Chapter 2
The cell is white. Clinical. Sterile surfaces designed for easy cleaning. No shadows to hide in, nowhere for the asset to retreat. Cameras in every corner, watching. Always watching.
The restraints have been removed, but that means nothing. The room itself is the restraint—reinforced walls, a door that will not yield to even the asset's metal arm, and beyond that, guards with weapons the asset recognizes as capable of incapacitating enhanced subjects.
Days have passed since the asset's extraction from the river it is sure, even with the constantly lit room and the lack of a timepiece. Days in this white room. Days of silence broken only by clinical examinations. Tests. Samples taken. Blood drawn. Scans performed.
The asset sits rigid on the edge of the cot, back straight, eyes forward, waiting. Always waiting. For orders. For maintenance. For correction. The asset's bullet wounds have been treated, ribs wrapped, nutrients administered through tubes while unconscious. Not kindness—necessity. A damaged asset has diminished value.
No chair. No bite guard. No preparation for cryo. Different, but familiar in its purpose. New handlers, same objective: utility.
The technicians behave differently than the ones the asset can remember. Colder, more detached. They do not speak to the asset, do not issue commands. Just observe, document, depart. Their eyes hold clinical interest. Assessing value. Cataloging capabilities. The asset is a specimen, a captured weapon to be studied.
The asset's right hand trembles slightly. A malfunction. Happens sometimes when maintenance is delayed too long. The mission has failed. The target has not been eliminated. Instead, the target has spoken impossible words.
"I'm with you till the end of the line."
The asset's breathing quickens. Unauthorized thoughts slip past barriers, like water through cracked concrete. A flash of memory—falling, screaming, snow and blood—then gone again.
Footsteps approach. The asset immediately stands, eyes fixed forward, body tense with anticipation. The door slides open, and a man enters. Short black hair, glasses, lab coat. Cold eyes behind professional demeanor.
Behind her, guards with weapons raised. Proper protocol when handling a malfunctioning asset.
"Subject appears alert and responsive," he says, not to the asset but to a recording device clipped to her coat. "Beginning cognitive assessment."
The asset remains silent. Unauthorized engagement is forbidden. This is a test. Has to be a test.
"Do you understand where you are?" Dr. Hayes asks, tone clinical, detached.
The asset's eyes dart briefly to the guards, then back to a neutral point on the wall. New handlers require proper compliance demonstration. Responding correctly will hasten the inevitable return to normal protocols.
"Ready to comply," the asset states, voice rough from disuse.
Dr. Hayes makes a note on his tablet. "Subject displays conditioned response patterns consistent with HYDRA protocols. Interesting." He looks up. "That's not what I asked."
Wrong response. Anxiety flares across the asset's skin like electricity. The metal arm recalibrates with a soft whir. The guards tense. The asset feels its body tighten too, its heart pounds and the contents of its stomach seem to slosh wetly.
"You're in a secure containment facility," Dr. Hayes says after a moment. "You're being held for study and assessment."
Study. Assessment. The words have operational meaning to the asset. Study means tests. Assessment means evaluation of function. At least this is familiar territory.
"Mission briefing." The words emerge as a desperate plea rather than a request. The asset needs parameters, needs to understand its current operational status.
Dr. Hayes's eyes narrow slightly with interest. "There is no mission currently. Your previous handlers are no longer in operation. We're assessing your capabilities for potential future utilization."
The asset's metal fingers curl and uncurl. Error. Operational uncertainty. The asset's breathing becomes shallow, rapid. New handlers. New protocols. Unfamiliar parameters.
"Awaiting orders," the asset tries again, voice strained.
"Orders will come when we determine your functional capacity and level of compliance," Dr. Hayes replies, circling the asset slowly, observing. "For now, you are to remain in containment while we complete our evaluation."
Evaluation. The asset understands evaluation. Evaluation precedes utilization.
"The arm," Dr. Hayes says, stopping her circuit. "Move it through a full range of motion."
A direct command. Relief floods the asset's system. The metal arm raises, rotates, fingers splay, then close. A familiar demonstration of capabilities.
"Fascinating," Dr. Hayes murmurs, making more notes. "The neural interface appears fully integrated. Response time nearly instantaneous." He addresses the asset again. "What maintenance does the arm require?"
"Regular calibration. Full servicing every three missions or thirty days. Replacement of damaged components as needed," the asset recites mechanically.
"And the pain? Does it cause pain?"
The asset hesitates. Pain is irrelevant. Pain is not to be reported unless it impacts mission performance. But the question has been direct.
"Constant. Manageable. Increases with extended use or damage."
Dr. Hayes nods, unsurprised. "HYDRA wouldn't have bothered with comfort considerations. Efficiency was their priority." He makes another note. "And your accelerated healing? How quickly do you recover from standard injuries?"
"Superficial wounds: hours. Broken bones: days. Gunshot wounds: dependent on location and severity."
This questioning is familiar. Capacity assessment. Standard procedure with new handlers. The asset's anxiety decreases slightly. Framework recognized.
"Please," the asset ventures, protocols bending under the weight of uncertainty. "The chair. Need the chair. Malfunctioning."
Dr. Hayes's expression shifts. Not compassion—calculation.
"You mean the memory suppression apparatus?" he clarifies, suddenly more interested. "Why do you believe you need that?"
"Malfunction. Memory contamination. Compromised operational capacity."
"Describe the memories," he orders, tablet poised.
The asset's jaw tightens. "The target. Known. Before. A smaller version. Images inconsistent with briefing materials."
"Captain Rogers," Dr. Hayes says, nodding. "Your recognition of him triggered a cascade failure in HYDRA's conditioning." He smiles thinly. "That's valuable data."
The asset backs away until hitting the wall, then slides down to a crouched position. Defense protocol engaged in absence of clear directives. The metal arm shields vital organs, right arm wrapped around knees.
"Asset failed mission," the asset offers, words coming faster now. "Target not eliminated. Punishment required. Wipe required. Please." A shuddering breath. "Please, cryo. Cold. Need the cold."
Dr. Hayes observes the behavior with clinical interest, making more notes. "Subject displays significant distress at conditioning breakdown. Requesting familiar punishment protocols." He speaks to the guards. "Make a note—we'll need to design our own compliance systems that don't damage cognitive function. HYDRA's methods were effective but wasteful."
The asset presses against the wall harder, as if trying to pass through it. Pain flares from the healing ribs, but pain is irrelevant. These are not HYDRA handlers, but the purpose is the same. Use. Function. Compliance.
"Your designation was 'the Winter Soldier,'" Dr. Hayes continues, "but your original identity was James Buchanan Barnes. This dual-identity conflict appears to be causing your current distress."
The asset shakes its head violently. "No name. The asset. The soldier."
"The historical connection to Captain Rogers makes you uniquely valuable," Dr. Hayes continues, ignoring the protest. "Once we stabilize your condition, that connection could be strategically significant."
The asset's head snaps up. "The mission. Is the target still designated for elimination?"
Dr. Hayes's smile is cold, calculating. "Not now. Captain Rogers could have been a useful ally under certain circumstances. Or he could have presented a significant obstacle to our operations. Either way, your knowledge of him and his serum is an asset we intend to leverage."
The asset's breathing becomes more erratic. Days without proper containment protocols are causing critical system failure. The arm calibrates again, plates shifting. The guards raise their weapons.
"Need maintenance," the asset pleads, eyes wild now. "Need correction. Need cryo. Please."
Dr. Hayes stands, his expression thoughtful. "Cryostasis isn't currently available, but sedation can be arranged if you become unmanageable. However, we'd prefer to keep you conscious for continued assessment."
He retreats, speaking in low tones to someone through a communication device. "Increase surveillance. Subject showing signs of instability. Prepare sedation protocols if necessary, but hold for now. We need more baseline data before chemical intervention."
The asset remains crouched, trembling now. Failure to comply with maintenance requirements will result in system degradation. Pain will increase. Memories will intrude. Cognitive dissonance will escalate.
When the door closes, leaving the asset alone again, panic surges. The cameras watch as the asset crawls to the corner, back against the walls, knees drawn up tight. Protection position. Minimizing vulnerability while maximizing situational awareness.
Hours pass. Or days. Time tracking has become impaired. Sleep is avoided—sleep brings dreams, dreams bring faces, names, sensations of falling.
When the door opens again, the doctor enters. Looking more rumpled, sleeves drawn up. White coat, clipboard, flanked by guards.
"We're going to move you to a different containment unit," he says without preamble. "One with monitoring equipment for prolonged observation."
The asset stares. Not a request. An instruction. This is familiar.
"Compliance expected," the asset acknowledges.
The doctor nods curtly. "Good. Stand up, hands where we can see them. Any sudden movements will be met with immediate sedation."
The asset rises slowly, muscles stiff from maintained vigilance, hands held at shoulder height—right palm forward, metal hand open with fingers spread to demonstrate non-aggression.
They lead the way through corridors of steel and glass. More white. More light. No shadows. The asset catalogues escape routes, defensive positions, potential weapons. Fourteen guards visible. Cameras everywhere. Containment protocols stringent and professional.
The new room is larger. A bed bolted to the floor. A reinforced glass wall on one side—observation area beyond, where technicians monitor equipment. No privacy. No concealment.
"The enhanced strength requires special consideration," one technician says to another as the asset is guided to the center of the room. "The arm especially. We'll need to develop specialized restraints if we want to study it directly."
"The neural interface is the priority," another replies. "If we can understand how HYDRA integrated the prosthetic with the nervous system, the applications would be extraordinary."
The asset stands motionless, listening. Understanding. Not people. Not handlers. Scientists. Researchers. The asset is a specimen now. A subject. The purpose has changed, but the outcome remains the same. Use. Function. Value derived from capability.
"Baseline scans first," the older doctor instructs. "Then stress tests to evaluate the limits of the enhanced physiology. We need to understand what we're working with before initiating any new programming."
Programming. The word sparks recognition. The chair. The pain. The electricity. The forgetting.
"Food and hydration as needed to maintain optimal physical condition," the doctor continues. "Sedation only if subject becomes unmanageable. We want cognitive functions intact for the psychological evaluation."
Days pass. Tests. Scans. Questions. Physical examinations that prod at the seam where metal meets flesh. Blood drawn. Muscles measured. Reflexes tested. Strength assessed.
No orders beyond the immediate. Sit here. Stand there. Hold this. Push that. Lift this weight. Run on this treadmill until collapse. Endurance measured. Recovery timed.
The asset complies. Compliance is familiar. Compliance delays punishment. Compliance is survival.
But at night, when the white lights dim slightly for observation of sleep patterns, the memories keep coming. The train. The fall. The target—Steve—reaching out. A small apartment. A battlefield. Blood on snow. Pain beyond endurance.
On the seventh day, something changes. New voices in the observation area. Raised voices. Disagreement.
"The arm alone could revolutionize prosthetic technology," one argues. "We need to understand it fully."
"And risk damaging our most valuable intelligence asset?" another counters. "Everything he knows about HYDRA operations is worth more than the technology."
"He's not talking. The conditioning is still too strong."
"Then we find a way around it. There are methods that don't require cooperation."
The asset's metal fingers curl into a fist. Methods. The asset understands methods. HYDRA had methods too. Different purpose, same approach. Take. Extract. Use.
A woman in military uniform enters the observation area, surveying the asset through the glass.
"Progress report," she demands.
Hayes hands her a tablet. "Enhanced strength approximately four times human baseline. Accelerated healing confirmed. The arm interfaces directly with the nervous system through a mechanism we haven't fully mapped yet. Cognitive function shows signs of fragmentation consistent with repeated memory suppression."
"And the intel? What do we know about HYDRA operations?"
"Subject remains uncommunicative about HYDRA. Conditioning appears to include strong loyalty triggers and fear responses to perceived betrayal."
The woman frowns. "So basically, a dead end."
"Not necessarily," Hayes says carefully. "There are more aggressive approaches we could take. Pharmaceutical interventions. Stress-induced compliance techniques."
"You mean torture," the woman says flatly.
Hayes doesn't deny it. "Enhanced individuals require enhanced methods."
The asset's breathing quickens, metal plates shifting along the arm with a soft whir. The monitors beep as heart rate increases. The observers turn toward the readings, then toward the asset.
"He understands more than he lets on," the woman notes.
"Of course," Hayes replies. "The Winter Soldier wasn't just a mindless weapon. HYDRA needed intelligence and adaptability for their operations. They suppressed identity and agency, not cognitive function."
The woman approaches the glass, studying the asset with calculating eyes.
"We have two options," she says after a moment. "Break him down and rebuild him as our asset, or extract what we need and dispose of the problem."
The asset remains still, gaze fixed forward, but every sense strains to hear their decision. New handlers, new purpose, but the same fundamental choice. Use or discard.
"Sergeant Barnes," the woman says suddenly, directly addressing the asset. "I know you can understand me. I'm going to make this very simple. You were HYDRA's weapon. Now you're our resource. The only question is how cooperative a resource you choose to be."
The asset's eyes flick to her briefly, then away. A test. Has to be a test.
"The asset is functional," the asset replies mechanically. "The asset complies."
"Good," the woman says with a thin smile. "Then tell us everything you know about HYDRA operations, personnel, and facilities."
Trap. The asset's metal arm whirs softly. Betrayal of handlers is forbidden. Violation of operational security is forbidden. But these are new handlers. Different protocols.
"The asset requires... clarification of current operational parameters," the asset says carefully.
"Your operational parameters are whatever we decide they are," the woman says coldly. "HYDRA is gone. You belong to us now."
Belong. The concept has operational meaning. Assets belong to handlers. The asset serves. The asset complies.
But something else stirs beneath the surface programming. A fragment of memory—the target's voice. "You've known me your whole life." Another voice, from deeper in the past: "Don't win the war till I get there."
The asset's flesh hand trembles. A question forms, dangerous but necessary for operational clarity.
"The target. Captain Rogers. His status?"
Hayes raises an eyebrow. "Dead. By your hand."
The asset's stomach drops and sweat breaks out over its skin. Hayes's expression hardens.
"Captain Rogers is dead. The injuries he sustained during your encounter proved fatal."
The asset's metal arm recalibrates with a soft whir as the information processes. Dead. The target eliminated despite mission failure. A strange hollow sensation expands in the asset's chest. Unauthorized reaction. Suppressed immediately.
"The official story is that he's still recovering," the woman continues, studying the asset's reaction carefully. "A convenient cover while we sort out this... situation. But I assure you, he's no longer a factor in your operational parameters."
Dead. The word echoes. The connection severed. The only person who has recognized the asset as something other than a weapon—gone. The fragmented memories now lead nowhere. No verification possible. No confirmation of the impossible words spoken on the helicarrier.
"The asset will comply," comes the asset's response, hollow and mechanical.