Strawman Fallacy
"We must not confuse dissent with disloyalty.
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We will not be driven by fear into an age of unreason
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We can deny our heritage and our history, but we cannot escape responsibility for the result.
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We cannot defend freedom abroad by deserting it at home."
Good Night and Good Luck, Edward R. Murrow
There was a short straight flight of stairs leading down into a dark, oblong room bare except for a chair and some sort of control panel. There had been no chairs in A to C. James made his way downwards swiftly. The chair faced a wall that is opaque and a milky off-white in color, whereas all the other walls are black. With his enhanced hearing he picked up on a slight rustling noise on the other side of the opaque wall.
He froze at the sound, standing stock still and straining his ears with the intent of picking up on the sound again. He himself had been quiet in descending the stairs, so unless who- or whatever was on the other side of that wall had equally as advanced senses he shouldn’t have been noticed. James waited in this position for a full ten minutes, mentally counting down the seconds. During this time, the entire room remained deathly quiet to the point James doubted he’d ever really heard anything in the first place. Maybe it had just been airflow (yeah right); maybe it had even been his own wardrobe. He remained still for another minute, then crept back up the stairs soundlessly. He inspected the remainder of the vaults, finding nothing outstanding in any of them. He’d had a closer look at the panel in the last one. It didn’t seem to be very difficult to operate, altogether. By the time he was finished his eyes were finally starting to droop a little. The clock on the oven in the kitchen informed him that he’d made it to 5:36 am today, which was the earliest yet, or the latest depending on how one looked at it. Rolling his stiff shoulders carefully, he went back to his quarters, wincing at the pull of pain as the motion tugged at the fracture in his collarbone. This much was familiar. This had happened before. It’s because the metal of the arm doesn’t yield the way flesh and bone do, a voice supplied from the back of his mind, it’s like a car bumper. Yeah, alright. James yawned and stretched out on the bed after carefully removing the sling from his other arm, pulling the blankets up to his chest for a little cat nap before the base would erupt into activity again. The bandages on his hand would need to be changed today. That wouldn’t be pleasant, even though it was all healing over quite well. Of course there would be scarring, but then again he was seemingly collecting scar tissue. It’s not like one spot more or less mattered. What bothers me is that you were hurt so badly in the first place.- My Pa used to say that scars were the marks of survivors.
***
Tony Stark was growing irritated. Being who he was he was decidedly not used to his calls being ignored or downright rejected. By now he had moved up into his living room, nursing another mug of coffee and only half paying attention to a news report about an apparent massacre in Germany. Something about a number of men having been found in a rather wide radius around a lakeside villa some way out of Berlin. The images were unsettling, a lot of bullet holes and blood, and the rather unsavory image of two of the apparent victims having been very closely acquainted with a now splintered tree. Especially their guts seemed to be quite violently acquainted with those splinters. Tony turned away from the sight, grunting with grim satisfaction when the reporter announced that the men appeared to have been operatives of HYDRA. Now if only this elusive junior manager lady would pick up her damn phone that would be great. Tony set down his coffee for a moment and stretched as JARVIS re-dialed. Your personnel file had been drawn up before Tony for the better part of the morning now. He vaguely remembered interviewing you for the scholarship that would enable you to attend MIT some years ago, before he became Iron Man and his life took an irreversible turn for the weirder. But also somehow better, if infinitely more painful sometimes. Anyway, that had been the Maria Stark Scholarship. Establishing it had been one of Tony’s first moves when he’d inherited the company. Howard had wanted to give his wife the means to create a scholarship according to her own design, but then they had both died before anything substantial could be achieved. Maria had wanted to sponsor kids from underprivileged backgrounds, especially girls who wanted to get into the STEM fields. Tony had tried to keep in line with his mother’s vision, creating a foundation to the same end. So, the Maria Stark Foundation gave out one very prestigious scholarship per year, and Tony had made it his personal responsibility to interview the final candidates, and his prerogative to choose the winner. You must have impressed him if he chose you, though he didn’t exactly remember how. A life between partying and inventing had taken its toll on his memories it seemed. He was close to giving up when the line finally connected, your harried voice sounding through the speakers.
“Miss ________, this is Tony Stark. Do you have a moment to spare?” A beat of silence punctuated by an indrawn breath.
“I suppose I must have all the moments the guy who pays me my salary could ever possibly need me to spare.”
“Snarky. I like it. I see why our good Captain is so fond of you.” He rambled, glancing down at the spread of tabloids on the coffee table. The tabloids he wasn’t supposed to mention. The tabloids loudly inquiring after the mystery woman Captain America was apparently seeing, complete with grainy photos in which next to nothing was discernible about the woman in question except that she was, in all likelihood, a woman. The rainbow press being what it is had lapped it up nonetheless, trashy reporters having a field day with reactions on all ends of the spectrum, ranging from ‘how dare he tear our country to shreds (which was hardly what happened) and be all happy now?’ all the way to the ‘definitive scoop on the wedding of the century’. Tony still wondered how not a single of those salivating pulp writers had found out your identity. They loved their scandals, but they were sneaky like that, as Tony knew all too well from own experience. Probably Pepper’s doing; she could put the fear of God in greater men than some sub-par journalists.
“Mr Stark, I appreciate that you’re probably a very busy man, but it just so happens that I have a part of your company to run which, though admittedly small, still has its demands on my time and energy, so what exactly is it you want from me?”
“Yes, well, after you’ve recently come up on my radar due to, shall we say special involvement with mutual acquaintances…”
“Yes?” prompted your voice, sounding strained. It would sound progressively more strained as the conversation went on. Tony did notice this, but decided not to let that deter him yet.
“I also reviewed your work from your time at MIT, and I gotta say that’s some quite impressive stuff right there. Especially the work you did for your graduation project.”
“Thank you, but that was a group project.”
“Be that as it may, I could see from your file that you’re very skilled. You could have easily gone into R&D.”
“That’s kind of you to say, even if it’s not actually true.” you interjected. Sure, you had entered college with the dream of building the prostheses of tomorrow, but during your studies and work life you had found that other people were much better suited to that task, whereas you were rather more skilled at bringing these people together and managing them. Still, you thought back fondly on your hand. Because of course you’d had to tackle one of the most anatomically complex parts of the human body for your final project. Which was also in high demand, since people mostly lost arms or legs. So you and your fellow students had built a hand, complete with a few new techniques for processing the materials. There were patents and everything. You were actually quite proud of your hand and it still sat in a special box in a sideboard in your living room. The question was, what did Tony Stark want with your hand?
“Well, it’s kind of a secret project, but I would like you to help build an arm. Means will be provided, of course.” Oh, okay. You let this sink in for a moment. You knew from Steve and Sam that Tony Stark knew about your side dealings with sheltering fugitive one-armed amnesiac assassins. It wasn’t much of a stretch to deduce who that hypothetical arm was for, but you didn’t want to think about the plethora of potential implications just yet. Like what reason Tony Stark could have for wanting to personally commission a prosthetic for a man he didn’t even know. Or what was to become of the arm built by HYDRA (not even mentioning how you could never construct anything like it, for that matter). Or how it would come about that James would be parted from it in the first place. In any case, it wasn’t a decision to be made over his head. Which was what you eventually replied with.
“No, no, of course. For if it comes up, which I’m certain it will at some point.”
“If I can help, I will.” You replied cautiously. If you could help your Jamie in any way you weren’t going to refuse.
“Good, good, that’s good. Oh, and another thing…”
“Yes, you prompted again, your voice straining further with lack of patience.
“You recently requested that we approach some South Korean doctor about sponsoring her research?” At this, you perked up.
“Yes, Doctor Helen Cho. I met her at a conference last year. Her presentation was impressive and she was gracious enough to indulge my curiosity afterwards. Her work doesn’t directly pertain to prosthetics, but I believe it’s quite cutting-edge technology that could work miracles in a number of different cases.”
“It says here she does synthetic tissue something or other?”
“It’s quite a bit more complex than that, Mr Stark. Too complex, in fact, to be discussed over the phone at this point, but I believe that Dr Cho is a visionary and I am convinced she has the brains to back it up. What she lacks are the means.”
“Yes, alright, send me a dossier so I’ll know what I’m talking about when I call the lady.”
“Call… you’re gonna call her? Personally?”
“Yup.”
“Mr Stark, I…”
“Right, whiz kid, back to your duties and don’t forget that dossier.”
“I won’t. Mr Stark, I…”
“And think about that arm for your boyfriend. Maybe make a few sketches.”
“He’s not my…” you started and didn’t get to finish as the line disconnected.
“Unbelievable.” You muttered at the phone.
“You alright?” Pam called through the slightly open door. “Who was that?”
“Our boss is a riddle wrapped in an enigma and filled with a conundrum.” You answered evasively.
***
“This looks good, but you look very bad, Sarge.” Skye commented carefully as he retrieved the tin from the oven, not even bothering with a glove. The comment was as blunt as it was true. As previously established, he had trouble sleeping (more so than usual), and his nerves had become increasingly more jittery to a point he couldn’t simply walk off anymore. So, still pursuing the quest to become a fully rounded human being with interests and hobbies again, and in order to have something to focus on other than the fact that he was what HYDRA had made him, James had taken inspiration from the media and ventured into bakery. Which was surprisingly difficult to do with the limited use of his broken limbs, but he made do, as he always did. So yes, this simple berry pie did look rather decent despite the somewhat wonky lattice work and he, not having slept more than three hours in as many days and with the sickly yellow remnants of bruising still under his skin, looked completely awful. And since this was known he didn’t deign to respond. Instead he lightly whacked the young woman’s hand with a spatula as it ventured dangerously close to the previously made brownies.
“Those still need to cool down.” he grunted, voice still somewhat nasal from the fractured nose. It had caused him to start snoring, too, though only very lightly. Still, it was enough to disturb what little sleep he found even further. He wasn’t a sound sleeper, lately. He wondered whether his sleep had always been this light.
“Sarge?” Skye’s voice broke through to him again, signaling that he must have been staring at nothing while his thoughts trailed off. It’s a side effect of the sleep deprivation. He looks at the young woman next to him, then at the fruits of his labor on the kitchen counter. He’d been at it since the early morning hours. Thankfully the kitchen is far enough from any of the living quarters for the noise to have disturbed anyone. He rolls his left shoulder. It has been tingly and itchy for the better part of the night (which is psychosomatic, he knows, he knows), and now it’s starting to feel a little bit sore from the strain of beating egg whites and the like. Supposedly when Dr Constantiniou recommended some light activity in place of physical therapy she hadn’t meant hours on end of it.
“Take a muffin.” James decreed graciously with a vague gesture towards the counter. Skye snatched three, one of each kind, with an impish grin and he’s having trouble keeping his eyes open, suddenly.
“I’m gonna…”
“Take a nap?”
“Yeah.”
“Good.” Skye grinned triumphantly around a mouthful of chocolate chip muffin. James put a ‘Do not touch >:(’ sign on the pie and another that said ‘wait until cooled’ on the brownie tin before slowly shuffling over to the couch in the next room.
“Hands off the brownies!” he threw over his shoulders at Skye, who was in the process of filling a plate with muffins, presumably to bring to Fitz and Simmons.
“I could wait until you’re asleep and you wouldn’t even know.” She retorted cheekily.
“I would know.” He shot back in a tone that brooked no argument and flopped down on the couch. He felt so heavy as if something stronger than gravity was pulling him down. Skye appeared at the foot of the couch, smiling down at him softly (still chewing, too).
“Want me to wake you at a specific time?”
“Four.” He mumbled while his eyes drooped shut and he finally found some of the repose that had escaped him throughout the previous nights.
“As you wish.” She threw a blanket over him with a theatrical flourish. “Sweet dreams, partner.”
He woke on his own just a quarter of an hour shy of four in the afternoon. An unopened water bottle had been kindly placed on the coffee table next to him. Gratefully, he took a few sips and stretched. His shoulder ached properly now, all dull pulsing at the seam of flesh and metal and the sharp pull of slicing further down, around where the damned star cattle-branded him. And suddenly lying down became too much again, too fraught with faceless recollections. James shot up with a gasp, gripping the arm that hurt where nerves or flesh to hurt no longer existed. He breathed through it, gripping the water bottle in the other hand to ground himself in the present reality. The plastic groaned as he put pressure on it with his fractured fingers, the thin layer of new skin stretching across his knuckles. If anything, it was enough to bring him back from the memory of past pains, of being strapped down and cut into…
Whiskey goes surprisingly well with baked goods. Of course it doesn’t do much to him (unless he downed the whole bottle in one go), but that’s not the point. So, whiskey and brownies, and a slice of berry pie that’s still warm in the center. Comfort food for the uncomfortable. He clutched his arm to his side as he ate miserably, only grunting in greeting when one by one Skye, Jemma and Fitz filed in, taking up the seats around him. It always came back to the arm, lately. He didn’t know how the inner workings of his scrambled brain came together in this way, but the diffuse memories of pain had cleared enough for him to have once again become aware of what had happened to him.
“You wanna talk about it?” one of the youngsters says after successfully hounding for a slice of pie and a small heap of brownies each, and strangely enough, he does.
There is a moment of serenity when you die. You know this is the end, and maybe it's because your brain is already shutting down but there is a moment when you're weightless and painless, like suspended in limbo. And as he lay there, shattered, in the snow, he had peace at last. It was tranquil in the purest sense. The pain or the cold didn't bother him then. They, like everything else, had faded into insignificance. He'd even enjoyed it, this state of equilibrium, in the way one enjoys the absence of noise after it has driven you crazy for what feels like ages, and waited for death.
But death hadn't come to claim him, and gradually the pain returned, and the fear, and the cold. Do you know what it's like to have all your bones shattered? Are you familiar with the sensation of freezing to death? It's unexpectedly scorching. There is a phenomenon called 'paradoxical undressing' (they probably knew this, they are very smart kids). It occurs during hypothermia, when the cold in your body is somehow transformed into its opposite and you feel like you're on fire even though you're freezing. He'd tried to take off his jacket at least, but found that he couldn't even move. So he'd been reduced to just lying there, burning and paralyzed, and praying for death to come quickly. There is a portion in scripture, used in requiems, oh death, where is thy sting? Death, where is thy victory? 1 Corinthians 15:55. He'd heard the Brahms again, the few bars that had been playing when the news came about his father. It was stuck in his head now, the music tumultuous, defiant – or desperately yearning – Bucky Barnes had never been a particularly religious individual, his faith having been nominal at best, habitual at worst. As I lay there in the valley in the shadow of death. Literally. The sky had been so lovely though, off-white and clear save for a few fluffy snow clouds. Perfect Christmas weather. If he’d still been a boy and back at home they’d have built a small army of snowmen before the day was done. But he wasn’t a boy anymore, and not at home either, and it would take hours yet for someone to find him. He’d lain there, watching the sky darken and brighten again before someone must have found him. That part still escaped him.
“Wait, so you’re telling us not only did you somehow survive that fall, but you were conscious the whole time?” Skye looked a bit grey, her eyebrows knotted in a mix of sympathy and disbelief. Fitz stared into the middle distance thoughtfully, his nod almost imperceptible. Jemma had put down her food halfway through his tale, now looking half perturbed and half intrigued. James exhaled slowly against the thudding behind his temples, rubbing his palm against the metal plates of his arm as if it would actually do anything. There was an excess of nervous energy in him now, so he straightened and went to put the plates away quickly, setting aside the rest of the pie and brownies for the rest of the team, and one plate for the good doctor for fixing him up. Trip wandered in just then, looking exhausted but too wound up to find rest anytime soon. The two men exchanged a nod and Trip followed him back to the recreational area next door, settling in on Jemma’s unoccupied side. Skye nudged him lightly as he resumed fidgeting with his arm.
“There’s more, isn’t there?”
James sighed. He needed to talk. It was like an itch, a physical need. Only what would come out of his mouth next would be …unpleasant, to say the least. Could he put that burden on someone else in good conscience?
“Come on, then.”
About the arm then. The current one was the sixth and latest model, sleek, powerful, (largely) rust-free - a near perfect feat of engineering. The first arm had been a complete crying disaster. They'd attached it directly to the stump of his torn arm. To their credit, they had given him a decent dose of anesthetics before, but because of his enhanced metabolism the stuff had only made him woozy long enough for them to strap him down. By the time they were on him with their instruments his body had burned clean through the stuff and the remainder of the operation was spent fully conscious and aware, with a piece of wood between his teeth to muffle the screams. That first arm hadn't had nearly as much finesse, it's movement nowhere near the capacity of a healthy human limb and the nervous translation had just been awful. Really he'd been more effective without that dead weight attached to him. He guessed it might have been a prototype. To make matters worse the responsible scientists had slacked during the surgery and he'd developed gangrene and later blood poisoning. They'd taken it off eventually and chipped away at him some, removing the rotten tissue. The second arm hadn't been much better, nor the procedure of attaching it, but the connection to his nervous system had improved so that when he meant to curl his fingers it would work eight times out of ten, which wasn't all that bad for 1952. The problem was that because of the way it was attached to the stump of his arm, his body, even enhanced by the serum, wasn't equipped to handle the forces pulling at it when he used the arm. It went surprisingly well for the first few missions as the Winter Soldier, but eventually something went wrong, really badly horribly wrong, and he'd spent the subsequent time (Hours? Days? Weeks?) in a world of pain. When he finally came back to a state of being able to make sense of his surroundings, he'd found himself with the remainder of his left arm chopped away and a new metal replacement screwed in directly at the shoulder joint. That had been the third arm. It served him reasonably well for the next 20 or so years, when that, too, had gone south, his shoulder blade and collar bone being shattered in the process. But HYDRA did as they had always done, carved away at his body some more and soldered and re-built and attached the latest model. The man in charge by then hadn't had any regard for cosmetics and James owed him the scars even now still marring his skin where flesh met metal. They'd finally figured out how to properly relay the nerve endings, too. The fourth arm worked near flawlessly, and allowed him some degree of sensory sensation, pressure and temperature (some of nature's constraints aren't made to be lifted though; so texture would forever remain an impossibility). It was nowhere near what nature could do, of course, but it was surprisingly sufficient for missions. They'd grafted it so that the metal bit directly into his bones, or what remained of them. The chafing had only been a minor irritation. Subsequent upgrades improved upon the previous design and arm number six was reasonably useful, allowing for the full range of motion and a frankly surprising degree of feeling, so long as you didn't electrocute it or wedge a vibranium shield in between the plating. He'd gotten so used to it by now, really, naturally balancing out the added weight on his left side. All in all, he'd lived longer with the metal arm than the one of flesh and blood. Sometimes it still hurt, like right now, but that was nowhere near as bad as what he’d just described. James had closed his eyes halfway through. It allowed his brain to replay the gory memories with much more clarity, but at least he didn’t have to look at the stricken faces.
“Those monsters!” Jemma pressed out between clenched jaws, looking about ready to commit a murder. They all do, actually. Maybe he shouldn’t have unloaded his demons upon them. It was selfish and it’s not like he deserves… he’s so tired again, as if he hadn’t rested at all. If he doesn’t get up now, he’ll never make it back to his quarters.
“It’s done.” He grunted as he hoisted himself up from the oh-so inviting couch cushions. “No use crying about it now.”
They looked like they wanted to argue, so he quickly cut across them.
“What are those vaults for?” he asked, unclenching his stiff fingers from around the metal shoulder. The pain is duller now, just about bearable. “The ones down on level 6.”
The surprise about his non sequitur is evident. As is the pause before anyone answers.
“There’s nothing down there.” Skye replied, avoiding his gaze.
“That’s why I asked what they were for, not what was in there.” Lying, his mind screams at him, she’s lying.
“Those are cells, for if we catch some high-ranking HYDRA …person.” Fitz stutters out quickly. Too quickly; the words halt and jumble, but James can still understand him. He’s not even sure why he asked. Maybe because he’s been down to vault D a couple more times and thought he heard the rustling again, maybe even a breath or so. Maybe because he just bared part of his soul and there are so many things he doesn’t know because no one will speak of them. He bids the congregation a curt goodbye and drags himself to his quarters.
The jig is up, now. There’s no time to lose to solve the mystery of Vault D.
There was a short straight flight of stairs leading down into a dark, oblong room bare except for a chair and some sort of control panel. He makes his way downwards swiftly. The chair faces a wall that is opaque and a milky off-white in color, whereas all the other walls are black. With his enhanced hearing he picks up on a slight rustling noise on the other side of the opaque wall. A moment with the control panel and he has figured out how to work it and the opaque wall becomes transparent, revealing a sparse cell equipped with only a simple cot and a corner that is obviously intended to function as a bathroom. Propped up against the back wall sits a dark-haired man, unshaven and hollow-cheeked, his hands working absentmindedly at the hem of the light grey scrubs he's wearing. He blinks a few times, adjusting his eyes to the sudden light, dim though it is, and the new visitor. The man's eyes widen slightly as he takes in James' features, and he involuntarily draws up his knees in a futile protective reflex. The two men stare at each other a moment, trying to gauge the other's intentions. James doesn't drop his steely gaze until the man's eyes flicker and he blinks, then takes another moment to survey the room that clearly functions as some sort of holding cell, so at least he hadn’t been lied to about that. He knows full well that he's most likely not supposed to be here, wasn’t even supposed to know this place and this man exist, but doesn't care. He's had enough secrets kept from him to last him several lifetimes and more even that the withholding of this information the nature of the set-up doesn't sit well with him. He glances back at the man, who has picked himself up off the ground and stands at his full height, a good three inches taller than James.
"Who are you?" James asks, tilting his head slightly.
"My name is Grant Ward." the other answers stiffly, taking a tentative step forward into the dim light.
"And why are you here?" James presses on. The name rings a bell, or doesn't it? He isn't sure, like he can't be sure of most things. Steve's middle name is Grant; perhaps that is what set off the faint flicker of recognition. It can be that the name was mentioned in passing by the other agents, but never to him directly. In any case it doesn't do to reveal this weakness, so he keeps his features guarded, his face a blank mask.
"I'm sure you heard all about me upstairs." Ward says, his tone flat with a hint of defeat and self-loathing. It's a tone he knows intimately, but if this man is being kept down here it stands to reason that he did something that warrants his state of confinement.
"Might have. You know who I am." It's not a question, and Ward's voice is strained as he answers.
"The Winter Soldier."
"I prefer 'former Winter Soldier', but yes. You know what HYDRA did to me then, by now at any rate."
Ward nodded mutely, suddenly very glad for the barrier of his cell. Nevertheless fear compels the words to fall from his mouth. "Why are you here?" James considers this for a moment, but decides to let him hang for a moment longer.
"I wasn't always the Winter Soldier." he states, probing, not letting his unwavering gaze stray from Ward and the subtle twitch around his eyes. He takes a moment to answer, swallowing thickly before he does.
"I'm here because I was a HYDRA mole and betrayed my team, Sergeant Barnes." The manner in which he confesses his crime is straightforward and without an appeal for lenience, James has to hand him that. His thoughts briefly travel to Skye and the hard, haunted look she gets sometimes when she thinks no one will notice, and to Fitz and his shaking hands and frustrated grappling for words, and the pieces begin to slide into place. He senses a bigger picture here, and it's entangled with his own story, even if just along the edges. With a small humorless smirk, he settles himself into the chair and crosses his ankles in front of him before addressing Ward again.
"HYDRA took my history from me. Maybe I'm just here to collect what is owed. I want your history, and you will tell it to me. You will tell me your whole damn life story if necessary. I want to know how you ended up in the ranks of HYDRA, how you ended up betraying your team. You don't have to justify yourself to me - I just want a truthful account. What is owed - no more." Ward's shoulders sag as he resigns himself and resumes his spot on the floor.
"Where do you want me to start?" he asks wearily, a man used to accepting his fate, who has learnt not to fight down to teeth and nails.
"The beginning is usually a good place." James suggests, folding his hands across his stomach. And Ward begins, leaves out no detail - not that James could tell if he did - covering his whole life story from the torments his parents and brother inflicted on him and his younger siblings, to his time under John Garrett, to how he wormed his way into Coulson's team. He gets back on his feet during the last part of his tale, pacing in his cell as he recounts his eventual betrayal.
"...and then I pressed the button and threw FitzSimmons into the ocean. I tried to make use of what wriggle room I had, to give them at least a fighting chance. I tried to... I... I thought it would float." Ward's voice falters, and his shoulders sag just a fraction, but it's enough to notice. James' mouth curves into a humorless smile.
"Didn't try hard enough." He assesses, rather harshly. Doesn't matter, he's not here to provide comfort for this man. Ward nods mutely, accepting the verdict without even a hint of struggle.
"I was weak - too weak."
"Given the chance, would you choose differently now?" Ward doesn't even hesitate, giving a firm 'yes' and meeting James' eyes steadily for the first time since he started his story, like he wants the other man to truly appreciate that he is being absolutely, completely, 100% sincere. James nods sagely, having expected this answer because, truthfully, how could it not be that, informed by single confinement and the transformative power of hindsight. He gets up in one fluid motion and steps closer.
"Would you do it because you now know your wrongs or because you know the consequences and losses of your choice?" he asks pensively, letting his metal fingers skim along the surface of the invisible force field that is the barrier between Ward's cell and the world outside it. Ward takes a miniscule step backwards, briefly wondering of the metal arm enables the former assassin to break through the barrier and snap his neck. Reason tells him the answer is most likely no, but the hairs on the back of his neck still stand up.
"There's a difference between the two, you know. You might want to think about that. If there's one thing you can do here undisturbed and all day long it's thinking, isn't it." Ward nods again, exhaling slowly when James drops his hand and steps back, tilting his head slightly to peer at the man who is at once decades younger and a few years older than him.
"I'm not here to kill you, Agent Ward." he says calmly, fixing him in his unyielding gaze, "Beside the fact that it's not my call to make I think it's punishment enough for you to have to live with what you did."
He turns on his heel and leaves the vault without another word, but his mind is made up.
James stood leaning against the wall right next to Coulson's office as the middle-aged man approached. He'd been there for a while now, not having gone back to his quarters after his encounter with Ward. And he cuts right to the chase, in no mood to dance around the topic or ease into the conversation with small talk.
"What a nice cell you've given him," he all but snarls, his voice dripping with irony and venom, "A lot more spacious than where I was kept, but then of course I was frozen for most of the time."
Coulson stops dead in his tracks a few feet from his office door, quirking an eyebrow. "Good morning to you as well, Sergeant." he says, trying to sound casual, "Why don't we discuss this in my office?"
"Why?" James challenges, not bothering to keep his voice down, "Your team all know you keep people locked up the basement, don't they? It's very Mr Rochester, I'll give you that."
Coulson's composure wavers, the corners of his mouth turning downwards into an unwilling frown as he narrows his eyes at James, who remains summarily unimpressed.
"So this is your ‘asset’ then." he presses on, reigning in the rage that boils just underneath the surface, "You know, I was just the ‘asset’ for longer than you've been alive." James pauses to swallow the bitter taste that has risen up at the back of his throat. His rage is an ugly, snarling thing out for blood, and yet it pales though against the realization that the differences between SHIELD and HYDRA are more miniscule than he had so foolishly hoped and for a moment all he wants is to run and curl up in bed with you in your cozy apartment and leave this corrupt world of secrets spies behind for good. But he holds Coulson's gaze, firm and unblinking, putting the challenge out there for the agent. "I'm not denying he deserves punishment, all I'm saying is that you're supposed to be better than them."
“Are you quite finished, Sergeant?” Coulson asks humorlessly, holding the door open. James stomps towards the smaller man, almost shoving him aside as he makes his way inside the office where he will proceed to yell for the next 42 minutes.