Project Hellhound

Chapter 3

He doesn't flinch—the Winter Soldier never flinched—but something shifts in his expression. His metal hand recalibrates with that distinctive whir, plates shifting and realigning in a sound that once meant pain would follow. I sink lower instinctively, ears flattening further.

He notices. Something crosses his face—a shadow of understanding, followed by what might be guilt. His shoulders drop slightly, a deliberate effort to make himself less threatening. The Winter Soldier never concerned himself with appearing non-threatening.

"Easy," he murmurs, the tone gentler than any I've heard from him before. Not a command, but not quite a plea either. He studies my reactions with narrowed eyes.

His right hand moves slowly toward his sidearm, then pauses. After a moment's consideration, he releases his grip on the weapon. "Not here to hurt you," he says, his voice lowered to the soft, steady tone humans use with nervous animals. His eyes never leave mine.

My ears twitch forward despite myself. The Winter Soldier never used that tone. Never showed caution around us beyond tactical assessment. This man stands before me wearing his face, but he is not the weapon who trained us. Something's happened to him.

He maintains his distance, studying me with those changed eyes. I study him in return, cataloging the differences. His stance is less rigid, his shoulders carrying tension but not the perfect discipline Hydra demanded. He looks... burdened. Tired. Human.

In the distance, another explosion sounds—not close enough to threaten us directly, but enough to draw his attention momentarily toward the door. His jaw tightens, but he makes no move to leave.

He speaks into a communication device at his ear, eyes still fixed on me. "Steve," he says, voice clipped but not cold. "East wing, lab three. Found something."

Through my sensitive hearing, I catch the response—another male voice, concerned but authoritative. "We're running out of time, Buck. The charges are set. What is it?"

"Need a few minutes," he replies, something almost like pleading entering his tone. "Trust me on this one."

A pause on the other end. "Three minutes. Then I'm coming to get you."

A ghost of a smile touches his lips—an expression I've never seen on that face before. "Copy that."

He removes the comm unit, placing it on a nearby surface without taking his eyes off me. For several long moments, he just stands there, looking at me with an expression I can't decipher. Not the cold calculation of the Winter Soldier, but something more complex. Troubled.

His eyes narrow suddenly, head tilting as he studies me. A flicker of something—recognition?—crosses his features. He takes another step closer, just outside striking distance if I were to lunge.

"You remember, don't you? Not just commands. Not just training." He speaks with growing certainty.

I tilt my head slightly, ears shifting forward despite myself.

The movement isn't lost on him. His eyes widen fractionally, recognition solidifying. Something changes in his posture—a subtle shift from wariness to determination.

He approaches the control panel near my cage, studying it with a frown. "Enough of this," he mutters, clearly not addressing me directly but allowing me to hear his intentions through his tone. His movements are careful, telegraphed, as if wanting me to understand he means no harm.

His metal fingers punch in a code with swift precision—the same access code used by the highest-ranking handlers. The lock on my cage clicks, the sound unnaturally loud in the momentary silence between distant explosions. The door swings open slowly.

I don't move. This must be a test. Freedom is never freely given. Only dangled as bait for correction later. I've fallen for this before. The pain that followed taught me to be cautious. Even now, my eyes scan the room for observers, for the hidden cameras that always watch, for the scientists taking notes from behind two-way mirrors.

He takes a deliberate step back from the open cage door, palms open in a gesture that seems meant to be reassuring. His body language shifts to something I've never seen from handlers before—not demanding, not commanding, but inviting. Waiting.

He meets my eyes directly, something fierce and determined in his gaze. "If there's anything in there that understands what I'm saying—I'm not leaving you behind. Not to burn with the rest of this hellhole."

Another explosion sounds—closer than the last, the impact sending tremors through the concrete floor beneath my paws. Still I remain in my corner, watchful, suspicious.

"They call me Bucky now," he says quietly, one last attempt to reach whatever he suspects lies beneath the fur and fangs. "Not Soldier. Not Asset. And you don't have to be what they made you either."

The sound of running footsteps echoes from the corridor—steady, powerful strides approaching rapidly. Bucky tenses, head turning toward the noise, but relaxes slightly as he seems to recognize the pattern.

"Buck!" A voice calls out—the same one from the comm. "We need to move! Now!"

He looks back at me, something like urgency in his eyes. "Last chance," he says quietly. "Freedom or captivity. Your choice."

Choice. As if any creature truly has one. As if the Winter Soldier—Bucky—himself ever had one.

I remain perfectly still, watching him, measuring him, trying to understand the change in the man who once controlled my every movement. Who now offers what no one has ever offered before.

A choice.