Chapter 5
The training room was cold and impersonal, like everything in that base. 616 kept her posture rigid, watching the man in front of her. The Winter Soldier didn’t speak much, but his empty eyes were command enough. Since that day in the arena, he had been her mentor. Not by his choice, nor hers, but because Hydra had decided that he was the best tool to shape her.
"Attack," his voice was sharp, emotionless.
She obeyed without hesitation, advancing with precision. He easily blocked, spinning his body to dodge the kick she tried to apply. The impact came fast—a direct punch to the stomach that brought her to her knees. She tasted the metallic tang of blood but didn’t stop. She couldn’t stop. He expected her to get up, and she did.
The training was brutal. Strength, endurance, strategy. It didn’t matter if she was five years old—if she made a mistake, she suffered the consequences. But he never punished her unnecessarily. Unlike the scientists, who saw her only as an experiment, the Soldier simply trained her. No praise. No criticism. Just endless repetitions, perfecting each movement.
At first, he saw her as nothing more than another task, another objective to be completed. But then, something changed. He began to notice patterns, small things. How she never hesitated to retaliate, even knowing she had no chance of winning. How she never complained about the pain, even when it was obvious she was at her limit. How her eyes seemed to absorb everything, learning at a terrifying speed.
"Again," he ordered. She obeyed.
Time passed, and 616 noticed small changes. At first, he treated her like a soldier. Now, sometimes, he corrected her posture with less brutality. Her strikes were still harsh, but not relentless. And, on rare occasions, when she failed and got up anyway, he would just stand there, looking at her. As if he were seeing something he didn’t understand.
He never said anything. He never showed anything. But sometimes, when she faced him, and their eyes met for a second longer than they should, 616 wondered if he saw in her the same emptiness that lived inside him.
--
616's first weapon training was silent. The instructor placed a small knife in her hand and watched. She gripped the handle, feeling the weight, her fingers adjusting automatically. The Winter Soldier was there, watching from a distance, without interfering.
"Attack," the instructor ordered.
She advanced. The blade sliced through the air, but her strike was hesitant. The man disarmed her with ease, and the knife fell to the ground.
"Weak," he muttered. "Try again."
From that day on, the training became grueling. Knife, concealed blade, baton, revolver, rifle. It didn’t matter the weapon; 616 had to master it. Her hands became covered in calluses, her arms burned with exhaustion. But she never stopped. The Soldier began training her personally when he noticed her endurance. Her strikes were precise, cold, but sometimes—only sometimes—he would hold back at the last instant.
"You hesitated," Kraus said one day, after a hand-to-hand fight between them. The Soldier did not respond.
Kraus moved forward, pointing at 616, who was still on the ground, panting.
"You are compromising the program. If she's not ready, she'll be discarded."
The Soldat turned to him, his expression as cold as ever.
"I was assigned to train her. If she's seriously injured, the mission will be compromised."
The scientist narrowed his eyes.
"Since when do you care about her condition?"
There was a tense silence. The Soldier didn’t respond immediately. When he did, his voice was low but firm.
"It’s not a matter of caring. It’s a matter of efficiency."
Kraus let out a short, cynical laugh.
"Right. Let’s see how long that lasts."
He walked away, leaving them alone in the training ring. 616 looked up at the Soldier, her breath heavy.
"You hesitated," she repeated, not really understanding why she said it.
He watched her for a moment, then picked up the knife from the floor and extended it to her.
"Take it. Again."
She obeyed.
--
In addition to the relentless combat and physical endurance training, 616 began taking lessons once Hydra realized how quickly she absorbed knowledge. She sat in a cold room, her eyes fixed on the papers and books in front of her. There was no pleasure in learning for her, only the need to become perfect, to meet the expectations. But somehow, the sharp mind the super soldier serum had given her began to learn effortlessly, and reading and writing became a new tool of power for her.
The instructor who taught her to read and write was a man with an always impassive gaze but with a certain coldness in his voice. He would say the words, and she would repeat them, without question.
"Each word is a key to control. Through words, you control."
He handed her an English book, filled with complex words, but 616 didn’t hesitate. Her eyes skimmed the pages with impressive speed. The instructor, initially skeptical, quickly realized that the young girl was reading with the same precision she used with her knives. He watched her, almost as if she were an experiment, to see how far she could go.
"You’re doing this too quickly," he remarked, raising an eyebrow.
She didn’t respond. She didn’t usually answer anything that wasn’t a direct order. She just kept reading, absorbing the content as if it were etched into her mind. The instructor, observing her, seemed more and more perplexed by her ability.
"You shouldn’t just read," he continued. She remained silent, her eyes fixed on the words she was reading, not straying from the goal: to learn. "You need to understand the meaning of the words and know what they can cause in others. Don’t limit yourself to simple learning, 616."
She didn’t need validation. She needed nothing except to fulfill what was imposed on her.
After several days, 616 was subjected to another lesson. This time, there were no books. The instructor placed several blank sheets of paper in front of her. She stared at the sheets, not immediately understanding the purpose.
"Write," he ordered.
As the instructor dictated the text, 616 grabbed the pen and began to write with impressive precision. She transcribed phrases, words, strategies, as if everything were imprinted on her mind. But then, without realizing it, she began to draw. Lines and shapes began to appear on the paper, like a need she didn’t know where it came from. It was no longer about learning or training; it was something inside her, something out of control.
The instructor stopped speaking, his gaze fixed on her.
"What are you doing, 616?" he asked, his voice low but full of tension.
She continued drawing, not lifting her eyes from the paper. The silence in the room stretched for a few moments before the instructor spoke again, now firmer.
"You were instructed to write, not to draw."
The instructor watched what 616 was doing for a moment, his gaze hardening as the silence grew. When he finally moved, it was swift—he grabbed a wooden ruler and stepped toward her. Without another word, he lifted her and, with force, slapped her hands with the ruler.
The impact was abrupt and dull, but for 616, it was nothing. She didn’t feel pain. In her mind, she compared that touch to the harsh blows the Winter Soldier had once dealt her during training, which had been much more intense and brutal.
"This doesn’t hurt," she thought, almost with disdain. The sensation on her palm was merely a slight distraction. The Soldier hits harder.
"Pay attention!" the instructor shouted, delivering another blow, stronger this time.
616 didn’t move, her eyes still fixed on the drawing beginning to take shape on the paper. She knew that if she continued ignoring the order, punishment would come, but for her, it was nothing more than a formality. Pain was irrelevant. She felt the pressure of his hand firming, but her mind was elsewhere, in a memory of the brutality the Soldier once imposed on her—the quick and precise punches, the marks he left mercilessly.
When the instructor struck a third time, 616 finally looked at him, her eyes cold, uninterested.
"Is that all you’ve got?" she asked in a monotone, with no emotion behind the words.
The man was momentarily stunned, frustration overtaking his face. He prepared to strike again, but before he could move, 616 withdrew her hand from the ruler and returned to drawing, completely ignoring him.
The instructor, his face red with frustration, said nothing more. He took a step back and left the room without looking back, leaving 616 alone. But it didn’t take long before the door opened again, this time not by an authority figure, but by five Hydra guards—tall, muscular, with impassive expressions.
Without hesitation, 616 stood up, fury etched on her face. She wasn’t afraid. They knew that. They didn’t care. She had faced greater challenges. The fight began instantly, the first punches and kicks exchanged with impressive speed. She was agile, fierce, the blade of violence always sharp. The guards tried to subdue her, but she was unpredictable, moving with the precision of a machine trained to fight.
But suddenly, the door opened once more. The Winter Soldier entered silently, observing the scene. He didn’t say a word, but his presence was imposing enough to make the guards hesitate for a moment. With a swift and almost effortless movement, he grabbed 616, lifting her off the ground as if she were a child. His strength was unshakable, and she couldn’t break free.
He placed her on his hip, easily holding one of her hands. She didn’t protest. Not anymore. Her anger, which had seemed uncontrollable before, was now transforming into something deeper. Something she couldn’t identify. She leaned forward, burying her face into the Soldier’s broad shoulder. His scent was familiar, but something felt different now. She began to scream, the frustration spilling from her chest.
"I do everything they tell me to!" she shouted, her voice trembling. "And they won’t let me do anything I want! Nothing!"
616 was in the Soldier’s arms, her screams echoing through the room, rage and desperation overflowing in her voice. But as she screamed, something happened to the Soldier. He held her with unwavering strength, but there was something in his gaze—something that, for a brief moment, reflected more than just the simple task of keeping the girl under control.
He felt a slight tension in his muscles, an automatic impulse. A flash of a distant memory crossed his mind, something long forgotten, something he hadn’t experienced in years. He was back in that moment, holding another child—small, fragile, lost. She trembled in his hands, crying and screaming. It was another life, another time. A life he couldn’t leave behind.
Without thinking, he began to gently pat 616’s back, his mind trying to connect with that echo of the past, that gesture which once felt natural. He remembered how the child, with her terrified eyes, had calmed when she felt that simple touch. Maybe it was the only thing he knew how to do in those days when he still had the ability to feel. Maybe it was the only way he knew how to convey something resembling care, something he knew how to give.
616, still trembling, was confused. What was happening? She had never been calmed this way before; she had never been treated with any form of kindness. The simple act of patting her back seemed unusual to her. She stopped for a second, her breath quickening, trying to understand what was happening.
She pulled back slightly, her eyes wide with surprise, but the Soldier didn’t release her. The pats continued. And for the first time, an uncomfortable feeling washed over her. It was a strange sensation, something between pain and relief. As if part of her wanted to resist, but another part deeply longed for it. It was a contradiction, a silent battle within her.
In the depths of her mind, she recognized what he was doing. Trying to calm her. Trying to soften the storm. But something about those gestures felt... human. And she hated how it made her feel. She tried to look away, but her body was in conflict, between anger and a need for something she hadn’t known she had lost.
The Soldier, in turn, had no idea how that simple gesture was breaking the ice he himself had built over the years. He knew what to do, but he didn’t know why he was doing it now. It was a distorted memory, a reflection of something he could no longer reach. An unconscious attempt to convey something he may have lost over time. But in doing so, something was breaking in his own resistance.
616 stopped screaming. Not because the pain or the anger had disappeared, but because the soft touch on her back had somehow silenced the storm within her, even if only for a second. She didn’t know what to do with it. She had never known. But as she stayed there, in the Soldier’s iron embrace, she felt, for the first time, a strange sensation—it wasn’t comfort, but it was something close to it. And it scared her even more.
When the nurse appeared and the needle was inserted into her arm, 616 didn’t resist. She felt her mind darken, her body weaken. And before she lost consciousness, the last thing she realized was that, for a brief moment, she hadn’t just felt pain or anger. She had felt something else... and that made her feel vulnerable in a way she never knew she’d be capable of understanding.