Chapter Text
It was strange- living a nightmare. Waking up as the best version of yourself, everything well in the world, before night’s taken hold. And then the repeated suffering, ending the day dead in the yard more times than asleep in bed. The strangest part of it was not the living, however. It was never knowing you lived it in the first place.
Bucky wouldn’t know how many times he was murdered in his ‘life’. He wouldn’t recognize the hands that tormented him despite feeling their touch a million times. He wouldn’t know how lucky he was on the days that mercy left them alone. He couldn’t know. He would wake up clueless and end the day clueless, fear of the unfamiliar suffocating him when they came despite it being so sickeningly familiar. He would forget, as his body would be fixed and forget. What a strange life; pages of horror stories burnt with the reset of memory. He would never know. And this was mercy. There was no cruelty in WestWorld.
…
Every day repeated with the only variation occurring by the actions of men. Bucky Barnes was not a ‘man’, he was simply a Townsfolk. Though he wore the look of a man, bore the story of a man, and lived by the title of ‘man’, he was something real men were not- expendable. What he called ‘life’ was nothing but a fairytale, a role to be played to satiate the cruel appetites of REAL people. The fact he thought he was a person was the point of the whole thing.
Bucky’s ‘days’, simulated in a way that made it essentially the same day haunted by nights of devilish differences, began with identical mornings. Waking up to sunlight streaming in through the chipped window, lace curtains highlighting floral patterns on the wooden floors. Becca hollering down the stairs at Ma, Steve already at the kitchen table eating biscuits slathered in gravy. “Morning, Buck.” He would always say, offering a bright smile. “Not a good morning?” Bucky would tease, piling his own plate with sausages. Steve fixed his smile into an expression of mock seriousness. “Never a good morning until Rufus comes by.” He would reply. Rufus, one of the Barnes’ chickens, had a habit of walking in during the mornings and squawking at them for food. “Aw, shucks.” Bucky sat with him. “Better go catch that stupid ass chicken then.” “Language, Barnes” Steve laughed, unable to act cross any longer.
After breakfast Bucky mounted Alpine to ride to Town. Becca handed him a list for the Mercantile and he set off, leaving the forest and crossing the vast valleys of sand and short grass that spanned The Lands. The Town, a bustling location featuring the strangest and most exotic of characters, was the place that most commonly changed due to the actions of the Players. Bucky’s day altered course frequently due to this, but never majorly. Slight delays were essentially all that occurred in his life. Ever the unlucky one, he was destined to suffer what awaited him on The Farm in the evenings. Bucky would accidentally frighten the young Stablehand (a natural with horses same as he), Parker, as he rounded the corner to the General Store. “Oh god!” The boy frequently exclaimed, or sometimes it was “Hell!” or “Christ on Sunday!” Regardless of the comment Bucky was always highly amused, charmed by the youth and the way he jumped a whole horse high when he was alarmed.
“Howdy, Peter” Bucky smiled coyly. “Howdy, mister Barnes.” The kid would tip his hat to him, or wave, or nod depending on the fullness of his arms. “Got a new colt?” Bucky observed the young horse tied to a post around the shop’s back. “Well, the gun or the animal?” Peter grinned proudly, drawing from his waist a Colt Revolver. Most days the kid showed off his new gun, clearly a treasure in his eyes. Bucky whistled, obliging him. “That’s a sweet shot.” Bucky was admittedly better with long-range guns, not pistols the way Steve was, but Peter’s eyes shone bright at the praise. “Yes, sir!” He proclaimed, sliding the weapon back into its holster. “And the horse- Randy’s ‘is name. Mr. Stark bought three, actually!” “Well, good luck to you with both!” Bucky would wish him well and dismount, tying Alpine to a post opposite. “Guns and horses. Turning into a lawman yourself! Fury’s gonna recruit you.” Bucky teased, waving goodbye to the teen.
It wasn’t uncommon for hold-ups to happen on account of the Players in the Mercantile, but they tended to come later in the evening as the stadium’s Inhabitants awoke and the Players had eaten lunch. Bucky avoided a lot of drama this way without even knowing it- except the seven or so times he didn’t. But he’d survived five of those attempts in time to make it home to dinner.
He would leave, usually without issue and his bag packed with the necessities, often stopping briefly to talk to Sheriff Fury as he sat on the porch of the Town Marshall’s. “Lookin’ for new blood?” Bucky joked. “Are you volunteering?” Fury’s eyebrows raised high above his eyepatch, one good eye narrowed. “No. But Stark’s boy is down by General’s and he’ll have too much time on his hands when Stark finally runs out of horses.” “And what makes you think Stark’ll ever have that problem?” Fury questioned, humor turning a small grin on his lips. “Fair point.” Bucky conceded. “The rich bastard’ll never die.”
“Hey,” Fury agreed, “he will not. Not like us.”
Bucky would set off again, dawdling around Main Street to see if Natasha would make an appearance. Natasha, unbeknownst to him, was an enigma that did not always follow fixed routine. Sometimes he’d find her, others days not. And when he did find her it would be in varying locations, featuring her participation in a colorful variety of activities and events. “Howdy, Barnes.” The scarlet-haired woman chimed, emerging from the Town Marshall moments later. “Nat.” Bucky addressed her, warmed by the bubbling humor he could see in her eyes. “What’re you doing in my town today?” “Ah, just browsing.” “Like any old cowboy?” She asked, leading him. “You mean like any old farmer?” Natasha laughed at that. “We both know you’d rather be breaking horses in or herding cattle.” “And abandon the Barnes farm?” He shakes his head mockingly, eyes closed. “You don’t know me at all. I’m insulted.” “Har har.” Nat walked up and gently patted Alpine’s sleek white coat. “Alpine tells me I’m right.” Bucky snorted, shaking his head. A moment of silence passed and he stared at her, lips turning in a kind smile. “Why don’t you come by the farm sometime?” He asks, voice dropping with softness. “See how we get by. It’s good work.” He tells her. “I’m lucky. The Farm is beautiful. You should see it in the Spring.”
Bucky was not lucky, nor was the Farm lucky. In the grand scheme of things that went on in WestWorld, the targeting of the quaint area and the happy family was an unnecessary black spot. The whole place had been created so people could live the way they wanted to live- hurt who they wanted to hurt, fight who they wanted to fight, do what they wanted to do- all without harming anybody real. The certain group of Players, disguised in period-typical affair same as all, that frequented The Farm were surely some of the crueler men that joined WestWorld. Human cruelty would always be greater than programmed cruelty, and Bucky would never understand this.
He was right in the other regard, however. The Farm was beautiful. Especially in the Spring.
He leaves after telling Natasha goodbye and rides back under a glamorous golden sun and lush trees.
He arrives home in time to peel potatoes and sit down for a game of Faro with Steve, Dugan and Falsworth. The two neighboring cattlemen were always eager to spend the evening there when Winnifred was cooking.
He would never remember this, but the night brought variety. The new and unfamiliar took the form of biting bullets, cruel laughter, shattered screams. This was true for all of WestWorld, including The Town- fire scorching the buildings and blood coating the dusty ground. But there was this little farm that invited a certain type of malice, a particular group with a particular interest in a particular family. Especially one member; a young male with long brown hair and a knack for horse-taming. The change was never positive, the boots and horseshoes of the men and their horses bringing unwelcome tidings of pain and fear. Bucky would often hear them first, blessed with ears like a hawk. Steve would say it was likely cattle or ranchers passing by, until the noises drew too near to doubt. “Someone’s coming up the road” Falsworth finally muttered, reaching for his Winchester. “Boys? Is someone there?” Winnie asked as she descended downstairs, Becca trailing behind her with a nervous look on her face. It wasn’t often they got company- not in the memories and minds of the Inhabitant family. “Don’t worry Ma, probably just some passerby folks.” Bucky reassured her, pretending the tramp of so many hooves didn’t put a pit in his stomach. He always would reassure his family, right up until the point he no longer could.
Usually it was Steve, Falsworth, and Dugan who took a stand outside. Greeting the strangers, a group that always ranged from 25 to 9 people with an average of 15, Steve would flash his pistol as a slight warning to the trespassers. “We don’t want trouble” he’d always say, but Bucky would see the way his shoulders squared as he prepared for it regardless. The leader, a man who would gleefully introduce himself as “Brock Rumlow” (or ‘Mr. Rumlow’, ‘Brock’, ‘stranger’- he gave many titles), would mock the display of bravery and tauntingly inquire about what was occurring inside. “Got a dame in there or something?” He would sometimes ask, crooked smile making him appear predatory and scheming. More often than not it was directed at Steve. No one was more protective over Bucky than him (and Becca, Lord knows that girl would kill for him) and this connection could only be discovered by human eyes. The Inhabitants weren’t allowed the pleasure of change in their pre-set lives, and Steve’s love was only known to himself and their common enemies. He could never tell Bucky that he loved him. But Rumlow and his gang could. They knew his affections from the hundreds of times they had descended upon this valley and taken what they pleased: his love was laced in his tone as he demanded Rumlow leave, his fondness in his boots as he situated himself between Bucky and their assailants, his care in his screams on the occasions he was alive to watch Bucky suffer.
“Is your Darlin’ home?” Was what Rumlow asked this time, the ‘g’ disappearing as he mocked their accents. Steve tensed up even more, fingers lightly grasping his gun.
Bucky would often stand inside, gaze fixed through the sun-tinted windows, preparing to protect or hide his Ma and Sis if things went South. He had his Sharps with him and he was one hell of a shot, especially long distance. All things considered, it was unfair that he had become such an easy target due to the one-sided familiarity. He had been a catch once; a pain in the ass to Rumlow and the gang, but once they had memorized his patterns and responses to the numerous outcomes they put him through there was nothing preventing him from capture.
The next part was only predictable in certain regards. It was broken into three movements: ‘Challenge’, ‘Test’ and ‘Entertainment’. These steps were always taken in one form or another even if they weren’t followed perfectly.
Challenge, when the gang arrived and conquered the farm. They would begin by shooting and killing at least two of the men. Sometimes it was three, only rarely and accidentally four, but usually it was two. Dum Dum, Steve, and Falsworth stood closest to the men. Therefore they were always the victims. Usually it was Dugan and Steve that were hit first, struck by bullets from Sharps Rifles that Rumlow and his right-hand carried. They would bleed to death on the ground, sometimes dragging themselves away but never making it far before meeting their end. Falsworth would jump at the crack, drawing his own pistol mildly too late- bang, a shot that often found home in his leg (or his arm, or his ribs, or his shoulder, or rarely his neck, head, face-). Sometimes the men left him be, dying of his own injuries after wrenching away his gun. Sometimes they hung him from one of the many trees on the property. Once or twice one of the more sadistic gangsters took an ax to his throat and cut his head from his body. The roles could alternate, depending on whoever was shot first. But the important part was that the three unlucky men (Dugan, Steve, Falsworth) did not survive to the ‘Entertainment’ stage. Except the times that they did; the intentional times where the gang kept them breathing to witness the horrors.
‘Test’ involved the testing of the wits of the Inhabitants. After the death of at least two of the men Rumlow’s gang would get to work desecrating The Farm. Fire from the torches several of the men carried would be used to light the Farmhouse or the Barn, or on rare occasion both. Animals would be violently slaughtered with knives and axes. Rufus, as well as most of their chickens, were beheaded. Alpine, Bucky’s favorite horse and best friend, met similarly gruesome fates that had Bucky cringing and covering his ears at the sounds of her frantic wails. Windows would be crushed and sometimes all the remaining people would be chased from the home, held hostage or forced to stand in a circle as they watched the destruction of their lands. Only very rarely were they assaulted together, mother, sister, and son. Often they were separated, drug off to different places, for the next movement.
The Entertainment stage was always the worst. Those who survived the first two stages wished they hadn’t. It was the time of pleasure, fun, and relaxation for Rumlow’s men. They reaped their rewards, basked in the glory of yet another victory, and their actions ranged from playing a hand of cards to heinous debauchery. More often than not, it was both. None of the men were innocent. And Bucky was special- special in the sort of way you never wanted to be. He caught people’s attention, he drew the gaze of others, he piqued the interest of those worthy of his time and not. He was the prize Rumlow set his sights on, and he felt the every consequence of the older man’s obsession.
They rape him. Dozens and dozens of times, near every night they were present. Sometimes they rape him in the living room, sometimes in the kitchen, in the yard, barn, bedroom. Under the same tree they occasionally hung him from, defiling hands twisting rope around his throat in the aftermath of their malevolence. Every once in a while they left him alive after, broken to his very soul. Those nights of mourning were a rarity, Rumlow and his gang choosing commonly to end his life in numerous and ‘creative’ ways. He had been set on fire, beaten to death, strangled by rope or by Rumlow’s own cruel fingers. Stabbed with various objects, drowned in the nearby river, trampled as he tried to run away. Shot in the head on accident mid-rape, or shot in the throat or face or torso intentionally. Bled to death in a thousand miserable variations.
Bucky never remembers.
…
Bucky goes to town. He encounters Peter, he meets Fury, he misses Natasha. He returns home to Steve and Dugan and Falsworth. He helps Ma cook dinner. She scolds him about keeping his rifle on the table.
They arrive. Dugan and Steve die; shot to the stomach and the face. Bucky grabs his gun and stumbles outside, shaking and screaming so hard he can barely aim- a heavy force cracks against the back of his head and he doubles over. He’s only half-conscious as the men drag him to the barn. Falsworth is bleeding heavily from his shoulder, and if Bucky could hear beyond the ringing in his ears he would guess he was shouting his name. His ears tone in to one final sound as seven of the men ransack the house; the screams of his Ma and sis. One of the two men left behind kicks Falsworth and laughs at the dark spurt of blood, bringing his boot down next on his face to grind it into the dirt. This is all he sees of the outside as the barn doors slide closed and seal his fate. The leader rapes him first, cutting through his clothes with a knife. “Hello there, Sweetheart” he says. “Brock Rumlow. Always nice to make your acquaintance.” The other men take turns. After it’s done Rumlow’s right-hand man, someone Bucky gathers is named ‘Rollins’, drags him by the hair to the horse trough and holds his head under until his heart stops.
Again.
Bucky wakes up to the birds singing. He rides to town. He speaks to Tony Stark’s stable boy, and he runs into the Sheriff while leaving. Natasha rides in and he talks to her about the new cattle she obtained. She invites him to come by her Pa’s farm sometime, and Bucky gratefully accepts the invitation. He goes home to find Falsworth, Dugan and Steve playing cards at the kitchen table, bellies already full. He steps outside to sharpen his knife, and he’s the first on the scene when a man (introducing himself as “Rumlow”) arrives with his group. Steve, Dugan and Falsworth are quickly outside too. The bullets wait until Steve has put himself between Bucky and the men to start flying. Steve and Falsworth collapse, lifeless, shot in the throat and the chest. Bucky raises his arm to fire off his pistol but in the blink of an eye Rumlow is by his side snatching it away. A nasty backhand flings him back onto the dusty ground and Dugan- is dying, too, bleeding from his ribs, breathing- trying to breath, can’t-
Bucky is carried away, drug off by three unfamiliar men and thrown to the floor of his familiar living room. He cries, this time, sobbing and begging as his sister screams similarly upstairs. Rumlow loves it, laughing and soaking in the distress as it speeds up his movements and fuels his ferocity. He stays with him long after Bucky has checked out, a stranger in his own body; until the clock nears midnight and most of the gang is drunk or passed out. Becca was silenced hours ago- pistol to her forehead, though Bucky had missed the gunshot over the sound of his own suffering. Rumlow strangles him to death with his bare hands, something Bucky will never know he loves to do.
Again.
Bucky takes his favorite horse, Alpine, to town. He jokes with Sheriff Fury about the troublemakers coming to these parts and he accidentally scares the Parker kid that volunteers at Stark Ranch. He finds Natasha in one of the bars with a hand in Faro, and she offers him a kind smile and a drink. He accepts it and tells her they need to chat about her cattle soon. “Yeah, yeah, soon. Now shoo, Barnes.” He returns home to find that, rudely, his pals are engaged in a card game without him.
They arrive. Dugan and Falsworth perish and Steve startles back, naturally planting himself in front of Bucky. Bucky’d taken off his pistol while peeling potatoes for Ma, so he’s completely unarmed as a rifle falls across his chest from behind and pulls his arms back. Steve turns at Bucky’s shout and the second in command, Rollins, takes his shot- bullets in Steve’s right shoulder and abdomen. Bucky screams for him and a heavy arm wraps around his throat to halt his struggle. “Always a fighter” the man behind him sneers, leaning forward to place a kiss to Bucky’s cheek. His world fades out and fades back in with the same man behind him. They abuse him in the kitchen and when they’re finished they slit his throat.
Again.
Town. Natasha talks about her cattle and an idea for a new railroad. Dinner and cards. They arrive. Steve and Dugan die. Falsworth is shot in the ankle and hung from a tree. Bucky manages to land a firm hit on the man holding him still, breaking his nose. He flees but only makes it to the river before they catch him. A man named Rumlow rapes him on the bank. He kisses him and bites his neck and drags him into the stream, holding him under until movements cease.
Again.
Town. Natasha isn’t there. Dinner he helps make, a game of Faro. Distant stamping and new, unfriendly faces. Three friends dead. Alpine skewered by men with pitch forks and axes. Mother and sister taken somewhere else. He’s drug into his mother’s bedroom and violated by several men, the madness ending as their leader wrapped his belt around Bucky’s throat.
Again.
Town. Cards. No Natasha. Unfamiliar mouths and fingers and blades and pistols. Steve is left alive this time, long enough to hear Bucky’s screams and return them in terror. “He’s sweet on you, huh, baby?” The man, Rumlow, says. Bucky is devastated that this moment is the first time he realized he might be sweet on Steve, too. “Isn’t that precious” he mocks as Bucky cries, this stranger with his strange accent and strong grip that he hates more than he’s ever hated anything before.
Again.
Town. Natasha. Cards. Dinner. Rumlow. Rollins. Suffocating as he’s hung from his grandfather’s tree.
Again.
His skull is broken in.
Again.
Steve watches his rape, watches the moment they string him up.
Again.
He’s lit on fire, the most painful end to compliment the already-present pain.
Again.
He manages to get a grip on Rollins’ knife, ripping it from his holster and driving it deep into his own stomach.
Again.
Natasha has new cattle. His neck is snapped that night.
Again.
Falsworth is so close to winning the hand.
Again.
Steve smiles at him with reassurance. “Probably just some stragglers” he tells him gently, kindly, always kind-
Again.
He screams until he can’t anymore as Steve bleeds out, scarlet mixing with orange dust.
Again.
The morning is beautiful, and god is he lucky to live here-
Again.
He begs. It never works.
Again.
The farmhouse is burnt down and Bucky dreads his fate as the head of the gang ties his hands behind his back with cloth and leans in close enough to smell his hair.
Again.
Natasha laughs at his joke.
Again.
Town. Nat. Faro. Dinner. Rumlow- evil, abhorrent, a servant of the devil- kills Steve with his Sharps Rifle, bringing it down on his head until his insides were out. Rollins rapes Bucky’s mouth and plants a bullet in his skull.
Again.
Dinner is cut short by the arrival of Lucifer’s disciples.
Again.
He can’t keep track of all the bodies that defile him, all the jeers and swears melting into one voice that taunts him and makes him beg for death.
Again.
Steve has nice eyes.
Again.
They rape him in the barn, Rollins holding a knife to his throat and pulling his hair so hard Bucky felt like he was trying to tear his head off. His face is slashed open and his body shakes with shock, warmth between his legs and hot breath ghosting his body. They leave him like that. He doesn’t move for a long time.
Again.
Bucky refuses to cry as they torture him, choking back tears of anger, fear, hate, trembling with effort and screaming swears instead.
Again.
It’s a peaceful evening, one of many, that Bucky does not appreciate enough.
Again.
He shoots himself with Falsworth’s Winchester before they can lay a finger on him.
Again.
His fingers brush Steve’s as they work together to fix his saddle on Alpine’s back. He smiles at Steve, a strange warmth falling over his body like rain, and he feels his friend’s gaze on his back as he rides away.
Again.
Town. Peter Parker, Nick Fury, Nat… not Nat, not today. Faro. Dinner with Ma and Becca and the boys. Invasion. Horror. Death as fingers wrap around his throat, unwavering and gleeful.
Again.
Bucky… wakes up. Memories, faded and distant, cause his fingers to go to his neck.
Remember. He remembers.