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Chapter Text

 He was supposed to be heading home. He was supposed to have taken out his target and be done with it. But dammit all, he became distracted for just a second. He couldn't even remember what it was that caught his attention, what had him look away a mere millisecond too long. What he did remember though, was the sudden pain in his neck. The agonizingly fast moving exhaustion that took over his body. The cries of his squad being gunned down while he slumped to the ground. And his last thought before falling unconscious being his wife's voice, talking about their son missing him. And how she'd be devastated when the news of him dying reached her.

 But when he woke, he could only wish that were the news she would get. 

 He was strapped to a gurney of some kind, stripped of any of his protective gear and clothing. The straps were tight, too tight. He could feel the circulation in his hands and feet wavering, digits going numb. Hissing through his teeth, he wriggles in the straps, ignoring how they cut into his skin. He tried to look around, but a strap had his head firmly held down against the hard surface. He was left with only being able to frantically dart his eyes around, struggling to make out what kind of room he was in. The scent of bleach burned his nostrils, the plain walls and fluorescent lights giving little detail. 

"A hospital room, perhaps." He thought to himself. A brief flash of hope washed over him. Perhaps he'd been found, brought to a hospital. But he quickly shook that thought away. His limbs were still heavy from the sedative, mouth still feeling full of cotton. The straps were painfully tight, and he was stripped nude. No hospital would lack respect like this. The only sliver of decency he was given was a small towel laid over his crotch, only enough to keep it from being seen. A small gust could send the thin fabric flying away though. 

 A sinking feeling grows heavy in his chest, the memory of his wife begging him to just stop. "It's too dangerous Helmut," she'd said. "I don't want to lose you, our son needs a father." He'd agreed. He'd been prepared to leave just after this mission. His men had taken him drinking before it, bidding him their last farewell to their beloved commander.

 Their commander who'd led them to a deathtrap. Who was strapped naked to a table by God knows who. He had made too many enemies to even guess who it could have been. Another government ready to torture all of the Sokovian Military's secrets out of him? Any of the poor schmucks his father had driven bankrupt wanting ransome? Someone in Madripoor? Maybe Selby?

"No, not her style, I'd probably be in a sex dungeon if it were her," He grimaced. Why had his captors put the effort into kidnapping him, when he'd been surrounded by the other most deadly people in Sokovia? Shit. They definitely weren't some random goons wanting money then. Not with how easily they murdered all his men and managed to shoot some kind of sedative into his neck. Through the protective scarf he had tightly wrapped. 

They'd been hunting down a group of terrorists, a group stealing Sokovian civilians from their homes and doing things that made Zemo sick to his stomach to think about. Had they known he was coming? Most likely. He could kick himself, if he weren't tied down. Of course! It was too easy. How had he not seen it? Perhaps the excitement of going home, seeing his family, had distracted him. He'd gotten his son that xbox he kept asking for, hidden it under the bed. He told Oeznik not to say a thing, he wanted it to be a surprise. 

"Don't keep making yourself a target, boy." He could remember his father lecturing him, the way his face was red in anger. "We already have enough people hating us. Those soldiers will chew you right up, You know what they do to little guys like you?"

 He'd ignored his father. He was young and spiteful, and wanted to prove something. Prove he was a competent man, prove he didn't need to be CODDLED because he was a little smaller than his peers. He was so happy to see his father's face when he'd gotten each promotion, each medal. There was something that just ALMOST resembled pride when Helmut had become commander of his own squadron on his fathers face. He was protecting his country, he was adored by his people. 

But that was certainly over now.

 He wished he'd listened to his father then. Wished he hadn't argued with the man before he'd left for this mission. What was it he warned him about? Or who? His mind was still fuzzy. The buzzing of the light above him wasn't helping the matter, nor the sound of his heart throbbing in his ears. 

  "You know who that group is working for?" His father had barked, angrily swallowing down his drink. He'd been pacing. "It's too dangerous!"

 "Then we'll take them out too," He'd been so prideful. So cocky.

 He was a fucking idiot. He ignored half of what his father said. Every warning about how he could end up dead, or worse. Well, this was the worse alternative wasn't it? Bound and naked in some dingy unknown place; awaiting whatever torture was sure to be coming. 

 He tenses. He hears footsteps approaching, boots on tile. Speaking he can barely hear. It's German speaking. Excited.

 "...Hast du ihn mitgebracht?" He hears. He strains his eyes, looking toward the door. He wriggles again, the straps still holding him down firmly. His heart is in his throat, racing. 

  "It doesn't matter if you kill them." His father had said. "You cut off one head, another takes its place." 

 The door creaks open, the sound of several pairs of boots loud in his ears. His mouth is dry, eyes darting. He hears an astonished gasp, quiet, but there's an excitement to it. His captor walks into view, and in any other situation the Baron would have laughed at the stupid monocole on his face. 

 "Baron Helmut Zemo… You are a difficult man to catch," The man speaks. He was the one speaking outside, if his heavy German accent weren't enough to tell, the disgusting elation in his voice is. The man's hand lays too casually on his knee. 

Zemo was never one to feel very shy about nudity but… the way the man looked him over, touched his skin. It was enough to make him uncomfortable.

 "My name is Wolfgang Von Strucker… It is… Quite a pleasure to meet Sokovian royalty," 

 If he were able to, he'd have kicked the sonofabitch right in the chin. So he settles, and spits in his face. It hits the German in the cheek. Zemo looks down at the other man's shirt, and sees a familiar symbol. Hydra. Voice raspy, he snarls.

 "Stirb, Nazi-Abschaum!" 

 He feels the pain of the strike before he realizes he'd been punched, directly in the gut. It knocks the air out of him. It was one of the soldiers who had followed Strucker in. There's yelling he's too busy gritting his teeth in pain to comprehend, and Strucker orders them to leave. He wipes his cheek as the door closes, his hand never leaving his knee. It's slowly sliding up, caressing his thigh. A cold shiver runs up his spine, and he feels himself nearly gag at the sensation. 

 "I do apologize for your… ah, undignified state. You see, you are known for being rather, what's the word..? Ah, Feisty." The man's voice is anything but genuine. It's mocking. Red hot hatred is coursing through Helmut's veins. His face twisting into a hard scowl.

 "Why am I here?" He thrashes, the straps digging into his skin. Blood dripping down onto the table now. "My family will come for me!" 

 The hand on his thigh never leaves. Strucker just lets out a low chuckle. 

 "Hm. Perhaps, if they even think you're alive. My men made sure to leave the bodies of your comrades unidentifiable, you see. It was… quite brutal." There's a soft squeeze to Zemo's thigh, fingers kneading against the pliant flesh there.

 "Y-you-!" 

 "Really, you think we'd go through all this effort to get you, and leave the possibility of rescue?" Strucker clicks his tongue. Interrupting Zemo. "But, nobody searches for a dead man." 

 His heart drops. 

 He can already see it, his wife falling to the floor hearing the news. His son, too young to properly comprehend that he wouldn't have a father anymore. What would his father say? Would he comfort his wife? His son? Would he believe it? Or would he refuse to accept it, stubbornly wanting to see his body?

 He swallows dryly, struggling to blink back his tears. He's failing. His eyes burn as they well up, voice wavering.

 "Why… Why me? What do you want?" Is all he can manage out. He has so many other questions. But he can't find the way to ask them. 

 Strucker's hand pats on his thigh. Zemo is glad his vision is blurred by tears, he doesn't want to see whatever wicked expression is on his face.

 "You and you 'Scorpions' caused me many issues. And… My experiment, the volunteers are plenty helpful but… The chance to see what would happen to one of the most dangerous men in Sokovia? I simply… cannot pass it up." 

 Zemo wants to scream. He wants to rip away the straps and strangle the man before him. But all he manages to do is let out a sob, wriggling. Strucker steps away, back toward the door. 

 "I'll fucking kill you!" He wails, "I'll rip your goddamn throat out!" 

 The door slams shut, leaving him there alone. 

Chapter Text

His nakedness was soon remedied, though the guards who dressed him were anything but polite. But then again, neither was he. As soon as they had freed one of his legs from the straps, his foot quickly found the nose of one of the men. It broke under his heel with a satisfying crunch. Though his ankle was quickly caught, gripped so tight it bruised. The towel had fallen, making him painfully aware of his nudity. So he let them shove a pair of thin pants on him, though he glared at them the whole time, smirking as the one he'd kicked held his bleeding nose.

 As soon as they got the pants on him though, he was an utter hellcat. He kicked and thrashed at the two, taking them by surprise as he darted straight for the door. One grabbed him, putting his hand over his mouth. He didn't hesitate to open his mouth, and bite down hard on the man's fingers. The man howled in pain, until Zemo swung his head back. He slammed the back of his head into the other's face, leaving this one with a broken nose too. 

 As the man stumbled back, the other ran up to him. He spun around, his knee connecting as hard as it could into his groin. The man keeled over, cursing in German. The baron yanked open the door, which they had stupidly left unlocked. He locked them in with a small bit of impish delight. 

 " The exit. Where is the exit?" He thought, darting down the hall. His bare feet slapping on the tiles. He was only in the pants, which was good enough. He would brave the cold once he got outside, he just needed to get far enough that someone could find him. 

 Like hell was he going to just let them keep him prisoner, manhandle him like he was nothing. He was a damn coronal! A man in a lab coat was exiting a room, Zemo didn't even try to dodge him, easily shoving him out of his way. He could see an exit sign! He was so close! 

 Just one more hallway and he'd be free! 

 The enthusiasm was short lived. Out of a turned hallway came another soldier, better armored than the others. He's bigger too, easily stepping in and slamming himself into the baron. He hits the wall with a cry, hitting the back of his head. His vision goes white, dizzied. Hands grab him, pushing him onto his stomach as he howls like an injured animal. Squirming as much as he can, the soldier pays no mind to how painful it is when he yanks both of Zemo's arms behind his back, using a too tight zip tie to bound his wrists. 

 "I was so close…" He hisses. His legs are forcibly bound at his ankles, a wail leaving him as the soldier grips his already bruising ankle. He doesn't let himself cry. He bites the inside of his cheek. He doesn't let it be easy. He writhes, kicking his legs as much as he can when they're bound. 

 "Only a few hours as our guest and already trying to leave?" It's Strucker. In that stupid voice. He hears the man's boots against the floor. He wants to glare at his face, but the soldier moves to straddle his thighs, a heavy hand pressing his face to the floor. Zemo managed to turn his head just enough to glare at his boots. "You really are stubborn, Baron. Your father must have not taught you manners." 

 A flash of white hot pain lands on his cheek, forcing his eyes shut as he yelps. He opens his eyes to see Strucker crouching down now, a fucking horsewhip in hand. He feels the hot trickle of blood run down his face, and he grinds his teeth.

 "Don't worry, we'll teach you some." It's almost sweet sounding. He tastes bile, knowing just how fake it is. Strucker stands, and the guard does too. Zemo is easily dragged along, like he was nothing but a sack of potatoes. 

 He watches the exit grow smaller as he's dragged down the hall, legs useless as he's held roughly by the arm. 

  "Are you happy, father? It's finally happening, what you said all the time." He could see the image of his father in his head. That look of I told you so. That dumb unimpressed look he'd get. Like when he'd come home crying that his clothes got ruined in the mud. The way his father simply couldn't care, gave him a "That's what I said would happen if you played outside," 

 Only he was being dragged by hydra soldiers to have god knows what done to him. He could almost laugh. 

 He just closed his eyes, breathing in as he felt himself shoved into a chair of some sort. Metal clamps fastened on his legs, a knife not so carefully cutting off the zip tie on his wrists. He didn't feel the slice on his skin, but he felt the blood trickle down his wrist. 

 "You want me to be a good boy?" He spat. He opened his eyes, seeing the surprised look in Strucker's eyes. Poorly hidden. Even a chuckle didn't help hide it. Zemo hissed as his cut wrist was harshly clamped to the table, followed by the other. 

 "Are you right handed or left handed?" Strucker asked. It caught him off guard. "Left handed, correct? I've seen you fire with your left," 

 Before he could open his mouth to give some signature snark, the glint of metal catches his eye. He wants to jerk his hand away, a flash of animalistic panic in his eyes. "They're going to cut off my hand, they're going to render me useless."

 "Hmm? I am correct, am I? It wouldn't do to maim the wrong one," Strucker's hand laid itself on Zemo's shoulder, rubbing his arm slowly. It would be comforting, if it were anyone else. All it did now was make him want to throw up, and entirely remove any bit of his skin that got touched. "You wouldn't be of any use to us if you couldn't use your dominant hand, hm?"

 He swallowed back a sob, squeezing his eyes shut. Slowly, he nodded. Biting his lip to prepare for whatever pain he knew was coming. 

 " Don't hold back any sounds. It doesn't make you strong, it makes you stupid. They want to hear you scream," 

Whack!

  He screams like a wounded animal, the white hot pain spreading up his entire right arm. The cleaver swung down onto his hand, removing his little finger in one swing. He feels the ache in his jaw, the bile rise up his throat. He knows not to look, he's going to vomit. He does it anyway.

 It seemed Strucker expected it, holding a bucket to catch it. What little food he'd eaten that day immediately vacated his stomach, a pained sob leaving him. He was certain he'd pass out, but he was in shock. Heart pumping out adrenaline. 

 "Consider this your warning, Helmut… Next time you'll lose the entire hand." Strucker's voice was a hiss in his ear, the clasps on his wrists and ankles being undone. He's forced to his feet, but his knees just give out under him. Another scream ripped from his burning throat as the wound is painfully cauterized. 

 "Fuck… you…" He manages to sputter, as he's dragged cruely out of the room by the soldier once more. 

Chapter Text

 They got smarter after his attempted escape. They'd blindfolded him, dragging him even deeper into the facility. He couldn't see what turns they made. Too many voices spoke for him to be able to count their footsteps. They wouldn't give him anything to use to navigate the halls. 

 The blindfold was ripped off as soon as they threw him into his cell, the metal door slamming shut behind him. Zemo caught himself on his hands, which proved to be far worse than if he landed on his face. The agonizing pain shot up his left arm, forcing a startled cry out of him. Crumpling to his side, he cradled his hand. 

 He sobbed until the pain slowly dulled. Strucker definitely had to be watching him, adding this to his mental spank bank. That perverted sonofabitch. It made him sick to his stomach to think about him. Was he this touchy with the "volunteers" he mentioned? He doubted anyone would agree to this kind of treatment. Unless…

The protests. The missing people.

 Zemo struggled to his feet, even more so as he tried to use only his left hand to push himself up. He wobbled, looking around. The cell was tiny, far smaller than any of the places he’d slept in on tours. Walls tiled, all but one. Which was one large mirror. It was certainly a two-way glass. How he was being watched. It made him sick, and he almost wished it were through a camera instead. Knowing there were scientists just on the other side, and Strucker. 

 “At least there’s a bed…” He finds himself mumbling, shakily making the few steps over there. He collapses onto the bed, ignoring the scratchy sheets and lumpy mattress. He was exhausted, thoroughly so. The mix of blood loss, sickness, and the drugs he’d been hit with were enough to have him pass out as soon as his head hit the pillow. 

 It’s a dreamless sleep, and hardly lasts long. 

 It's near impossible to sleep, he found, whenever that door was being opened. It sounded like a banshee, hinges screeching as it's slid open. He can't find the energy to fight, to try and escape this time. He's forcefully dressed in scratchy white clothes, and dragged to his feet once again. The guards are heavy handed, and he sees the guns holstered at their hips. 

  "They would kill me easily." The thought is a bit intrusive, and he briefly considers the idea of dying. Perhaps it would be better than whatever tortures awaited him.

 But his mind returns to the xbox, his son. The smile that would be on his face when he's shown the surprise. His wife would kiss him on the cheek, as delighted as he is seeing their son so happy. The boy would plead with them to help him set it up, let him play before dinner. And Zemo would cave to the big puppy eyes, and help while his wife shook her head. She'd point out how he's such a big softie. 

 He can't die. Not while they were still waiting for him to come home. Not when he still needs to see his son's smile. 

 Zemo is not blindfolded this time. He's not dragged out. The guards had him firmly held still though, as a familiar monocle bearing man all too smugly walks in. Before he can even think to spit in his direction, his right hand is grabbed. A high pitched yelp is torn out of him.

 "Oh calm down," Strucker's voice is mocking. "I'm simply making sure you haven't injured it worse, it won't do to have it get infected," 

 "Maybe… you shouldn't have done it in the first place then," The Sokovian scoffs. He has at least enough energy to regain his normal sass, able to delight in the annoyed twitch in the German's brow. 

 "Such an attitude," Strucker tuts. "I really do hate to punish you so cruelly, but that mouth of yours makes it necessary." 

 Zemo opens his mouth to respond, but the feeling of one of the guard's fists harshly planting itself against his back, near his kidney. All he lets out is a sputtered wheeze, eyes welling up as the breath is knocked out of him.

 "Another," Strucker orders. A cry is forced from Zemo's lips as another strike lands in the same spot. The baron sees the other lick his lips at the sight. 

  "I'll kill him brutally." He thinks to himself. "I'll rip that perverted scumbags dick off and bleed him like a pig."

Chapter Text

Seven days, six hours, 47 minutes, and 7 seconds. That was how long he'd been there so far. He'd been given a watch, though he wasn't sure if it was a kindness or another method of torture. 

 How long would it take for any actual experiment to start? Not that he particularly wanted them to, but restlessly pacing about the tiny cell wondering was frankly not his favorite passtime. He'd been dragged out a few times, mostly checking to make sure his hand wasnt risking rotting away. It was finally bandaged, which hardly helped in how he couldn't bring himself to look. 

 Zemo learned pretty quickly, that it wasn't just him. He'd hear one of the volunteers outside from time to time, wondering aloud what power they might gain. How quickly they could get out there and change the world. The voices would slowly fade as they went further, and he'd never hear them again. His mind didn't care to find any optimism. Those people were dead. No human being gained the power those people wanted. Not without a severe price. 

 A latch on the door swings open, a tray sliding in. He was starving, but that food they served looked anything but appetizing. Sure, he was used to nicer food. But he doubted even poorer people would want to eat that.

  But… if he starved to death, he'd ruin any chance of seeing his family again. 

 Would his wife even believe them when they told her of his “demise”. She was a stubborn woman, always wanted proof before she’d believe anything. It was one of his favorite things about her, even when it got just a little bit irritating. Surely, she would doubt it? He promised he’d come home after all, and he was not one to break his promises. 

 He reminds himself of her face, of their son’s face. He forced down more bites of that disgusting food. It’s hardly enough to fill his stomach, but it’s better than the ache deep in his gut. He even almost manages to keep from gagging. 

 He WILL see them. Glaring toward the glass. 

 He refuses to die, he refuses to break. He will prove his father's paranoid warnings and delusions wrong.

  "You can remove my whole arm, Strucker. But I'll be leaving this shithole alive, watch me."

Chapter Text

The weather was nothing short of gorgeous, Heike noted. It would be a waste to spend it inside. She practically dragged Carl away from his game, ignoring the boys complaining. 

 "Get your shoes on kleinen, the sun is out. Any longer on that game and you'll become an albino," She teased, earning a roll of the seven year old's brown eyes. 

 "I don't need a tan! Just let me play one more level," He whined, although he still was putting his shoes on. Heike smiled, grabbing her jacket. Carl knew better than to full on disobey her, but he was still a stubborn little thing. She wasn't sure if it was from her or Zemo, but she would always say it was from him. 

 "Maybe that'd work on your dad, buddy," She laughed, handing Carl his. The kid just pouted and followed her outside, not nearly as excited for the sun as she was. That was until, he noticed another woman approaching, a child holding her hand. He practically darted off, earning a smile from Heike. She waved the woman over, opening her arms for a hug. 

 "Mishka!" She called, nearly bulldozed by her friend. The woman was tall, much taller than Heike. Heike herself stood barely over five foot, but her attitude far overshadowed it. She liked to say she was the scarier between she and her husband. Which had a tendency to be Proven true. Especially during their "trips" to Madripore. 

 "Heike!" The tall woman pulled back, steadying her. Heike looked up, noting the eyepatch on Mishka's left eye, over a scar that nearly took up half her face. It was recent, hardly even done healing.

 Another reason Heike hated Zemo's job. 

  "You heard anything from the EKO boys lately? Been a week." Mishka hummed in a thick russian accent, absentmindedly fiddling with one of the straps to her eyepatch. Heike frowned a moment, her throat closing. What if…? 

No, they were fine. It was just a longer mission.

 "Nope, but you know them. They're just useless without you after you got sent home," She joked. Earning a laugh from the other. 

 "Oh definitely. Helmut's probably having a stroke dealing with them all, especially Moth." Mishka invited herself to sit in one of the many chairs in the massive back hard. Heike followed her lead, sitting with an amused grin.

 Helmut may be the commander, but Heike knew he put up with plenty of his men's shit, being the shortest out of them. Especially Moth's, the tall sonofabitch. It was all in good fun though, she'd met his group. They really did respect him. (Though, Heike did remember the rant Heinrich went on once Helmut went off with his men for more drinks. Raving about how "He needs to beat some sense into those bastards, acting so soft. No man carrying the name Zemo gets teased by a bunch of mannerless gorillas.") 

 "Hey! Yakov, no digging!" Mishka's voice yelled, yanking Heike from her thoughts. She looked up, nearly snorting when she saw the boys some distance away jabbing the ground with sticks. Yakov, a darkskinned boy with bright curly hair and big green eyes looked up, dropping the stick like it was on fire. Carl looked up too, that goofy pout on his face.

  "He really looks like his father," Heike thought. 

 "Oeznik will kill you two if he sees you messing with the flowers!" Heike added, snickering. The old man definitely wouldn't. He probably couldn't even look at the kids negatively. Heike already had to bicker at him to stop sneaking Carl turkish delights before dinner. 

  "I did this for Helmut when he was young!" The old man would protest, only for Heike to roll her eyes. 

 "And look how he is, just as bad as you," She'd tease back, until Helmut would throw a towel at her and chase her out of the kitchen.

  The boys ran off to find something else to do, out of the prying eyes of their mothers. Which Heike hoped wouldn't involve the familiar destruction a seven year old and an eight year old were capable of. Mishka stood, grin on her face. 

 "I'll go see what the gremlins are getting into. Go ask Oeznik for some tea, kay?" She grinned, not giving Heike a chance to respond before jogging off. Heike huffed, standing as she rolled her eyes. She turned to go back into the house; freezing as she saw the elderly butler at the door. He looked as if he'd seen a ghost, and spoke before she could ask what was wrong. 

 "Men from the military are in the front room… they have some kind of important news." He said. Heike raised a brow. 

 "About what?" 

 "They didn't say, they wanted to tell you first." The man looked confused, if not a bit scared. Which didn't help Heike feel any less anxious. She followed as he led her to the front room, mind racing. Just what the hell did they want? What could have happened? Did-?

  "Baroness." She was greeted, two men standing rather awkwardly in the well furnished room. She raised a brow, motioning for them to take a seat on the couch. They seemed to hesitate, but sat once she did. 

 "What is this about?" She demanded, far ruder than she intended. The men seemed hesitant to speak in general, fiddling with their hands. One holding some kind of envelope, and a small package. 

 "It's… Regarding your husband." One began, and her heart already sank. Was he injured? Missing? 

 "What about him? What happened to my Helmut?" Her voice cracked, and she could see Oeznik tense from the corner of her eye. 

 "Well we have reas-" One began.

 "He's dead, ma'am." The other interrupted. He continued before she could so much as open her mouth. "We found his entire squadron slaughtered, burned to a point we could barely name them; and a body in his uniform, with his pinky finger removed and left intact." 

 The other must have yelled at him, but she didn't understand what he said. Oeznik let out a sound, likely a sob. Her hearing felt like it was fading, her stomach eating at itself. A strangled scream leaving her lips before she even realized it was forming. 

  "No… No not him." She begged, "Please, not him!" 

  She's handed something, as the men stand. They offer her their condolences, but she doesn't hear them. She only hears a metallic jingle in her hands. She can barely see through tears, and just screams again as she realizes what she's holding. 

 They're his dog tags. They're Helmut's dog tags. 

  Her Helmut's dog tags.