DEMONS.
( chapter twenty-one. )

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Edited 12/26/2015 @1:50 AM
Edited 07/21/2016 @7:18 PM
Edited 11/29/2017 @2:35 AM

[ WINTER SOLDIER. ]

  THE MAN KEPT CALM.

  With his back pressed firmly to the reclined chair, surrounded by men with guns, he had to be. There simply weren't any other options— at least, not for him. But, he felt it simmering just beneath the surface; a barely contained frustration. For someone meant to be a weapon, he felt entirely useless.

  However, the man knew better than to voice his thoughts. He kept his expression neutral. His eyes just as hollow. Emotions were a dangerous thing. The cost wasn't a price he was willing to pay, especially when he hardly knew what or why he was feeling.

Though, it was often like that; him, lacking the knowledge and yet having the skill already ingrained. The notion as to what was right or wrong decided only by the men who had done this to him. He needed nothing. No thoughts. No feelings.

  And yet, he still wondered. What had they done? Was he better for it? Was it neccesary? Did it fulfill a purpose?

  A dull ache ricocheted through his head, spreading fast. He hardly flinched. Thoughts too preoccupied by each question he asked himself.

What was his purpose?

What was he made for?

A soft groan sounded. This was worse than a migraine, it felt like someone had reached in to pry open his skull. The world around him began to spin. He was pushing against a barrier he knew he shouldn't touch.

  But he did it anyway, because he had to know— who was she?

  That woman on the bridge had sparked a curiosity inside of him. It gnawed at his self-control. Ate from his thoughts. His need to understand was poison. He knew that.

He should have abandoned all thought of her. He should have refused to wonder at her agony. Her pain. A smarter man would have realized what it would cost him. A machine would not ask questions.

And that's exactly what he was; a machine.

  The thought brought no comfort. The man glanced to the person beside him. A support worker, repairing his metal arm. He didn't recognize their face, but he seemed to understand what he was doing. As if he'd done it all before.

But, how was that possible?

The man couldn't recall if he'd ever seen the mechanic's face. In fact, he could remember nothing prior to the mission that had led him to that bridge. Panic flared to life.

  Why was that? Why couldn't he remember anything? What was it that made him submit to the control of others so easily— and why was he so afraid of what would happen if he didn't?

  The pain had gone razor-sharp and he sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth. He was losing control. But, the man quickly realized that he had never really had any to begin with. Control had never belonged to him.

Control belonged to someone else entirely— and so did he.

  Why was he even here? What was his purpose? Why did remembering hurt?

  The man felt the ache behind his eyes increase sharply before it faded once more. "You don't have to live like this." The man lifted his head in shock. The movement was so sudden, that even the mechanic at his side had jumped in surprise. But, the man in the chair paid him no mind. Instead, his eyes searched the room, looking for the woman he was so sure he'd heard.

  But, had he? Or was it just a memory? Did he know her? After all, she seemed to already know him.

  The man's ragged breaths cut through the silence. A hand clawed its way to his forehead. In his faint memories, the woman on the bridge returned. Her devastated eyes.

She had been so prepared to kill him. Then his mask had fallen and that fight in her died. Her expression had caved in and the only thing he could read was that she was in pain.

  "Bucky?"

  What was it about that name that broke her? Why was it that when she spoke, for once in his life, it felt like something belonged to him. Not HYDRA. Not the woman on the bridge. It belonged to him.

  The soldier closed his eyes, brow furrowed as he tilted his head back. Every thought led back to her. He didn't even know her name, so why was there grief in his chest?

  Suddenly, the man tensed. His body locked up as something occurred to him. A name he hadn't known he'd been searching for.

"Andrea," he breathed, an exhale of relief.

The entire room went still. Machines did not speak. Weapons were not meant to make odd sounds. But, the soldier took no notice.

  Instead, he was sent reeling as a thousand emotions rushed through him. His chest fell and rose rapidly. He clutched at it, not understanding what it was that he felt. His mind hurt and he knew her. He knew that face— that was why he'd hesitated. Somehow, in some way, this woman knew him.

Just as he'd once known her.

  In the midst of his overwhelming emotions, the man tried to distinguish what he was feeling. There was anger, pain, loss, and above all, there was devastation. It was too much— it was too much.

  The rage hurtled out of him. His bionic-arm swung wildly, flinging back the person who had been working on it. He slid across the floor, knocking over tables and trays as he went. The soldier felt no remorse, he hardly even knew what the emotion was.

He was just angry.

  In an instant, all guns were aimed at him. All the man could do was stare at the ground. Carefully, he calmed himself, burying the emotions after a few minutes had passed. He didn't know what to feel now. He didn't understand how such a simple name could have this effect on him. He didn't like it.

  He wanted it to stop.

  "Mission report."

The soldier looked up at the demand. But, in spite of the request, he kept his lips pressed into a thin line. His gaze easily met that of Alexander Pierce.

The older man repeated himself and, when the soldier again refused to answer, he brought his hand back. The soldier braced himself. The resounding slap echoed through the room.

  The soldier's head snapped to the side and anger quickly overcame him, but what could he possibly do? He wasn't a weapon here. No, in this room, he was no more than a puppet. A gun with the safety on.

  Slowly, the soldier turned back to his commander. "That woman and man on the bridge, who were they?" The question was out before he could think better of it.

Pierce visibly tensed. "You met them on a previous assignment," he replied.

To anyone else, the answer would have been sufficient. It was quick, spoken with ease. The voice of a promising politician.

How unfortunate that the Winter Soldier wasn't a fool. It didn't take much to see beyond his lie. Those people on the bridge meant something more. He just didn't know what— and Pierce clearly didn't plan on sharing the knowledge.

  The soldier let his gaze fall, thinking over the name. It was easier to control his emotions now as he replayed it in his thoughts. It still made some part in his chest ache, but he was curious. He needed to know who she was.

  "But, I knew her," he whispered. "Her name... is Andrea." The soldier kept his eyes on the ground as his fingers curled into fists.

The pain in his head returned. A blade anchored firmly in his skull. He groaned, clutching the hair cascading past his face. He had long hair?

  The thought was like a trigger to a gun. Vivid images burned through his thoughts— or was it his memory? His stomach twisted, nauseous with each passing recollection. What had he done?

"You're a gift to mankind," Pierce spoke, his voice snaking through the soldier's panic. "You helped shape the century— and I need you to do it one more time."

  Pierce knelt down in front of him. "We're at a tipping point between order and chaos. Tomorrow we're going to give it one last push. If you don't do your part, then HYDRA won't be able to give the world the freedom it deserves."

  The word 'freedom' made the soldier want to scream. This wasn't freedom. It couldn't be. This was about power and only power. It was about those who stood at the top and those still stuck at the bottom.

And if there was a bottom, he had sunk right through it. It made him sick, but there was nothing he could do. Every agent in this room had their guns on him— ready to fire if need be.

He didn't stand a chance.

  "But, I knew her," he seethed, mournful with the knowledge. That ache in his chest seemed to channel right through him.

Pierce stared down at him with disgust. The soldier knew what the contempt was for. He couldn't afford to have his weapon left in such a state.

  "Prep him," Pierce ordered, still staring down at the soldier with those same, cold eyes.

The soldier exhaled a shaking breath. His fingers curled tightly in on themselves, digging into his palms. He knew what those words meant and panic seized his body.

He didn't want this.

  "But, sir," a timid voice cut in. "He's been out of cryo-freeze for too long."

"Then wipe him and start over," Pierce snapped, heedless of caution.

The soldier had always known they cared little for the damage done to him. Only, now it meant far less. Losing a weapon would be no great loss, not when they were already so close to achieving their goal.

  Still, they would use him while they could. An asset was an asset. They were going to take take away every part of him, all over again— and the soldier wasn't going to stop them.

He didn't want to feel anything anymore. He didn't want to be human. He hated himself for being so weak. But, it was so easy to give in, to let go of this fear and this grief. It was so much easier to feel nothing at all.

  "Yes, sir."

The soldier didn't want to be shoved down into his seat. He leaned back, eyes on fire as he met Pierce's gaze. The older man merely gave him one last look of disgust before heading towards the door.

Another scientist came forward, pressing a rubber guard into the soldier's mouth. When that was done, he placed both the soldier's arms on each arm-rest. It was only then that the dread set in.

  Pieces of metal were set into motion above his head, electricity humming alongside it. Bars wrapped around his wrists, effectively securing him against the seat. Though, he wasn't sure if he felt trapped. Wasn't this what he had wanted?

The man couldn't tell anymore, couldn't distinguish between what he wanted and what was simply easy. He was scared, he knew that much. But, he was always scared. Mostly of himself.

The metal bars above him began to lower. He jerked in fear. An automatic reaction. By the time he had the sense to bite down on the rubber, the machine had wrapped completely around the soldier's head.

  There was no countdown. No moment to prepare himself. The scientist's pressed the button and his mind was set on fire.

  The pain was nothing but torture. The only thing more jarring than the pull and jerk of his body were the sounds of his screams as they left his lips. Vicious cries that echoed through the halls.

Ten minutes in and he felt it as it happened; the pain fading into the background. The world darkening around him. Relief, he thought.

But, that wasn't entirely the truth, because weapons are good for one thing and one thing only: killing.

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