#winter solider program

November 2nd, 2026, Dominican Republic

She lived on the outskirts of Manabao, Jarabacoa, near La Ciénaga. Her property was nestled deep in the mountains, with only a handful of houses nearby. The winding dirt road that led to her home was entirely private—a feature that gave her a false sense of security.

It was nearly midnight when Rose arrived home. She parked her motorcycle in the garage and headed straight for the shower. After nearly a week in the field—surviving on wet wipes and way too much perfume—she needed to stand under hot water long enough to feel human again. As the steam filled the bathroom, and she brushed through her damp hair, a quiet restlessness began to settle in. She was going to see Jack, her son, for the first time in a week.

In the kitchen, she poured herself a glass of red wine and turned on Ella Fitzgerald. Humming along, she began to prepare Jack’s favourite meal—mac and cheese with roasted chicken. These peaceful rituals, like the remote location, were part of the illusion of safety she allowed herself. But underneath that calm, the fear always lingered. A part of her half-expected a grenade to crash through the open window and reduce everything to rubble.

She knew there was no real danger. She’d done her sweep: the first gate, the perimeter fence, the hidden cameras linked to the small surveillance hub in her study. But the intrusive thoughts came anyway—part of the mental residue she brought home after spending seven days in the desert surrounded by hitmen and sandstorms. It was the price of being a CIA field operative.

Rose exhaled slowly. She was tired, but Jack’s dinner wasn’t going to make itself. After finishing the meal, she cleaned her gear, taking special care with the tools of her trade. Hidden behind the sofa in her study was a secret panel leading to a small tech room, where she stored her computers, weaponry, and surveillance screens. She set down little Peggy II—a battle-worn Getac B360 that had taken a bullet in South Sudan. Tomorrow, while Jack slept, she’d transfer all the intel and lay Peggy II to rest.

That night, she took three Ambien and prayed for a nightmare-free sleep. She slept deeply, but some dreams still dragged her back to Siberia. To the cold. To the screams. And worst of all, to his face—twisted in pain and rage.

In the dream, she saw the snow falling again, slow and silent, like ash. She felt the sting of the chains biting into her wrists. Metal on skin. Blood on snow. And then—his hands, bruised and trembling, brushing against hers in the dark. There had been a moment, barely a breath between missions, when everything else had disappeared. The war. The orders. The voices in their heads. Just the warmth of his forehead pressed to hers in a corridor lined with frost, his breath misting between them. He’d looked at her like he remembered who he was. Who she was.

But the memory always fractured—splintered by alarms, by blinding lights, by the sound of someone being dragged down a hallway.

She turned away from it in her sleep, mumbling something incoherent. Her body, though motionless, flinched as if resisting the pull of something long gone.

And then his face again, not as it had been in the cold—feral, hurting—but how she remembered him after it all. After the silence between missions. After the Winter.

The next morning, Rose hopped in her Jeep and took off down the narrow jungle road. Jack’s boarding school let out at noon, giving her just enough time to make it and surprise him with a cold Coke and a tiny car keychain she’d picked up at the airport.

Sending Jack to a boarding school was the compromise she’d made between motherhood and espionage. It came with its share of awkward encounters—especially from teachers who liked to play amateur detective. Like Ms. Reyes.

When Rose arrived, she checked in at reception and made her way to the first gate, where other parents were already waiting. The bell rang, and a swarm of children poured out.

She scanned the crowd for Jack but was intercepted by a woman in her late 30s or early 40s, her expression a mix of surprise and curiosity.

“Ms. McMillan!” Ms. Reyes exclaimed. “This is… unexpected!”

Rose tried to offer a polite smile. “I notified the school I’d be picking Jack up today. Is he not ready?”

“Oh, yes, yes—he’ll be out shortly. But I actually wanted to speak with you. About… some things Jack mentioned.”

Rose’s expression sharpened. “Is Jack okay?”

“He’s perfectly fine. But some of the things he said about you… about your work…”

“About me?” Rose blinked. “Jack doesn’t usually talk about me.”

“Well, Rose—he did mention—”

“Ms. McMillan.” she corrected coolly. Rose had zero patience for the faux-friendliness some people used to lower your guard. She wasn’t here to bond with Jack’s teacher—she just wanted to know what the hell was going on.

“Ms. McMillan.” Reyes corrected herself, awkwardly. “Can I ask what line of work you’re in?”

“Did Jack ask you to?”

“No… not exactly. He just said you work a lot. And…”

“Well, if he knows his mum works hard to provide for him, I don’t see why that should keep you up at night.”

“It’s just—other parents have started to question it, too.”

“Other parents?” Rose’s tone hardened. “I don’t even know the other parents.”

“Well…”

“MOMMY!” Jack’s voice cut through the tension. Rose turned and saw him sprinting toward her.

“I came to get my son, Ms. Reyes. That’s all. Have a good day.” She ended the conversation without another glance.

Jack threw himself into her arms, and she scooped him off the ground in a tight hug.

“You came!”

“Of course, baby. I’m here. Let’s go.”

On the drive home, they shared a Coke and sang Smash Mouth at the top of their lungs. Rose tried to catch up on every little detail of his week—his friends, his classes, what he loved, what annoyed him. She wanted to know it all.

“…and then Isabella started spitting her food.” Jack said between giggles.

“That’s kind of clever. Did you join in the prank?” Rose asked, amused.

“No… I just laughed a little.” Jack admitted, dropping his gaze. “I know it was mean, but she’s the one who put gum in my notebook last year. Remember?”

“I remember, love. We hate that girl.” Rose chuckled. “But also, laughing at someone getting picked on isn’t cool.”

“I know, Mommy. I swear I didn’t do anything!”

They ate lunch together and continued talking. Rose gave a few life lessons in between bites of chicken. Jack begged her to watch a movie before bed. She gave in, made popcorn, and let him choose.

When she returned with the bowl, she found him staring at the TV, wide-eyed.

“MOMMY, MOMMY!” he shouted. “It’s Captain America!”

“That’s not Captain America.” Rose muttered as she saw Sam Wilson giving a speech to a group of reporters.

“And look! It’s Bucky Barnes!”

Rose froze. James. His hair was shoulder-length again, and he was dressed in a sharp navy suit. He stood beside Wilson, stoic but composed. It didn’t surprise her that after Wilson’s speech, Bucky stepped forward to speak.

What did surprise her was what he said:

“…and that’s why I’m officially announcing my candidacy for United States Senator.”

“What the fuck?” Rose whispered, stunned.

“Whoa.” Jack breathed. His eyes sparkled with admiration. “Bucky Barnes is my favourite superhero.”

October 12th, 2017, Berlin, outskirts

The house had been empty for months. No signs of previous tenants. No personal items. The electricity barely worked, and the heating came and went like it had a mind of its own. But it had four walls, a lock that functioned most of the time, and no neighbours curious enough to poke around. That was all she needed.

It smelled of dust and damp plaster, and the silence inside was thick—unnatural. As if the air had swallowed every sound in grief.

She sat on the bare floor of the second bedroom, knees pulled to her chest, staring at the gun resting beside her like a sleeping dog. The only light came from a cracked window pane, moonlight cutting a sharp line across the dust-covered floor.

There was no bed. No chair. No mirror. The walls were blank, yet she could see the ghosts anyway.

She hadn’t slept in two days. She didn’t need to—not really—but her mind still asked for it. Like muscle memory. Like some part of her believed that, if she just rested enough, it might stop. The sounds. The flickers. The names.

James.

The name echoed in the back of her skull, painful and soft all at once. Like a wound trying to heal over a blade. James had made it out. He was free. He’d told her to run when she found him in Prague. He brought her back to her senses, brought her back to her unprogrammed mind, and she was able to tell him that they were looking for him, that she had been sent to bring him back. He told her to disappear. And she had.

They had agreed to meet again, but then James's face started appearing in all the newspapers, and she knew she had to hide even further. She prayed that he was okay, that he was still free. But freedom was a fragile thing. Thin as thread. It could fray at any moment, unravel into the nightmare they had tried so hard to escape.

She grabbed a pillow and a blanket—cheap, scratchy wool, taken from a shelter two nights ago. She settled down on the floor and decided to close her eyes. Her hand twitched. She reached for the gun, instinctively.

Steve’s POV

"She’s in there." Sam’s voice was low over the comms. Through Redwing, their droid, they could scan that there was a woman inside. They were parked two blocks away, shielded by an alleyway. Steve stared at the crumbling house. The windows were dark. Curtains drawn. Every inch of it screamed: Go away.

Steve sighed. "Any movement?"

"None. But she’s not going to like seeing you. Or me."

Steve nodded. He knew that.

They had crossed paths some time ago when she was still controlled by Hydra, and she had been sent to search for her partner. Like her, he and Sam had been in Germany searching for traces of Bucky. Upon their encounter, she had shot Sam directly to kill him and they had engaged in hand-to-hand combat. Like Bucky, the woman was a super soldier and possessed imposing strength.

Also, Bucky had warned him.

"She’s like me, Steve. Exactly like me. But she has been subjected to more electroshocks, often because of me. She is very careful. You remember how I was when I got out? Multiply that by fear."

He still remembered the look in Bucky´s eyes when he said her name. It had broken something in the quiet man—something fragile he usually kept tucked away.

"It's going to be hard to get her to trust you, or even reason with you. But do me a favour, pal. Find her, please. Tell her that I'm waiting for her. She needs help."

Steve adjusted the strap of his shield, jaw tight. "I’ll go in alone."

Ladda’s POV

She felt it before she heard it. A shift in the air. The creak of a floorboard. The tension in her spine snapped like wire. She was on her feet in an instant. Gun in hand. Barefoot. Silent. Her heart beat like a trapped animal inside her chest—unnecessary, but somehow always loud when danger was near.

The man in the hallway didn’t flinch when she aimed at his chest. But she flinched when she saw him.

"Steve Rogers" she said, her voice rough from disuse. "You're the last person I thought I'd see, you know?"

He raised both hands, stepping into the half-light of the hallway. "Is that a bad or good thing?"

"I don't know, it depends on you."

"I'll be quick. Bucky sent me to get you."

"I don't know anyone by that name," she said quickly.

"Ladda..."

She sighed and lowered her weapon, but not her guard. Her fingers remained tight around the grip. 

"No. Is he okay? Is he alive?"

"Yes, he sent me. He's getting better... and you can too."

The silence that followed was a blade. Her mind whirled, between memories, James's face, an explosion, bullets, and labored breathing. It was all too much. Steve, for his part, looked at her cautiously, while the woman seemed lost.

"Get out. I don't need your help.” she snapped. "You don’t belong here, Captain."

"I know. But he asked me to come."

At that, her jaw tightened. Her hand trembled, though not visibly. The effort to maintain composure took everything.

"He’s alive." Steve said gently. "He’s safe. He’s in Wakanda. He’s getting help, removing that programming that has been put in both of your heads. He asked me to find you. Said you needed the same."

Ladda didn’t lower the gun.

"I’m not like him, Rogers." she muttered. "I was never on the other side, Hydra was all I knew since I was recruited.” She explained. “I’m not worth saving."

"That’s not your decision."

She wanted to scream at him. Throw something. Pull the trigger and feel something real. But instead, she felt... cold. Because he looked at her the same way James had.

With hope. Hope she didn’t ask for. Hope that made her feel like she was drowning.

"I killed her." she said, eyes locked on him. "My handler. Shot her in the throat. No order. No trigger words. Just pure rage. I'd do it again if I could, the damn bitch deserved it."

Steve didn’t look shocked. He didn’t recoil.

Steve nodded slowly. "Sounds like you made a choice."

"I don’t want your absolution."

"I’m not offering that. Just a path with a little more peace, where they can no longer control you."

They stood there, frozen in the space between past and present. She had no idea what to do with the calm in his voice. The stillness in his eyes, and then Steve did something she didn’t expect. After a few minutes, he sat down on the floor. Right there in the hallway.

"What are you doing?" she snapped.

"I’m waiting." he said calmly, with a half smile. "For you to believe that you deserve better."

"I don’t. I've already told you. Besides... I'll just make Hydra come after me. They'll find us both. They've done it before, and it'll only bring us trouble.” She said, with tears in her eyes. “James doesn't deserve that.”

"And you do?” Steve ask her. 

“Yes, I deserve to die for everything I did.”

"They forced you, Ladda. Bucky... James told me they recruited you when you were just a young girl, that they trained you and filled your head with Soviet propaganda."

"I had a choice. They hadn't... erased my memories, at least not at that moment." Ladda sighed, resigned. "I thought... I thought I was giving back a fraction of what my country had done for me. But... I... God!" The girl clutched her chest in exasperation. "I didn't know... I... There was a time, after the serum, when I refused a mission, they just started torturing me. All those people I murdered, a part of me didn't want to do it!"

Steve approached her, and Ladda gripped the gun in her hands. The man raised his hands meekly.

"I'm sorry you had to go through all this" he said. "But there's a way you won't have to be forced to kill someone again."

"They'll come after me. We're their most valuable assets. Don't you understand?! They're everywhere!" She threw herself on the floor, frantic.

“Wakanda won't let anyone infiltrate the country. You and Bucky will be safe there."

She didn’t speak for a long time. Minutes passed. Maybe an hour. Her knees ached from standing. Her grip loosened around the gun. Every breath was shaky. But eventually, her fingers relaxed. The weapon dropped to the floor with a clatter that felt louder than thunder.

She slumped down against the wall. Silent.

"I’m scared." she whispered.

"I know." Steve said. "So was he."

“I'll be with you, Ladda. Besides, James is waiting for you there. He hasn't stopped asking about you, you know? You two have to face this together.”

"Even we have a forced compatibility, you know that, right? They chose me... to be his mate, to create more... soldiers. Biologically, I'm the perfect match for him." Ladda laughed sarcastically. "We clearly didn't know."

Steve felt a knot in his stomach. Bucky clearly hadn't told him this. He couldn't even imagine how terrible that would have been.

The ship hummed around her. Sleek and silent, almost alien in its precision. She sat beside a small porthole, the endless darkness of the sea far below them. Steve sat to her right. Sam to her left, quiet, but alert. 

"I'm sorry I shot you." She told Sam. 

"No problem, you're not the first Winter Soldier to try to kill me." He joked. 

They gave ber something to change into while they traveled to Wakanda. She wore one of the Wakandan cloaks given to guests—soft, weighted fabric that somehow made her feel smaller and safer all at once. Her fingers were clenched around the edge of the bench, knuckles pale.

"How much longer?" she asked quietly, eyes still on the water.

"An hour. Maybe less." Steve replied.

She nodded, lips pressed together. Her chest was tight.

Fear prickled at her like cold needles beneath her skin, but it wasn’t the same fear she’d known for years. Not the fear of control, of capture. This was something different. Anticipation. Dread. Longing.

She was going to see James again.

She hadn’t let herself imagine it. Hadn’t dared. But now the image bloomed in her mind: his face, calm and kind. Not as a weapon, not as Winter, not as a ghost.

James .

And for the first time in a long time, she allowed herself to hope that maybe—just maybe—she could be someone more than what they made her to be.

She didn’t speak again for the rest of the flight.

February 17th, 2027, Dominican Republic

Rose had changed her shirt three times. Then undone her hair, then put it back up. Then sat on the edge of the bed for fifteen full minutes, just staring at the floor.

This wasn’t nerves. It was resistance. She didn't want to go. But Nakia had insisted.

“You don't have to fall in love, Rose. You just have to remind yourself that you're allowed to be seen.” 

Rose wasn’t so sure about that.

The clock ticked past six. Jackson was already at Nakia’s house, eating fried plantains and, probably, laughing at something on TV. He had looked at her strangely before she left.

"Are you going somewhere fancy?" he’d asked, mouth half full with his favourite cereals.

“Not really. Just out for a little while.”

“Are you going out with Nakia?”

“No. You are silly. You, Toussaint and Nakia. Are you excited? 

“Yep, If you're not going with Nakia, who are you going with then?.

“With... someone else.”

He blinked. “A friend?”

She hesitated. “Sort of.”

He gave her that look—like he was trying to see something behind her eyes. The kind of inquisitive look that reminded her of the one his father used to give when he joked and wanted to get the truth or a lie out of her. But, Rose had learned to shield herself even from him. And, now, from her own son too.

“Okay.” he said finally. “But if you’re going to have an adventure, I wanna hear the whole story when you get back.”

Rose smiled, kissed his head. “Deal.”

She didn’t know how to explain that this wasn’t an adventure. It was an experiment in pretending to be someone else. Like in the old times. 

The drive to La Esquinita Bar, nestled in the curve of La Ciénaga’s coast, was quiet. She left the radio off. Thought about turning around. Thought about Jackson. Wondered if he was already asleep. Wondered if he’d ask more questions tomorrow.

Her mind wandered. Is Jackson brushing his teeth? Is he stalling bedtime again with that thing he does where he pretends to forget his pajamas? Was he still playing with Toussaint? Was he waiting for Nakia to tell him bedtime stories like she used to? 

What would she say to her son the next day? Rose assumed he'd tell her the truth; those light blue eyes were so intense she swore he was reading her mind. Just like James used to.

She cut the thought off. But too late. His name had landed. Heavy. Like it always did. And then, her mind drifted where she never wanted it to go.

James .

In Jackson’s laugh, low and bright, carrying the same rhythm that used to break through James's silences.

In the tilt of his head when he was curious—just a little to the left, eyebrows drawn, like his brain was already three steps ahead.

In the way he tapped his fingers when he was anxious, same tempo, same pattern. Sometimes, when Jack grinned mid-sentence, the left corner of his mouth lifted first. It was subtle. Most people wouldn’t notice. She did.

He had James's stubbornness too. Not loud or reckless—just rooted, quiet, impossible to move when he made up his mind. And sometimes—when Jackson thought no one was watching—he'd get this look, distant and thoughtful, like the world had suddenly gotten too loud.

It cracked something in her every time.

It was stupid. All of it. The way it ended.The way she let it end.

She’d tried to explain. God, she really had . But there was that split second—that look on his face when her phone lit up with the name “Jackson Home” while she was getting dressed that night, two years ago. 

He saw the name in the contact. He asked nothing at first, but she saw the withdrawal—instant, instinctive. The kind only a man with a past like theirs could carry.

“Have you rebuilt your life in these five years?”

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t . And James, being who he is—who they both are—he took that silence like a knife. They argued, he said hurtful things to her, and then he left. All she could do was crying and thinking about how she'd wanted that moment for so long, and everything had gone to shit.

She later found out from Nakia and Okoye that he thought she was married, that after the Blip she had moved on with her life, and that was why he hurt her so much with his words. He thought she was married. That she had built something with someone else. Had a husband.

She should’ve said something. He’s not my husband, James! He’s our son! He probably had a nightmare and misses his mom.

She should’ve said anything. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t know how to protect you from it. From me. From everything. Because I didn't know if you would want it, after all, having a child had also been part of Hydra's goal.

But she didn’t say any of that. Instead, she watched him walk out and cried a lot. Same way he’d done a hundred times in her memories, in those years when the two of them were shadows across different parts of the globe—never fully aligned, never fully free.

And now he was everywhere: Senator. James Buchanan Barnes, representing the people of New York.

She watched his speeches when she couldn’t sleep. Muted. Closed captions on. She tried to hate the way he held himself—taller, steadier, more polished. But she didn’t. She was proud. And heartsick.

He was doing what she never could: putting a past like theirs into something useful. Visible. She, meanwhile, was playing house mom in a country she didn’t belong to, pretending to be okay by doing the same always did, the only thing she know to do, being an spy.  

And still, she couldn’t bring herself to tell him. She didn’t know if it was cowardice or love. Or maybe both.

Luis was already at the bar, waving at her like they were old friends. His shirt was too crisp, tucked into jeans that didn’t quite fit him right. His hair was gelled. He looked… prepared. Too prepared.

Rose offered a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

“Wow” Luis said. “You clean up nice.”

“I was clean before” she replied.

He laughed. Too loudly. “Right, yeah. Of course. I just meant—sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

They sat. Ordered drinks. Luis went for a rum and coke. Rose asked for sparkling water.

He noticed. “Not drinking?”

“Not tonight.”

Another awkward pause.

“So... do you come here often?”

Rose almost laughed. Really?

“No.”

“Right, duh. Dumb question.”

They looked out at the ocean for a moment. The tide was coming in. The waves glowed under the amber lights of the bay.

Luis talked. A lot. About his job managing a hardware store. About his sister’s new baby. About his dog, Pancho, who apparently hated his mailman. Rose nodded when appropriate. Smiled once or twice. Didn’t ask questions.

“Sorry” Luis said, misreading her silence. “I know I talk too much. I just didn’t expect you to say yes, honestly. You’ve kind of got that... mysterious, busy-woman vibe.”

Rose blinked.

“Don’t worry.” he said quickly. “That wasn’t, like, creepy. Just... you know. You seem like someone who’s got a lot going on.”

She looked at him for a moment. He had kind eyes. Kind in the way that said he’d never held a weapon in his hands. Never buried a body. Never make a person disappear by someone else's control.

“I do have a lot going on.” she said. “But not in a bad way.”

“That’s good. I mean—life’s hard, right?”

Rose smiled again, genuinely this time. He meant well. He wasn’t wrong. He was just... not for her.

Life's hard , indeed.

They shared a fried fish platter. Luis talked about trying to salsa dance and failing miserably. Rose offered a story about burning rice the first time she tried to cook in her new place. It wasn’t much, but it was a laugh. Brief. Almost human.

"I bet Jackson liked him. He doesn't seem like a problem child."

"Oh, no. I'd give that to Jack." She smiled. "But, yes. He's a good boy."

"You've done well, then? Being a single mom?"

She inhaled.

"I think so."

"I never asked you, but the father's not in the picture, is he?"

Oh, Luis. No, don't go there.

"Hm, no. It's just Jackson and me."

As the night wrapped up, Luis walked her to her motorcycle, saying she always looked amazing on it, that he could hear her coming and going as she passed the corner of his house. Rose was alert for a second before stupidly remembering that they were neighbours.

“I had a good time.” he said.

“I’m glad.”

He scratched the back of his neck. “So... maybe we could do it again?”

Rose didn’t hesitate. “I don’t think so, Luis. You´re a great guy, but I don't know if I´m ready for this… But thank you.”

Luis took it better than she expected. Nodded, smiled, shrugged. 

“Can’t blame a guy for trying.” He joked. 

“No. You can’t. I have a good time, really.”

Rose offered to give him a ride, but Luis told her he'd be fine driving his own car. Without a second thought, Rose started the motorcycle. She thought they'd both go the same way, but Luis stayed behind on the road.

When she got home, the house was quiet.

Rose left her keys on the kitchen counter, slipped off her boots, and padded barefoot to Jackson’s bedroom—out of habit more than anything. But the room was empty. His pillow was unruffled, and the little plush lion he never slept without wasn’t there.

She stood in the doorway a moment longer than necessary.

Then she went to her own room and change her clothes. She didn’t turn on the light.

Instead, she went back to Jackson's room and lay down there. The sheets still smelled faintly of his shampoo—coconut and whatever overpriced organic soap Nakia liked to buy. She curled up, pulled the blanket up to her chin, and stared at the ceiling.

Sleep didn’t come. So she reached for her phone, scrolled through the news, ignored the messages, and eventually landed on an old US livestream from a few weeks back.

Senator James Buchanan Barnes. He was standing in front of a crowd, giving some press conference about post-Blip reparations and veteran reintegration. His voice was calm. Measured. His hair was long, but neatly pulled back, making him look older. She watched it three times.

Then she just listened. She liked hearing him speak when he wasn’t angry. When he wasn’t hurt. When he wasn’t looking at her like she’d broken something he was just starting to believe in again.

The screen dimmed eventually, and the audio cut. But Rose stayed where she was, holding the phone against her chest.