Bucky—he was once the partner of Captain America.
But during a mission he fell from the train and tumbled into a ravine. In that moment, he thought he would die. But instead, the next thing he remembered was waking up in a cold, sterile facility. His memories were fractured, his body aching.
His left arm was gone.
Someone named Dr. Zola was there, speaking in clipped German, watching him like a specimen. They gave him a prosthetic arm—cold, metallic, unnaturally strong. And from that day forward, he was no longer James Buchanan Barnes.
He became something else.
They called him the Winter Soldier.
He remembered flashes. Blackouts. Missions. Blood. Sometimes he had thoughts that weren't his. He wore black—always black—and there was something behind his eyes. A shadow he couldn't understand.
He didn't know who he was anymore. Only that he was a puppet. A weapon Hydra used whenever they needed someone dead.
Then, one day, something changed.
There was a mission—another assassination. A target. But as he closed in, something flickered in his mind. There was a woman… and a child. They weren't part of the objective, but they were there, watching him.
And for the first time in years, he hesitated.
When they screamed, he didn't silence them. He fled.
He didn't understand why. He just knew he had to run.
He tried to disappear, to outrun Hydra, to piece together the broken fragments of a life he no longer remembered. He didn't know where he was going—only that he was done being their weapon.
But fate had other plans.
Before Bucky could find Steve… before he could even find peace… he was captured again. This time, he was sealed away—trapped in a cryo pod like a forgotten relic of war.
And as the cold began to consume him, as the ice crept over his thoughts, he told himself:
"Next time I open my eyes… I'll be Hydra's puppet again."
But he was wrong.
When Bucky awoke, it wasn't Hydra that greeted him—it was two strangers: a teenager, and a woman. He was disoriented, groggy from the long sleep. But his instincts screamed at him. He scanned them both, noting their odd presence, the boy especially.
There was something wrong about him.
The teen had an eerie calm… and powers Bucky couldn't understand. He saw him raise his hand and summon a force that twisted reality—reviving two others, Liam and Myria, turning them into something that shouldn't exist.
Undead. Reanimated. Like monsters from old horror movies.
And he spoke as if he were a god, saying things like "redeemed," "cleansed," and "mine."
Bucky also noticed two others—Drake and Olivia. He didn't know their story, but they looked just as confused as he was.
Bucky did what he always did when things went sideways: he ran.
Or at least, he thought to.
But whatever this kid was… Bucky quickly realized he couldn't outrun him. He wasn't fighting a man—he was fighting a force of nature. When the teen created a swirling black hole of energy that bent the very air around them, Bucky stopped.
Moments later, they all stood in what appeared to be a luxurious room—modern, warm, and softly lit by golden chandeliers. Through the frosted windows, the city skyline shimmered in the distance.
"Wait… are we back in New York?" Natasha asked, glancing around in disbelief.
Michael nodded slightly, not bothering to explain. He'd opened a portal directly to his home in New York.
A moment later, Mia entered from another hallway, her expression tense. "I felt an unstable signature from your room," she said, narrowing her eyes. "So I came to check. And… I see three more guests."
She glanced at the three winter soldiers as he asked curiously "Who are they?"
Michael replied lazily as he sat on sofa. "Guests," he replied simply. "For now."
Then, he turned to Natasha. "Also, call Steve," he said. "Tell him to come pick up his old war buddy."
Natasha's brow rose slightly, but she didn't argue. She nodded and stepped away, already dialing.
Mia, meanwhile, gave a small nod before turning to leave and fetch some refreshments for the group. But before stepping out, she paused by the trio of former Winter Soldiers, her gaze calm but firm.
"Whatever you're afraid of," she said softly, "you can let it go now. You're in the White Estate."
Her eyes flicked toward Michael. "No one can harm you here."
She said it with quiet certainty—the kind that didn't invite argument.
"Because no one dares cross him."
The silence that followed was thick, almost tangible. Drake and Olivia exchanged uncertain glances, still struggling to comprehend what exactly they had stepped into. Even Bucky—who had once seen the full force of the Tesseract unleashed—watched Michael carefully from his seat.
What unsettled them the most wasn't just the sudden change in their surroundings—from a frozen, crumbling Hydra base to this near-palatial safehouse.
It was how it had happened.
One moment, they had been sealed in cryo pods in the depths of Siberia. The next, they were here—safe, warm, and clearly in what appeared to be Michael's home.
It felt like a dream.
No doors. No travel. No warning.
Just him.
They couldn't even begin to understand the kind of power that made such a thing possible, so they did the only thing that felt safe: they sat quietly, careful not to speak out of turn, as if afraid even their curiosity might offend him.
But then, Michael finally broke the silence.
"You guys can relax. I'm not going to eat you," he said casually, hands in his pockets.
The three exchanged glances, still visibly tense. After a moment, it was Drake who spoke up, hesitant but blunt.
"…Why did you save us?"
Michael shrugged. "Why? Simple. I need capable butlers and maids."
There was a moment of stunned silence.
"Butlers?" Drake blinked.
"Maids?" Olivia echoed, confused.
Even Bucky raised an eyebrow.
Off to the side, Natasha sighed and facepalmed. "What he meant to say," she said, stepping in before things got more awkward, "is that he needs reliable people under him. People he can trust. You'll be part of his inner circle—disguised as domestic staff for the sake of his family's safety, especially when he's not around."
Michael gave a small nod. "You could also… say it like that."
"You should say it like that," Natasha muttered,
Michael just shrugged again, entirely unfazed.
*******
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