Villain and Violent
“Comply. Obey. Complete the mission.”
This mantra circled the asset's brain, drowning out any feeling, then crawling its way out of his mouth and wrapping around his throat to remind him what would happen if he stepped out of line. The soldier said these things aloud in a guttural voice through gritted teeth as he hit the punching bag with all his force. His movement was methodical, never making a slip-up or missing the mark. But perfection meant nothing here.
“Again!” His handlers screamed from behind him. “You’re not pushing yourself enough! Do you want to die? This sort of sloppy work will get you killed! Do it again!” The blonde, middle-aged, man shouted as he circled the training mat like a furious animal ready to pounce. He didn’t see the man in front of him as human; nobody in this damned place did.
He had long ago forgotten his name; if he ever had a name in the first place. His handlers and the scientists in charge of the Winter Soldier program had long ago smothered out any memory of a life he may have had. Maybe he had parents, siblings, or even a lover. He couldn't remember, but none of that mattered now. He was the Winter Soldier. He was Hydra’s. His only purpose was to carry out the orders laid out for him. He was a weapon, a machine, and he would never be anything else.
The soldier reminded himself of this as he pushed himself harder, using all his strength and anger to punch with greater vigor. The knuckles of his flesh hand began to crack open, smothering the fabric of the punching bag with his blood. His metal arm held strong, he used more strength with this arm to make up for the stinging pain shooting up his right one. One, two, one, two; each punch had more force behind it than the last.
Suddenly, metal could be heard snapping from above. With one more punch; the bag flew clean off the wall mount, flying into the wall behind with a loud thud.
The Winter Soldier breathed heavily, his chest rising and falling rapidly, but remained in a fighting position. His long brown hair fell in front of his face, drenched in sweat, and his fist was covered in blood.
“Soldat! You broke our equipment! You break what we give to you to improve your skills! How dare you!” The handlers scolded from behind him, roughly grabbing his shoulders and dragging him out of the training room.”You’re retiring to your cell for the rest of the night! You’ll receive no evening meal tonight. You should hope that piece of equipment is fixable.”
The Winter Soldier was dragged back to his cell and then roughly thrown in, his knees slamming on the cold cement. The heavy metal door shut quickly behind him, and the mechanical locks clicked into place less than a moment later. The incandescent light bulb that hangs above him flickers off, engulfing the room in darkness, and forcing the soldier to try and adjust his vision while he stood up.
He dragged his body to his cot, slouching over on the edge and sighing. No dinner. He needed that food. He was exhausted and famished after that ten-hour training session. The asset wanted to scream, and back then; he would have. But, after all these years, he’s learned that fighting them on their punishments never got him anything but more trouble. If he fought his handler on this; the minimum they would do was take away meals for two days. He didn’t want the risk of the worst of what he could face, either.
He laid back with a huff. They didn’t give him a blanket to shield himself from the cold; so he hoped the blood-pumping exercise from earlier would be enough to stay warm for at least a little while. The man readied himself for a night of hunger and uncomfortable sleep, but then he heard yammering from outside his cell. Typically, he would have ignored the conversations of the handlers outside. If it ever included him; it was usually never good and put him on edge; it would make him worry that he would be put back in Cryo-Freeze or strapped to the Mind Crown. If the conversations were not about him; then he had no reason to care. But this conversation caught his ear from the handler's use of ‘born’.
The discussion verged more on gossip than official business; he figured they chose to talk away from the directors and in front of him because they knew he’d forget about it eventually and the directors would get on their asses if they talked like this in front of them. He heard them discussing what sounded like a baby, but why here?
“Yeah, he was born today! The woman's dead, Director Pierce ordered Novikov to take care of her shortly after…” one voice commented; it wasn’t the handler who was observing his training session today. The voice held more smoothness to it than the gratey one from earlier today.
There was a pause, and then the voice he was familiar with spoke up,” Do you think they will tell him that the kid is his? I mean… is he stable enough to be around an infant?”
A kid? What the hell was a kid doing in this place?! What sick games was Hydra playing to birth a baby here and kill their mother?! He knew that they were twisted, uncaring for human life, and only saw power. Even the brainwashed super-soldier knew that. And who was this unstable person his handler spoke of that they could be putting in charge of raising the unfortunate soul?! His mind couldn’t stop whirling with questions. He listened further.
“Well, I heard that they want the guy to train the kid. Not now, of course; but down the line. Maybe get them introduced to the life in a few years.” There was another pause and the sound of a cigarette being lit followed. “Right now the scientists are insistent on observation or whatever crap those guys downstairs do. The kid is supposed to be special or something…”
There’s a dry laugh and then smoke from outside wafts in through the small gaps of his cell door window. “Yeah, I bet he will be if he’s born from that brute!” A sarcastic bark comes from his handler, making his buddy laugh. “I guess there’s no better soldier to train the kid; guys a machine when it comes to that crap. Hope he doesn’t make the kid all soft, though. He gets weepy at times.”
This peaked the Winter Soldiers interest. They were talking about training a poor little kid in combat. What's worse is they’re testing on the kid; already expecting the baby to have popped out with special abilities. What a twisted fate; born into a place like this and already handed powers beyond the poor kid's control. They want some brute around here to train the child and the asset hoped for the kids’ sake it wouldn’t be one of the elite winter soldiers; those guys never held back. They'd probably kill the boy if he ever messed up a fighting combo.
He eventually heard the heavy heals of their boots walk away from his cell door, which left him in silence. He hated that; it was a bone-chilling silence in which he was left in the dark, his mind wandering the void. He could smell the iron from the blood on his hand through the dust that was suspended in the air. He let himself feel the pain of it for a moment and flexed the hand in displeasure.
He was angry, but that was nothing new. Nights like these always left him irritated, sometimes numb, while he stared up at the ceiling. He tried to poke through the cloud that was his memory but would always be met with unexplained sorrow. He had no idea why he was sad and whom he was sad for. Perhaps it was for himself; the man trapped as a weapon for god knows how long. Maybe it was for someone else; whom he may have known before he was this machine used to kill. But with sorrow followed resentment. He didn’t want to feel pity for himself; it didn’t get him anywhere. He knew nothing would change and it’s not like he could change his situation.
But tonight he felt anger for someone else but himself. It was for that damn baby and woman. He couldn’t understand why. He had ended a fair share of lives himself; killing innocents and non-innocents for a better half of a century. Some of those women and men he killed may have had kids; who would grow up without their parents. So why did he feel bad for that infant and that mother? Maybe because he could understand that pain? He knew what it was like to be used as a weapon and that child would most certainly be raised to be one. Maybe because he understood what it felt like to have everything stripped from your being? He may not be dead like that woman, but he most certainly felt it. If he ever had a life outside of this place; it was long gone. He was a shell of a man; killed with mission commands.
He thought about them as he drifted off to sleep. He hoped that, perhaps, that mother found peace in death. He begged with whatever forces, if they existed at all because he hadn’t seen them in a long time, would lead that baby to have a better life than this. Get out of this damn, vicious, compound someday. He wasn’t going to find love here.