The Soldier was removed from the operating room by his current assigned handler and led back out, but if he turned his head to look back over his shoulder at the other weapon one last time, it was only his business. He was taken away, fed, watered, and praised for his performance and even some of the higher ups who were in charge but skeptical of the program to keep two of them showed up with razor smiles and crisp words of their expectations now that they had seen him in action. He was to perform well, or he would be considered a detriment. It wasn't words he thought much on because he was wiped clean and put back in storage within twenty-four hours.
His first mission came eight months later, though he would never know the difference in time. He was settled into a training for a week and then sent on the mission, a simple assassination by bullet from two hundred yards. It was to see how he responded in the field, but he was close enough to his last wipe that all of their precious conditioning held and he completed the mission without even toeing any line as if they expected him to. He was touted as being so obedient, almost docile.
He performed two more missions over the next two years, all of them relatively simple but important none the less. The second involved multiple targets in a expensive home in the upper echelons of Italy. He killed the family of six quietly in their own beds in the middle of the night, even suffocating the two young children with pillows. It was not an issue. He was praised; he was deemed a success.
The next mission came with a tactical error of the handler. He was sent into a fire fight when it was supposed to be a silent affair. His orders were simple: no witnesses. He had to take his time to kill every one; he even wiped out his entire unit sent with him, handler included. No witnesses they had said; no one who had seen him was alive when he was finished and stood silent, trembling and wounded at the extraction point. They told him it was a mess, but for some reason, they didn't blame him. He was still punished. They left the four bullets inside of him for the wiping so that the metal would make it all the more painful.
They took him to surgery after that, and it was deemed too risky to send him back to cryofreeze after major surgery even with his healing factor. He had a lost a lot of blood and needed monitoring, which involved a lot of laying down and drinking foul tasting fluids. When he could maneuver on his own without assistance, he was told he'd be settled for a few hours with another weapon. A visitation, they said. No one visited a damaged weapon, he thought.
Yet, in the small room with a soft palate for a bed for him to sleep in - more than he was usually given - he waited in a corner of the room, his torso and left leg still bandaged from the surgery.
no subject
His first mission came eight months later, though he would never know the difference in time. He was settled into a training for a week and then sent on the mission, a simple assassination by bullet from two hundred yards. It was to see how he responded in the field, but he was close enough to his last wipe that all of their precious conditioning held and he completed the mission without even toeing any line as if they expected him to. He was touted as being so obedient, almost docile.
He performed two more missions over the next two years, all of them relatively simple but important none the less. The second involved multiple targets in a expensive home in the upper echelons of Italy. He killed the family of six quietly in their own beds in the middle of the night, even suffocating the two young children with pillows. It was not an issue. He was praised; he was deemed a success.
The next mission came with a tactical error of the handler. He was sent into a fire fight when it was supposed to be a silent affair. His orders were simple: no witnesses. He had to take his time to kill every one; he even wiped out his entire unit sent with him, handler included. No witnesses they had said; no one who had seen him was alive when he was finished and stood silent, trembling and wounded at the extraction point. They told him it was a mess, but for some reason, they didn't blame him. He was still punished. They left the four bullets inside of him for the wiping so that the metal would make it all the more painful.
They took him to surgery after that, and it was deemed too risky to send him back to cryofreeze after major surgery even with his healing factor. He had a lost a lot of blood and needed monitoring, which involved a lot of laying down and drinking foul tasting fluids. When he could maneuver on his own without assistance, he was told he'd be settled for a few hours with another weapon. A visitation, they said. No one visited a damaged weapon, he thought.
Yet, in the small room with a soft palate for a bed for him to sleep in - more than he was usually given - he waited in a corner of the room, his torso and left leg still bandaged from the surgery.