[If Bucky was struggling to breathe before, his efforts have doubled as the first searing pulses of the programming blaze through him. In a matter of seconds, his skin has heated up as the familiar chemical burn eats through his defenses. He won't let himself run this time, he tells bimself, though his mental voice has become increasingly muddled as the snow in his mind melts. Sam's silhouette swims in his vision, sweat dripping into his brow.
But he deserves it, he reminds himself as his limbs weaken and phantom pain snakes up his left arm. He... he...
no subject
But he deserves it, he reminds himself as his limbs weaken and phantom pain snakes up his left arm. He... he...
He needs cold He needs something cold.]