spaces_between | For morethanashield

For morethanashield

Who: James "Winter Soldier" Barnes & Steve "Captain America" Rogers
When: Months after initial capture
What: AU - Both Steve and Bucky fell from the train. Both were captured and forced into service of HYDRA as their weapons to shape the world.
Warnings: Maybe violence?

The pain was momentarily numbed, though it would return along with his orientation of his surroundings now that the days experimentations were over. For the first time, he was stable enough to be moved from being trapped and monitored in the medical wing (he assumed it had a name though didn't know it) and shifted to the cells where only a guard was required to keep watch over numerous subjects in their small cages side-by-side. The room was kept colder than normal to prevent them from moving around much or thinking too hard about escaping.

His head was fuzzy and his vision wavered as he was settled down in the middle of his new cell. There were whispers (always were), but his head was too drained of anything to grasp onto any one detail. This was a test apparently. Perhaps to see if he could survive the rigors of the illusion of freedom in a small cold cage left to his own devices. They left, clicking the door shut with too much noise that he twitched where he lay.

At first he lay on his right side just drinking in the air, orienting himself on one aspect of his surroundings before adding another. He allowed his ears to focus next, the sounds of moaning prisoners, the mutter of a disgruntled cold guard making rounds, the shuffle of cold experiments trying to find that one warm place that didn't exist. His sense of touch was next, feeling the rough cement under his arm, and the cold wash of sensation from the left side of his body where heavy bandages covered some recent modification to where his arm should be. At last, he allowed his eyes to pick out things, but it was the current weakest of his senses, fallible and blurry as he dragged himself across the floor.

He didn't know where he was going, didn't know he was being watched keenly for what direction he chose to go when there were four options for him. One had no other prisoner, the other three did. He pulled himself towards the right, and though he didn't know it, towards where they were all very excited that he would go. To him. He nestled against the bars in the corner, breathing hard from the excursion but slowly curling up. There was a source of familiarity nearby. He chose to be close to it.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

The guards on one side of the glass exchanged words with the guards on the other side, speaking through walkie-talkies that weren't obstructed by the soundproof glass. They were, both sides, satisfied with the test. No, more than satisfied. They were excited.

He heard half of the conversation, but felt only the barest stirrings of curiosity. Even then, it was only for the sake of best anticipating what he would be needed for next. He felt for the mission, not for his own sake. Whatever would happen, would happen.

He would survive. And he would do as he was bidden, because he couldn't remember life being any other way. It was almost...soothing, to comply. When he did, it seemed to quiet the yawning emptiness that was otherwise always lurking in the back of his mind. He wasn't something, no, but he was more than the nothing the ruin of his mind told him he was.

Seeing the man on the other side of the glass was the first time he could remember really feeling something himself. So it was for the best, that it just so happened to be something he was allowed to feel. Something that he could serve HYDRA in feeling.

He did not want this man to be lost. It would be...a waste. HYDRA needed weapons. And no one weapon could change the world alone.

He was taken from the room after a few more words exchanged, and for the first time he was not put back in the chair. Instead, he was fed - the carefully calculated nutritional mass designed to keep him functioning without keeping him truly healthy. He was watched carefully all the while, of course, but that was nothing new.

Finally, they took him into another room, a room with a man tied to a chair. A man who was blindfolded and gagged, utterly helpless. They gave him a knife, and told him that the man was an enemy of HYDRA. One who would oppose, even dismantle, HYDRA's glorious plans for the world. A man who would take everything...everything they had built, and take it down to nothing. Down to the last weapon.

They told him to kill the man.

It should have been the easiest thing in the world, and yet Steve hesitated, for the barest fraction of a moment, before he brought the knife down. Something prickled in the back of his mind. Something familiar. And yet, in the end, it wasn't familiar enough. The blood was warm on his face. The man died almost instantly, choking on his own blood.

He was punished, badly punished, for his hesitation. A weapon of HYDRA must not hesitate. Yet the trial itself was a success, showing that their theory was sound.

HYDRA's other soldier would get his replacement arm, something functional and sleek, in development almost longer than the two had been held there. Something carefully molded to the interface embedded in his shoulder, that could react as smoothly or even better than his flesh arm. He would even be told why. Or at least, he would be told that the other soldier had secured his continued survival. All because each piece in the machine should look out for the other pieces, for the sake of securing the continued survival of the whole.

They would be expected to dispose of one another, if one proved a liability rather than an asset. But as of now, it looked like a bright new day for HYDRA.

And once they were certain that the soldier was acclimatized to it, they knew just who he could test it out on, too.

His guards exchanged whatever words were necessary and he continued to stare at the blond weapon on the other side of the glass. He didn't expect a reward for his answers; he had learned to expect nothing at all, just to exist in the last few weeks. When there was no pain, he was allowed to go into idle mode and linger in consciousness until the next order or test for him to perform. He was still requiring a lot of work given his disability.

When he was removed from the room with the glass, he only looked back once at the other weapon, his gaze lingering for a moment as if to assure himself that both of them were leaving. One was not abandoning the other. The sheer idea disquieted him, but there was no need for that idea to lodge because they both left at the same time with the guards to lead them in different directions.

He was put to sleep in cold and ice, the first to enter cryostasis. He was incomplete and thus slightly more expendable then the other man, so it was a process tested on him first, on the lesser serum that flowed through his body until the prosthetic had been shipped down from Russia to be equipped. He survived the subzero freezing, and the team that worked and knew him best worked to attach the new arm that would be his new one, to replace what he had lost and tip the balance of power so that it was far more even. He was kept asleep for that process but they warmed him appropriately.

Disoriented but with two working arms, he throttled a curious technician without the order. He was wiped clean after he was properly sedated, the imprint that the arm was part of him and he was to use it as such. Then he was put through drills and the full range of the limb tested on various substances to assure them of the quality. He was told that his cooperation would earn him a small warm spot now and again; he didn't think much on it.

Now that his metal arm seemed relatively indestructible and moved well, they had a single final test. He was to combat another weapon that was on the same level as himself, to show the full motions and abilities of his arm and to prove that their conditioning would hold if put in a situation where he would have to withdraw similar punishment as he gave out. The few mercenaries who had volunteered hadn't lasted long against him after all. It was better for bigger and better things.

While one weapon was put through his paces with his new arm, the other was put into cryostasis to wait, now that the process had been properly refined and they could be certain of bringing him out of it. He was awoken a scant day before the test, and because HYDRA did nothing if not learn from their mistakes, he was properly restrained until they could finish warming him.

It was a way to test how quickly their weapons could recover from cold sleep - they might need to be deployed at a moment's notice, after all - and also a way to further even the field between them. There was an undeniable, inescapable physical disparity between them. The serum in one was just stronger, more pure, than the serum in the other. The metal arm could make up some of that difference, but not all.

Yet that wasn't all they wanted to test. Before being brought out into the training yard, they gave him a weapon of his own - a shield, perfectly round, painted pure silver but for a red star in the very center. He could appreciate the design of it, the subtle brilliance of it. A target might subconsciously attack the more visible color, after all, rather than the man in black wielding the shield itself. And while on the surface, the cold and logical side of him questioned the offensive value of a shield, he nevertheless accepted it without comment.

And when he hefted it on his arm, something about it felt undeniably, indefinably natural. He discarded his doubts immediately.

He was to combat another weapon that was apparently on the same level as himself, to test himself in a live combat situation and to prove that their conditioning would hold. They weren't to kill one another, and they were to stop fighting immediately if ordered. Beyond that...anything was allowed.

His steps faltered for a moment when he was led out into the yard, with only two guards this time and three scientists fanned out behind him. He told himself that it was only the faint surprise of properly seeing his opponent, a pause to assess him. Even just from the way he moved and walked, here was clearly a fearsome opponent. He would definitely be in for a fight.

But he would fight to the best of his abilities. There was no other way to carry on.

As he took his place on one side of the field, Steve favored the man with a nod, even a faint smile. All their conditioning still hadn't been able to leave him entirely empty of emotion. There was an unthinking ease and courtesy to him, something that even now might be called charisma. Eventually, they had allowed it to persist. After all, it made him easier to work with. One day, it might even make him a leader.

But otherwise, he waited for the signal to begin. Once it came, he would try to close immediately, keeping the shield between them until the very last instant he was ready to strike.

Like most training days, he was taken out of his small confining cell and warmed with exercises and doing the new tests on the arm to make certain that it still followed his nerve commands. While he practiced, he heard the odds against him, that regardless of any upgrades that made to him, he was of the poorer stock when compared to the other weapon. The guards jokingly called him 'Soldier' for being the grunt worker, the one to get the jobs where he was considered more expendable. His opponent was called 'Commander' for being the superior one, perhaps even more proven in combat and the one who would perhaps always be the brains of an operation. He filed away those terms but had no opinion about them.

He wasn't allowed to have an opinion. He was to take the orders that he was given and use them to the best of his ability, and still be able to think on a mission when he was deployed. They were not yet entirely trusting that his abilities or his training would hold up on minimal supervision activity, but at the same time, he regenerated more slowly than the other weapon so he was less likely to fight back sometimes.

The Soldier was taken to the grounds where he was undertake this combat training for his arm but also as a comparison to measure himself against the other weapon. He flexed his shoulders, clothed simply in black combat trousers and a leather jacket. Unlike his fellow weapon, he wore a muzzle-like mask over the lower half of his face, keeping him from showing too much expression in case it might trigger something.

He carried knives along his legs and belt, no guns as they were required to close and combat with strength today. He stared at the other weapon, that sensation of fishhooks setting in his brain causing him to shift his footing as he remained a good distance away. He didn't acknowledge the other weapon at all, just stared the distance with his new arm glinting in the light of the room.

The combat training began, and he remained standing perfectly still as the distance between them closed. There was something about that shield, he decided. He waited, letting the other weapon close the distance until he could see right into the other man's blue eyes before he side-stepped quickly to avoid a strike, back-peddling smoothly to keep a relative safe distance, making the other weapon close on him rather than take the offensive just yet.

He heard those names, heard the something like twisted affection that lay beneath them. To the unobservant, to the outsider, they might almost have sounded affectionate. Yet he was not so far gone, not so unobservant, as to understand the truth. It was the sort of affection one might give a pet, which was to say it was undercut with scorn. He was indulged, regarded with rather more fondness than the soldier, because he was better at pretending to be a person.

He saw and understood all of this. Yet he remembered it only in so far as it might come up again for predicting the patterns of behavior in the people around him, for missions or similar. He remembered the name "Commander" only to respond when he was addressed as such, and only as some simple way of distinguishing himself from the Soldier. They meant nothing beyond that. Sometimes he thought he understood that better than the other soldiers.

He heard the odds being made, the bets and wagers, the catcalls and calls of something that might, for lack of a better word, be called encouragement. He almost pitied them, that their lives were apparently so empty that they had to find satisfaction in the performance of another, in petty distractions. The man standing across from him on the field...he seemed to understand, at least a little more.

The half-mask did disorient him for a moment - for a moment, there was a sense that there wasn't enough of this man, and that wasn't right. It was enough that he didn't anticipate the neat little sidestep. His opponent was there and gone in an instant. Yet he did recover quickly, pivoting on his heel to face the man again, bringing his shield around in a wipe swipe as he did so to ward off any knives that might have been coming for him in that moment of distraction. After that, he would go for the legs with a low kick, trying to scythe them out from under the other weapon.

The mask wouldn't catch him off-guard twice, especially not with any scrap of body language that might play into this fight. But it had put his opponent off to an advantageous start.

They had an audience for the combat training, both those who were taking notes on their progress, those of higher stations within HYDRA and some of those who were expected to handle one or both of them in the field at some point. It was far enough away so as not to interfere with any direction that their fight might go, though close enough where those in charge of arranging this could easily and effectively call it to a stop.

He darted backwards to avoid the wide swing of the shield, keeping just out of reach but still close enough to rap his metal fingers against the shield as he tested what it was made of based on the sound it made. It certainly didn't crumple, and there was an odd little gong that came from it like a large symbol ringing. It gave him information before he engaged, and that was how he planned on winning this contest in the first place.

He was underdog, the lesser of their pair of weapons. His skills didn't lay in brute strength, though he could activity engage. He decided quite simply not to. He let his other shadowy and questionable talents show instead.

He jumped the foot that swung out to trip him, dancing away neatly as he twisted so his metal arm flashed into the light of the room. He kept a few paces ahead, forcing this weapon to come to him rather than the other way around, drawing Steve in and displaying those powerful deadly skills to the betting audience. He hadn't even drawn a knife.

He was being played - he knew he was. Yet at the same time, he wasn't quite sure what to do about it. He hadn't been trained for subtlety, he'd been trained to use his superior physical attributes to their best advantage. However, all that training had proceeded under the assumption that none of his targets would be his equal - the Soldier was the closest possible.

It was...hard, trying to think in anything other than straight lines. Harder than it should be? It didn't matter. He needed to get in close, no matter what tricks his opponent might be planning or hiding. That was non-negotiable. That was the mission. To stay back galled at all his learned instincts. He couldn't subdue his target at a range...

The barest flicker would betray his sudden revelation, before it was immediately followed up with a hard toss of his shield straight at his opponent's head. He was already anticipating the rebound from the high ceiling if an impact failed, moving to meet it. If an impact didn't fail, then so much the better for him.

If nothing else, he knew that he should also get a proper sense of that arm and what it was capable of, above and beyond the fact that it was perhaps stronger even than him. Yet he didn't know for certain, and that was dangerous even in a training situation. They had told him that the shield wouldn't crumple under any impact. But even he was not half so durable.

While he wasn't paying that much attention, he sensed a stirring in the crowd when they didn't immediately move in and pummel each other. It seemed that the other weapon was also uncertain of what to do now that he wouldn't simply rush in and engage to show off his arm. However, his arm was a weapon upon a weapon; he used it when it was most beneficial for him to complete his mission. Right now, he was studying his opponent, so there was no point wasting himself on flashing it about.

Like now. He threw his metal arm up like a shield of his own in front of his head, knocking away the shield before he realized his slight error. He watched it ricochet away and return to the other weapon's hand, and he knew he should have caught it and perhaps used it for himself. Next time, he thought.

While the man was slightly distracted getting in place to grasp the shield, he drew a knife and threw it with deadly accuracy the distance that was between them.

((ooc: I'm cool with Bucky winning this, btw. Brings up some potentially interesting possibilities.))

This was good. It wasn't what they were expected to do, but it was better. More efficient, more productive. Surely that was worth more to their data, to their understanding, than simply pummeling one another into senselessness? He'd been given this weapon all of six hours ago - what could he do but experiment a little with it?

Better now than in combat. Better punishment for not performing according to specs than death for it. This was the first fight he could ever remembering having where he needed to think.

He'd been braced for the knife coming, piercingly aware of the inevitable threat, entirely conscious of the fact that there could be no guarantee of non-lethality where blades were concerned. Unfortunately, as he moved to retrieve his shield, momentum was against him, especially as he was naturally slower on his feet than the other weapon. He compensated well, and quickly, but not quite enough - the blade drew a long, deep gash across his shoulder, before embedding itself in the floor.

The pain was merely a flicker, something he spared an instant of thought for and a moment of gratitude that the wound hadn't been to his dominant arm before returning his attention to the fight. The Soldier wouldn't be getting that knife back. He had plenty more, obviously, but his reserves couldn't be infinite. That was something to keep in mind, at least.

Meanwhile, he knew it was nothing short of unforgivably dumb luck that had allowed him to retrieve his weapon at all. He hadn't expected the other weapon's reflexes to be quite so fast, even with the metal arm. He'd been wrong. A trick to remember for future missions against weaker men, perhaps, but not now.

While he was entirely aware that to get in close would be to play right into his opponent's hands, he was also cognizant of not really having a proper choice. He had been ordered to fight. It would be dangerous, but as long as he was confident in completing his objective, that should not concern him. He would learn. He would adapt.

He would survive.

All thoughts that flickered through his head in a blur, before he settled on his next move.

This being to heft the shield into a position to protect as many vital areas as it could, keeping it between him and the other man, and rushing in hard and fast. He would almost certainly get stabbed and slashed for it, but he probably wouldn't die and that was what mattered. The Soldier couldn't retreat forever in these confined quarters - bringing the scientists into the fight was unacceptable. He knew he had to get in close and stay there, to even have a hope of bringing this fight onto his terms.

[Sure! I'm good with that too. It could be interesting.]

They weren't allowed to kill one another. They weren't allowed to engage the audience either. Those were the two rules that had been laid down firmly, reinforced with a prodding to make certain that he understood. The space that they fought in made it easy to do both though, especially at the pace and strength that they were apparently going to be fighting at.

He felt very little for his knife scoring a hit, and he had already discounted it as a victim of their combat and didn't intent to make a fuss retrieving it. He had more, and while he wouldn't throw them quite as often, he now knew that he could and be able to score more than first blood between them. He hadn't completed his mission so there was no need to feel as if he might be rewarded for his efforts here today.

The Soldier still kept his distance where he was at what seemed to be a bigger advantage. Other opponents he would have already closed and ruined them, but not the other weapon. It was as much a show as it was combat. They took his memories but not his knowledge, so he had best learn while there was a chance to do so.

When the bigger weapon closed on him, he set himself before darting to the left, towards the audience in full awareness that they both operated until similar rules, his right hand grasping the hilt of a new knife and pulling it into hand as he twisted to slash at the air in front of him to perhaps keep the other man from closing too rapidly.

By rights, it was a gamble that neither of them could afford to make, for reasons of orders rather than realities of combat. But orders trumped all else. Obedience was non-negotiable. It was a gamble made simply to see who faltered first.

In the end, he did - too cognizant of the short distance between them and violation, too cognizant of how very weak and vulnerable the audience was compared to the two of them, unable to entirely trust that the other weapon would pull back in time if he continued to press the attack. Expression twisting slightly in faint distaste at being once again thwarted, a flicker that was as as good as a snarl, he stopped a scant two paces short of where he really needed to be. Instead, he pivoted to try and both get and stay between his opponent and the audience - an accident would be as good as willful disobedience - and swiped at the air in front of him with his shield. The two weapons gave a high ring where they collided, followed by a skittering screech of metal as the knife was deflected.

He immediately followed up with another swipe on the backswing. It would mean overextending himself half a pace, but he did so anyway, in the hopes that he could at least catch his foe a glancing blow before he recovered.

His limitations were far more narrow, cutting things by a fine hair as he measured the distance as a sniper estimates how to get the best shot possible. His feet land just on the inside of the invisible line that he was not to cross, his weight rolling to the left again to keep from being forced against the rules. He could hear the inhales of several people, but it was the sound of excitement, of enjoyment for having the show and the combat this close.

His knife screamed against the metal of the shield, but he had balanced himself well as he ducked the backswing of the same item that could do some serious damage, but there was an opening. He immediately stepped in and took it with two fast strikes of his knife, his left hand shoving at the wrist holding the shield to prevent it from coming back around while his right hand moved to draw blood.

He might as well have been cutting through butter, the ease with which the knives cut through clothes, flesh, and muscle. One long slash across his chest, the other a stab to his side. The fact that it went deep enough only to catch at his hip-bone could only be a deliberate reprieve.

That should have been the end of it - after all, in combat conditions, it was clear just who the only survivor would be. But the order to stop didn't come. So he didn't stop, even as he was entirely aware of the fact that this battle had just become a losing one. Maybe they wanted to see just how long he could last when wounded. Maybe they just wanted to test his opponent's obedience. It didn't matter. He hadn't been told to stop, so he fought.

He twisted, instead, enough to fling some of his own blood up into the man's eyes. It was followed immediately by moving in close for a headbutt. Unfortunately, his priority in doing so was to stun the man long enough to free his wrist, which took priority over inflicting damage. He would try to retreat a few paces, if successful - maybe his opponent's advantage would make him overconfident enough to close instead.

There were a great many things he could do in this situation, he knew, but none were likely to make up the difference between them at this point.]

His knife scored hits on both movements, and it was unfortunately that the black clothing didn't allow the full scope of how the blood bloomed from the other weapon. He had felt the shock of his blade skipping off of bone, but he wasn't to kill the other, so he withdrew before he could twist to do more damage. What he had done was enough to prove that, while he was only Soldier to this Commander, he was capable in his own right of inflicting damage and following orders.

The call to stop the fight didn't come, but he hadn't been waiting for it either. He was here to fight another weapon, and he would do so until he was told to stand down. There was never a pause or hesitation in his motions to keep going as his metal hand continued to prevent the smash of the shield on him. They struggled, his blue eyes intent on the face of the other weapon who continued to carry that faint whimsy of something better, something warm and tender, something he needed in the same way that he required to be fed, watered and exercised.

He felt the wet spatter of blood on his half-mask, across his nose and had to blink quickly to avoid it in his eyes. He drew his head back but not fast enough, their foreheads colliding and with the greater strength and height, he released his hold on the wrist with the shield and withdrew, shaking his head to clear it as he raised his bloody knife.

This time, he took the offensive and darted back in low in an attempt to jam a leg hard into the other weapon's knee as he punched at the man's sternum with metal fist and slashed for the back of his opponent's thigh with his knife.

He managed to dodge the first attempt to trip him, but it unfortunately only left him caught - the metal fist was not only coming in for an attack, but blocking him from ducking the slash to his leg without going back into the audience. By the time he tossed his shield to his other hand to smash it aside, he could already feel the hot bite of metal tearing into his flesh once more. He knew, in a cold, clinical fashion that was entirely walled off from the pain, that he'd just been neatly hamstrung.

The order to stop came, barked out from the sidelines. He froze, mid-swipe, as though a switch had been flipped. One breath, two, and then he slowly lowered the shield, letting out a shaky sigh that betrayed far too much pain, exhaustion. Fighting this man, this weapon, had been...wrong, tiring, above and beyond his being simply defeated. All the while he'd felt like he was wading through muck and mire, struggling against something inside as well as out, a sense he only appreciated fully now that he'd been released from it.

He was...relieved, that the fight had stopped. Even if his performance had been poor. But that was fine, wasn't it? His performance might have been poor, but the Soldier's had been exemplary.

The order to stop had come, but the order to sit had not. He grit his teeth but forced his one working leg to take all his weight, as a couple of the scientists moved in close to give them both a cursory examination.

His knife found flesh, his fist did not. Yet, at the order to stop, he froze mid-motion and remained poised for the next set of orders that would release him from standing so close to this weapon. He was barely winded, but his limbs slowly returned to his sides even of his leg remained pressing warm and solid against the now injured one of the other weapon. There was a potent silence that fell over them, all eyes on them as they stood so close.

He lifted his blue eyes to the other weapon and saw sign of pain, and while he was generally immune to the suffering of others, there was something that tugged at him at the sight of it on his man. He lifted metal fingers between where they stood, the cold digits caressing in a foreign gentleness the other man's cheek. He had showcased his skills, yet why was there a sinking sensation like falling in his stomach?

He stood for the examination, but aside from bruising, he had escaped their exercise with almost no injury. The other weapon was not so lucky, and he only stepped away when urged to so that the other weapon could be properly assessed. His flesh fingers caressed the edge of the shield, blue eyes watchful of the other man, waiting for instructions but a part of him straining to shift to bear some of the other weapon's weight. Not yet. Soon.

There was...assistance, being offered to him. Reassurance. Neither of which he should need, accept, or require, let alone be offered. It should have been just an accident of timing that left them both standing so close together, in a way that he could lean just fractionally against his opponent. This he did, allowing himself a moment, with the justification that it was better to show a little weakness than to disobey.

In doing so, he lifted his gaze to regard the other man, now that combat was over and such things might be allowed. Dimly, he was aware of people talking around him, some thoughtfully comparing notes, otherwise gleefully collecting their takings from impromptu wagers on the fight. But it all felt like it was coming to him from very far away, as their gazes met across the short distance between them.

He flinched when the other man raised gleaming metal fingers, well aware that he had punishment due for his failure. But it didn't come, in that moment. Instead, that hand that had been created to take lesser men to pieces stroked his cheek so gently that he barely felt it, barring a little shiver that raced up his spine at the contrast of the cool metal and his flushed, sweat-stained skin.

The contact, and the lack of hostility behind it, set off something...warm, satisfied, deep in his chest.
Something content, though he no longer knew the word as it might apply to him. To the point that he felt himself smile, brief and bright as summer lightning. He didn't know why. He had absolutely nothing to be pleased about. Maybe it was only the quiet assurance that he hadn't disappointed everyone, that his opponent, at least, was pleased by his efforts.

He almost staggered when the other man was brushed aside, but caught himself at the last moment. Instead, he stood, as straight and tall as he could through the weakness and pain. It would be taken care of in short order, one way or another.

The wound in his leg was prodded with mercilessly clinical fingers. Surgery would be required, but between that and his healing factor, he should be back on his feet in acceptably short order. His cuts and stabs were similarly diagnosed as needing treatment, but not life-threatening.

He heard them murmuring to one another, exclaiming over the unexpected results of the trial, how well the Soldier performed under orders. Privately, he thought it was more than that - those orders hadn't won the fight, the weapon had. But they weren't thoughts he spoke aloud.

The man saw the slap coming, but let it catch him on the side of the face. It barely moved his head to the side with such little force behind it, he barely felt it compared to his many other hurts, but the intent was clear enough even without the words that followed. He had performed disappointingly. This would have to be dealt with.

The order to sit still didn't come. In fact, they told him he could stay standing until they were ready for surgery. It could be the start of his punishment, the pain a reminder not to fail again.

The team of scientists and officers who seemed to want to better look at him came to crowd around and look him over as if he had suddenly taken on features that they had all been hoping for but only just now realizing were there. His metal arm was examined, and it was a true show of his obedience when he didn't choke the smirking officer with the heavy Soviet look who was speaking to a technician next to the man. Someone had clearly won a bet on the underdog of this battle, but for him it had never been about winning or losing. It was about showing that he was a weapon that could be bared and turned on the designated target.

His head turned at the resounding sound of a palm meeting with flesh, and even the chatter around him softened as many turned to watch the other weapon take the show of displeasure. He watched silently, his muzzle still covering his expression, but he lifted his chin slightly as his weapons were removed and taken away as they stood there in the combat grounds.

Most of the observers were leaving by this point, the show over and the possibilities displayed in full. He would apparently be rewarded, which meant he would be fed and possibly allowed to rest laying down rather than ordered to try to doze standing. He knew the other weapon would not be so lucky, that the other suffered well enough for a perceived failure that was neither fair nor earned. Life was not fair though. They both perhaps were the only ones to truly understand that in the fragmented darkness that came with a lack of memory.

Most of the technical staff involved in his project was drawn away to be put to work preparing for surgery. The single technician left in charge of him ordered him to stand next to the other weapon, as if the man was putting two weapons on a shelf side-by-side. He shifted closer subtly while the man was writing down notes and talking to parts of the other technical team, and he eased his weight up against the blond's to take some pressure off of that injured leg.

He was already starting to tune out his surroundings in favor of obeying - or, perhaps more accurately, enduring - this latest punishment. They made a great deal of his abilities, how he was "inherently superior", an "example" of the future of men. But that didn't mean he was infallible, or invincible, as today had shown them all too clearly. There was only so long that he would be able to stand on a hamstrung leg. When he fell, he would be punished further, degredation on top of degredation until they were satisfied that he had been sufficiently ground down.

He hoped that they had. That way, they could all stop wasting time.

This wasn't earned, or fair. It just was. But he would still stand as long as he could, no matter how his body protested. Somehow, he got the sense that his counterpart was the only one to properly understand this. Or maybe it was just that he was the only one to give more than a cursory notice.

So he allowed the other man to draw near with no sign of wariness or hostility, as though their fight hadn't just happened and he wasn't still bleeding from the other weapon's knives. He even drew himself out of his haze long enough to look to him and nod, almost companionably, with the barest hint of a smile. There was no sign that he blamed the other man for leaving him in this state, because he didn't. They had both been told to fight, and the other weapon had merely fought better.

"You did well," he said quietly, the words meant for the other man's ears only. The technician in charge heard, but apparently didn't see the need to order him quiet. Maybe just not expecting the man with the metal arm to respond.

He felt the barest flicker of stunned surprise when the other weapon shifted against him, in a way that couldn't have been meant as anything but an offer to take his weight. To refuse would have been proud, but stupid. So he didn't, betraying none of the relief that washed over him at even that faint mercy. He felt almost...safe, like this.

For him, he needed no compliment on the skills that he had displayed nor was he moved by the pointless show of obedience to have a weapon tarnish in the grounds over some petty failed accomplishment, as if one weapon was better than another. He was to do his job to the best of his abilities, but he was not allowed to enjoy it. That sort of sensation was reserved for people who were function on a level that he was not to even step close to, and his harsh mental treatment and conditioning kept those possible glitches from occurring to him.

His reward was not a bed to lay in or food to pretend like it was something more than he needed. It was this right here, the soft words but more the shift of weight against his side. This was his reward, the only one he needed. A chance to be close to the source of the hooks in his mind, the easing of an emptiness to calm acceptance.

"They didn't warm you long enough," he whispered back. "You were disadvantaged by the cold sleep." He slipped his flesh arm around the other weapon's waist to keep a hold of the other while they leaned on each other in this simply companionable manner. It was the only aid that he could provide without going against rules that were unsaid.

The few people left took notice of their closeness a moment later. Most looked uncertain, some looked nervous and one walked away to report it. He didn't move, his head bowed subserviently waiting for orders.

"That shouldn't have mattered." That was what he had heard them say when one of the technicians had brought this up as a possible explanation for failure. So that was what he said, because if that was what they told him then it was as good as true.

But the words were...good to hear, all the same. If only for the reassurance, such as it was, that he was not irreparably broken. That he could improve, and keep surviving. Somehow, the other weapon's opinion mattered. Maybe only because they were equals, in as much as they could be anything.

More than that, this, all of this - the closeness, the contact, the words - felt like a reward, not a punishment. So much of a reward, in fact, that his wounds and bruises and blood seemed a fitting price to pay to earn it. It was a sense that was only reinforced when he felt his counterpart's flesh arm ease around his waist, taking more of his weight and in a way that could not be so easily hidden or brushed aside from the technicians.

So he allowed himself a soft exhale of relief, a moment of genuine weakness. And he moved his other arm around the other man's waist, keeping a hold in turn. If they were going to toe the line, risk punishment, they might as well do so together. He would make it clear that if this was wrong, that they were both misbehaving.

Otherwise, he merely waited, head bowed subserviently, waiting for orders and allowing himself to believe that he would still be standing when they came. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of the men go off to ask what should be done. No one seemed to want to risk pulling them apart.

They would be allowed a couple of hours or so to stand together before a couple of guards came to take him away for surgery. For one flash of a dangerous moment, he wasn't sure he wanted to let himself be taken away, but an angry throb from his injured leg insured his cooperation in that, at least.

So it was a relief, almost a blessing, that they informed the man with the metal arm that he was to bring Steve to the surgery rooms, with the air of men conferring a great honor. This was his "reward" for a good fight, after all.

"Your muscles haven't softened enough if you don't have the time," he said simply and softly. He had not been told that he couldn't speak to the other weapon and right now didn't seem like it would change with all that was going on around them. He had seen the less lucid movements, and their fight had been quick off the start, forcing a strain on the body that was compounded with the deicing. "They will blame you, but the error is theirs. The team assigned to prepare me was speaking on it."

When they weren't ordered or pulled apart, he settled into the current stance for the time that they were allowed to remain together. They were, of course, watched closely as if they might malfunction at any time when in one another's presence in such a way, but he remained calm, docile and stoic as he supported the other weapon's weight while they stood waiting for the surgery to be prepped. There was a part of him, small and greedy, that didn't want to ever let go, that didn't want the warmth that bled into his side to ever stop. He focused on that, searching out an answer internally.

And then it was time to move. He bowed his head a little as if receiving some kind of honour in being allowed this opportunity, but his arm tightened as he helped the other weapon along out of the combat grounds. It was slow going because he made it so, taking his time but making it appear as if they were putting every effort into these motions all so that he could hold the other man longer against his side, and no one felt the need to hurry them along. If anything, more people stopped to watch their progress.

His flesh fingers subtly massaged the other weapon's side as they made down the hallways that they were directed to. He took the weapon inside all the way to the table and eased the blond down carefully to it. He lingered holding the other perhaps a bit longer than necessary but the hard lines around his eyes smoothed as he attempted a smile for the other, even if his half-mask covered most of it.

They probably would have been ordered or pulled apart, had anyone heard what they were saying to one another. Heard that they were daring to agree that their handlers could possibly have performed an error that they were merely suffering for. But since there was no evident, physical sign of malfunction - since they stood there, calm and docile, since the other man's muzzle masked and muffled any signs of speech - the technicians unthinkingly spoke over them, sparing them only the occasional glance.

After all, their keepers were looking for ways to turn their persistently lingering affection to their advantage. There was clearly some small, deeply hidden part of the emotional center of the brain that the chair couldn't reach, like the instincts for pain and reward. So if those impulses were indulged in carefully controlled environments, it was thought that it would give both weapons, both soldiers, less reason to struggle against their new roles in life. The need for one another's company was somehow just that - a need - and so like their needs for food and water, it would be carefully managed and leveraged, to ensure performance and obedience.

He knew he would be punished further, later, but that wasn't the only reason he found he didn't want this moment to end.

When it was time to move, it took him a few steps to realize that the soldier was setting a deliberately slow pace. It took him a few steps more to realize why - after all, it couldn't be due to injury - and when he did, he bit the inside of his mouth in an attempt to keep from smiling, feeling a surge of something like joy at the indisputable knowledge that the impulses that drew him towards this man were understood, returned. They fell into step easily, and it felt right.

Still, it was something of a relief to finally be permitted to get off his injured leg. He made no sound to betray as much as he was gently settled onto the operating table, but it was there in every line of his body. He looked up at his companion one last time, just before he was released, and saw there the subtle signs that betrayed even an attempt at a smile.

It was an attempt he returned a little more easily, before the doctors came to shoo them both apart once more.

It would be a long while before they would be permitted to see one another again, but for that particular theory, at least, the test had been deemed a success.

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.

He was given a few days to recover after surgery. It was an injury that should have permanently crippled a normal man, but of course, as they loved to remind him, he was far from ordinary. And though they never said as much out loud, though they never admitted their error in removing him from the ice too quickly, special time and care was taken to make sure that he'd returned to peak physical form after his first stint in the cryofreeze.

They told him at great length that his performance had been subpar, but that they still had high hopes for him. They were willing to give him another chance. He would have the chance to prove himself soon enough. Until then, there was more training, deliberately mindless and repetitive, to work out the last of the damage from the fight. After that...there was only the chair, and the cold.

His first mission came six months later - he was to join a small team in annihilating a squad of SHIELD agents that were settling too close to their mountain stronghold. They were to be dealt with by any means necessary, with absolutely no survivors left to tell the tale. He was to take a souvenir from each body to prove his compliance. He didn't know why, but in the end, he did as he was bidden. In the end, he barely needed the other HYDRA agents at all, and he was brought in for debriefing with blood spatters marring the pristine silver edges of his shield. The shield itself, however, was quite undamaged from its role in eliminating no less than ten trained SHIELD operatives.

He performed three missions after that over the next two years. Eventually, they risked dialing back the severity of the wipes. When they did, his abilities as a commander could be used as an asset, alongside his abilities as a warrior. Still, he also shared the soldier's burden of stealth, assassinations, though they were always up close and personal affairs in quiet corners and places where the target wouldn't even have time to scream. More to the point, he was often deliberately instructed to make them messy, traumatic affairs - nothing that could be construed as an accident.

All of this he did, without hesitation. He was praised, and it meant nothing, besides the fact that he would be brought out again another day.

So it was...odd, when they took him aside the very night after he returned from a mission, to tell him that they needed him to look after someone - another weapon, like him. The other had been injured, and
he was to ensure that he didn't injure himself further during recovery, reporting back to them on his physical progress.

The others were...odd, in their simplicity, in their apparent ease. Yet he went where they bid him, into the small room just off the surgical wing where his counterpart was being left to recover. A guard opened the door to let him in, and closed it behind him.

He stood, for a long second, leaning back against the door as he regarded the man with the metal arm. Yet, impossibly, his first impulse was to smile, to speak. "Hey. They sent me to keep an eye on you."

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