fluid down and help speed up healing. Doctors, nurses, and techs come in and begin to remove instruments, dressings, and other equipment. Shuri came in beaming, as always, so enthusiastic that it was infectious.

“Doc, what did you think?” She asks as the nurses help move you onto your gurney. “It went very smoothly, nothing of note. The damage that we expected to see was what was there. We will be doing scans in a week to see how the bones are bonding. That said, we aren’t expecting any issues.”

Reaching out, you gently take Shuri’s hand, squeezing it. “Thank you, Shuri, for giving me my life back.”

She grins, “Let's get you through rehab, and your boyfriend awake, then you can thank me.”

The Soldier now sat beside Bucky, still out of reach, not that either of them had weapons. Bucky wasn’t sure he could fight the kid. Could you fight yourself? The idea alone made his stomach twist; he barely remembered being that age. He had so many questions, but the man won’t talk to him. Nod his head, shrug, grunt occasionally, that was it. 

“It’s a lot different outside now. This Accords thing has fucked us, Jesus. I kind of get it, a bunch of overpowered monkeys getting in the way of them making money. Upset the whole world order bullshit. We upset the world order.” Bucky is rambling; it’s weirdly therapeutic. Better than talking to any of the other over-stuffed therapists. “I know you won't reply, but I think we should try stepping away from fighting. All we've done is fight, got drafted, then Hydra, doesn't mean we won't fight again. Not sure what I'll do with myself. I really like the chickens and the goats. Never thought I’d have that.”

“Tired.” The Soldier's voice was rough, deep, and cracked from years of being in here unused. 

Bucky just stares at him for a moment. He'd actually spoken, after countless hours of Bucky talking about everything and anything, the Soldier had spoken. 

“Yeah. I think we are both tired.” Bucky replies, a deep part of him wants to give the man a hug. “Once this is done, and we don't have the words in our head anymore. Going to take time to actually rest. Spend time with our girl, that isn't just fighting and running.”

The whole place flickers. The lights go out, doors shuffle, floors blink in and out. Bucky goes from sitting beside the Soldier to standing in a completely different area. The walls are older here, soft paint and wallpaper. It smells like his and Steve's apartment building. He looks up and down, expecting to see something, anything. The Soldier has disappeared. Shit, where had he gone?

“Hey, uh, hello?” Bucky calls out, voice echoing around him.

Frustration built in his stomach as he tried to remember how the maze worked. The two sections the soldier had access to weren't connected to his. That was supposed to be changing; Shuri had talked about them merging together. His brain won't be split into two. There had been so many passages when Wanda and he had gone in. It was hard to even try to think where this was in the space of things. 

“Okay, there has to be a way.” Bucky bites at his lip. “This is my goddamn head. My brain. I need to find him.”

Rubbing at his face, he goes to the door and is surprised when it opens. He freezes. It's him, looking at the draft letter; his sister is in the background, tears flowing down her face. Bucky couldn't move, couldn't think, couldn't breathe. The gut punch hit him stronger than anything he could remember. Could feel his hands start to tremble, his heart racing; it was a nightmare. The younger version of him turned.

“This is it, isn't it?” Younger Bucky says. “We never come back home. They're all dead now, everyone.”

It's enough to snap him out of his stupor and move. The door closes with a click, tears running down Bucky's face. They burn, all this felt so real, too damn real. Wiping at his face, he had to prepare himself for this; the doors are memories. At least that’s what Bucky thought they were. Each one would hold unknown horrors that he would have to face.  Relived,

The next doors are similar, all from the apartment building. Some family, some with Steve, some with friends he had forgotten. Every single one felt real. It was as if he was experiencing every one of them for the first time. Feeling the horror, the shame, and the sadness. Some he could close faster than others. The trick was to close the door before it started, otherwise, he'd have to wait for a trigger to jerk him out of it.

Finally, he opened a door, and it was a new hallway; he almost shut it out of habit. Then he looked, really looking, it sloped slightly upwards. The doors were different, a new loop of the maze. No more apartments, this would be something different. Bucky's shoulders sag. There were hundreds of these loops. Would he be able to find the Soldier? The other half of him had become a comfort, something that wasn't just empty hallways and memories shut behind doors. It felt vital for him to find him, to rejoin him, to try and reconnect with each other. 

“Okay, brain, mind,” Bucky spoke out loud. “Let's try something. I want to get back to where the Soldier is. To do that, I am going to close this door, then re-open it, and the hallway for him will be here?”

It seemed like a stupid idea. Maybe it was, but he needed to try something. Wandering around here for who knows how long, alone, filled him with dread. This was what the Soldier had been trapped in. An endless corridor that he had walked for years. Alone. He'd been so alone for so long. 

Bucky closed the door, took a deep breath, and he focused on remembering the corridor that the Soldier had been in. Remembering what he looked like, how it felt, that was where he wanted to go. When the door opened, that was where he'd be. It had to work. This was Bucky’s mind. No one else's. 

Opening the door, Bucky’s stomach dropped. This corridor was concrete, bathed in blue light, cold like snow. It was one of the Hydra bases in Siberia. 

“No.” Bucky's voice shook. “I am not going in there.” 

His feet moved without his say, body shuffling forward like a pawn piece. Bucky struggled trying to reach for the door, only to find the same corridor behind him. Shocked, he looked around, noting the heavy steel doors. He'd have to open them. Relive whatever terrible memory awaited behind them. There wasn't a way around it now; one of these doors would open to another hallway. One that might hold the fractured part of his mind that had survived this. 

“Fuck,” Bucky whispered to no one, feeling frozen in place. “Fuck all of this.”

The first three doors weren’t as shocking as he was expecting them to be. Him in the chair, one of many chairs, going through the routine he had gone through more often than not. It wasn’t shocking. Instead of anger, Bucky felt sadness. He was a kid when this happened; that part of his mind was trapped in here. Moving around the same corridors over and over. Did the Soldier ever see these memories? Experience them without understanding what was happening. 

The fourth door opens, and Alexander Pierce is standing on the other side, looking directly at Bucky. There is no time to close the door; his body is dragged inside the room without his say. The door slammed shut and melted into the metal paneling. 

“Look at you,” Pierce drawls, his voice feels warm, familiar. It slams ice into Bucky’s chest. “You’ve grown. Is that even possible? Didn’t think you could get any bigger.” 

Bucky can’t move as Pierce circles him, looking him up and down like a prized dog. He stops just inches from Bucky’s face, and for the first time, Bucky is looking down at him. Shaking, he tries his best to back away from him, to move, anywhere. Fighting him didn’t even cross his mind; this man had always had him under control. Never having needed to use the words. Just his presence made Bucky submit. It had been beaten into him to the point that it was now instinct. 

“You have grown, wider too, look like a bull,” Pierce chuckles, patting him on the shoulder. His hand was firm, solid, real. “Tell me, what have they been feeding you these days?” 

“You're in my head,” Bucky finally says. Pierce looks taken aback, snorting.

“I am real, son.” Pierce gives him a small smirk. “Flesh and blood. Without me, you won’t even be here.”

“This is my mind, my memory, I am just remembering how you would have acted,” Bucky says, his voice louder this time. Fingers twitching out of the hold his own mind had on him. “You’re not real. Not alive. Fury killed you.” 

Pierce lets out a myrthless chuckle, “Fury? You didn’t have the balls to do it yourself?” He clicks his tongue. “That’s a real shame. I always wondered which one of us would end up living longer.”

Bucky swallows, feeling his finger move again; if he could do that, he could get out. This was his mind, his, no one else’s. Pierce was dead, had been for a long time now. He needed to get out of here; letting Pierce live in his mind was only going to do more damage. 

“I am done with you,” Bucky says, voice getting louder and louder. “You don’t control me anymore.”

“You sure about that-”

“Get out,” Bucky says, lifting his hands and pushing against Pierce with all of his might.

The man’s eyes go wide as he falls back. The floor disappears behind him; he starts to fall into the blackness of nothing. The man’s arms reach up, trying to grab at Bucky as he tumbles away. Standing there, Bucky watches as the man disappears in front of him. Pierce was no more. Bucky blinks, realizing that tears have fallen again. That man, who had tortured, brainwashed, and manipulated him for decades, was gone. 

The light in the room was low, and the monitor near you beeped rhythmically with your own heart. You squint a little, shifting against the cot. A twinge in your knee made you freeze; looking down, you could see two drains coming out of your knees. Your IV port itched; that was new. It was in a different arm than before.

“Glad to see you’re awake,” Steve says, making you jump. He was sitting to your right with his sketch book in hand. 

You blink a few times, epidural or not, you were still wiped after the surgery. The painkillers were doing their job and made you feel like you had three drinks too many. 

“Stevie,” You cough out the words, it was much harder to talk than you expected. 

Steve moved quickly to grab some water for you. Taking it, you carefully sip it, surprised by how much of a cotton mouth you have. Groaning, you swallow a few times and cough again, trying to clear your throat. Steve stands close by, forehead furrowed. 

“They have your pain meds on a timer, but mentioned that it could be increased if you're hurting,” Steve explained, already looking at the door. 

You wave a hand, “I am okay, just really bad dry mouth. How long was I out for?”

Looking down at his watch, “Since you came out of surgery. One day, and eight hours.”

Shock hit your chest, “I was out for over a day?”

“Well, you were sort of in and out of consciousness. Last time you were up was about eight hours ago. You had a reaction to the pain meds, they had to remove some of those implants, and set you up with a new IV. Made you a bit loopy,” Steve explains, going over to the wall and hitting the call button by the door. 

“Damnit.” You curse, before pondering trying to get out of bed. Even with the pain meds, you could feel how your knee throbbed. “Was hoping there wouldn’t be any side effects.”

Steve leans against the side of your bed, making sure you’re looking at him. “Buck is fine. Don't even think about getting out of bed. He had some levels elevated, but Shuri’s team got it under control. She's been moving her algorithm along.” He reaches down and produces your tablet.

“What levels were elevated?” You go to ask as the door opens, a nurse comes in. Not giving you time to open up the device. 

He comes over, hands moving over a clear tablet. Quickly spouting out your levels, before going over to the wall, he looks at your IV. Carefully taping away at a screen and adjusting a couple of knobs.

“How are you feeling? He asks, a name tag was on his shirt, but your eyes couldn't focus on it.  

“Umm, okay. My eyes are a little out of focus, and I am hungry.” You reply, your knee was a dull throb, but not enough to increase the pain meds. 

The nurse moves to pull out a pen light, “I am going to get you to look at the light.”

You do as he asks, following the light, then his finger. Blinking several times, you gently rub at your eyelids. It was slightly less blurry than before, but still not clear. 

“I am not seeing anything concerning, but I am going to note it on your chart. If it’s still bothering you, we'll follow up with an optometrist.” He says, clicking away on the tablet quickly. “Do you need an increase in the pain meds?” 

“No, I think I am fine.” You really can only think of James right now; you need to take a look at the tablet. Find out what had been going on while you had been asleep.

“Well, why don’t we see how you are putting weight on the joint?” The nurse holds out his hand. 

That makes you hesitate; you knew this was part of the recovery process, but it was also terrifying. It had been operated on just over twenty-four hours ago. 

“Okay, I didn’t get your name,” You reply as Steve and the nurse help you sit at the edge of the bed. 

“Kona,” He replies, grabbing a walker and bringing it over. “Nurse Kona.”

“Thank you, Kona,” You reply, taking a breath as you reach for the walker. 

It’s sturdy, with rubber handles, already adjusted to your size. You wonder if you’d walked before and had forgotten. Kona steps to your side, letting you dictate the pace. It feels unreal to be pushing yourself to stand, pain flares around the edges as your socked foot hits the cool floor. You lean heavily on the handles, your toes flexing as you try to carefully put weight onto the joint. It holds. 

“There you go, a lot better than earlier,” Kona confirms your own thoughts. “Let's try to shuffle a little, be good if you could get to the toilet.”

Steve keeps guard on your other side. Between the two men, there was a very slim chance of you buckling. Taking several breaths, you shuffle forward. It hurts, but not as badly as you thought it might. You can feel how heavy the joint is, the weight of the fluid, and the pull of the small stitches. To your surprise, you take several steps before needing to take a break. 

“Nicely done,” Kona praises, letting you lean heavily on the walker. “Three more steps, and you can use the facilities however you like.”

You chuckle at that, looking up and focusing on the door to the bathroom. It takes multiple sets of steps and several more pauses, but you make it to the toilet. A small wave of pride flows over you. 

“Alright, now that you’re moving around some. Tomorrow you’ll get fitted for a brace, and a physiotherapist will come with a program for you.” Koana replies as he helps you sit on the toilet. “We will try to get you moving every few hours, watch for swelling, discomfort. There is no need to tough this out, Doc. I know you and your stubbornness.”

Steve huffs, “Glad I am not the only one who knows.”

Kona smiles, “Between the two of us, we will make sure your pain levels are under control. I know you haven’t reacted well to them, but we have many options, and these seem to work without knocking you out.”

“Thank you,” You reply, trying to relax, despite sitting on a toilet in front of both of them. “Could I get a second?”

“Yes, of course. Just be outside.” Kona replies, Steve backing away slowly. 

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Fear settled in your chest. Suddenly, you could not remember anything at all, those faces from your dreams flying away as if on a breeze.

“Not good, not good.”

You tried to breathe; something—everything—felt off, wrong—unable to feel anything below your waist. Your thoughts were a jumble of incomprehensible nonsense, as if drugged.

“Don’t panic—”

You wondered if he was talking to you or to himself. You squinted your eyes; the light, which you realized was artificial, was so bright that it made it difficult to see.

“Time to go back to sleep,” came a monotone drawl. Something pricked your arm. You struggled to turn your head, wanting to look, to witness where it was you were, what was happening to you—your anxiety building as whatever had been injected into you took hold.

“That’s a good patient,” the man said. Or at least you thought it was a man—his head was large and oddly shaped, though what little vision you had was beginning to blur.

“Patient?” you thought, just as you started to drift once more, wondering if you should be worried—wondering just who or what was here in the room with you.

Ultimately, you gave in, slipping back into a deep, painless sleep. The doctor attending to you had administered another dose of carefully curated anesthesia, giving himself a figurative pat on the back—he was thankful that Grievous wasn’t here to see this.

“That was close,” the droid said out loud, diving right back into his work—he was almost done, although your leg would have to wait.

---

An indeterminate amount of time passed. You slept—possibly for days, maybe weeks—oblivious to everything except a faint sound in the distance: the rhythmic beeping of machinery. Medical equipment, most likely—the only thing keeping you company as you wandered in and out of consciousness.

Then, one day, you woke up. You were greeted by a dismal ceiling, gray like the rest of your surroundings, and by the sight of yourself lying on a bed. You rested beneath crisp white sheets, your arms outstretched on either side of your prone form. For a moment, you did not move—only breathed—as you searched your thoughts, your mind, for any recollection of why you might be here.

Nothing. Everything felt unfamiliar, foreign. You couldn’t believe you'd ever seen this place before.

Was this a hospital? you wondered, glancing to the side. You were hooked up to all manner of things—diodes blinking in unison, red ones, green ones—wires everywhere, some even protruding from your body.

That’s when fear set in, slowly at first, increasing the longer and longer you sat there, staring at nothing but what appeared to be solid duracrete walls.

There were no viewports, no other people. You felt utterly alone, the increase in your heart rate easily apparent as your BPM was put on full display by the monitor next to your bed. You tried to call out, to utilize your voice, though it cracked as your throat was dry, your pathetic “h-hello?” barely heard, even by yourself.

The lights were off; everything was far too dim, though you knew your eyes would soon adjust.

You had no way to tell time; there was no chronometer to be found. Was it day, night?

You tried to lift your arm and realized you were shackled. For what purpose, you didn’t know. You attempted to dislodge your wrists by jangling them, but you were still too weak, too tired to make any sort of progress—not that you could have, either way.

“Hello?” you tried again, your voice only a mite stronger, still sounding unlike yourself, as if you had not spoken in years.

There was no response to your query, nothing stirred. Though terrified, you scanned your surroundings with your eyes, your gaze coming to rest at your feet—foot.

You balked, your jaw dropping as your chin began to tremble. You curled your fingers, incrementally pulling the sheet upward, slowly lifting it from off your leg.

Part of it was missing, just below the knee. You shrieked, nearing hysterics, trying to focus on your breath as you gasped for air, unable to fully comprehend what you were seeing.

“He-help!” you cried, this time louder and with more surety, sitting up as high as you could.

You leaned forward, full-blown panic having consumed every thought. You tugged at your restraints to no avail, still hardly able to believe you were now an amputee—how had this happened?

You realized you remembered nothing—nothing before waking up in this very room.

You stopped your struggling almost as soon as it had begun; the sheet had fallen from your upper body, drifting down to rest below your waist, onto your lap. You were naked, save for a cloth of some kind binding your breasts. But that was not what disturbed you most—your abdomen was open. You could see through it, down into it—where your intestines and stomach should have been were electronic parts: prosthetic organs, wires, tubing—all neatly organized and arranged.