Time is always of the essence, where Rogers is involved. It's getting better — the strict regimen of electricity and drugs has been a long time in the making, with tests and failures and new formulations. It's ever evolving, but by now, they can keep Rogers compliant for hours, sometimes a day at a time. As that timescale keeps stretching, they need to know what else to expect, when it's time to put him to work. That time is coming, and the higher-ups are very excited.
In fact, there's almost a palpable excitement in the handlers who walk the Captain into the room, the pinprick wounds of several injections still fresh in his neck, scabbed over and nearly healed, minutes from disappearing. He sees the Soldier and his expression doesn't flicker in the least, blue eyes uninterested as he watches the handlers pull the other's hair out of his face, as his own team releases the heavy manacles cuffing his wrists behind his back with a soft but solid thunk, and he lets his arms fall to his sides.
Then the teams retreat, and they are given their instructions, the mission clearly outlined. There is utter silence, complete stillness in the room for a fraction of a second.
Then the Captain springs.
He's been given no information about his opponent, knows nothing about the man in front of him, except what he can see. That's by design — things can go pear-shaped in the field, surprises can pop up, and the best way to judge a fair fight is to make sure it's absolutely fair with a completely clean slate. And what are the assets, right now, but clean slates?
There's the arm — the obvious unknown, and the only way to rectify that is to make it known. So he goes right for it, for the shoulder, throwing his bulk directly at the Winter Soldier like a speeding train, hands reaching for the shoulder to see how it's attached, how strong it is, how well he can feel pressure — or pain.
Maiming is not allowed. But this is testing. Assessing. Then the Captain can adjust his attack accordingly, to better meet the parameters of the test.
no subject
In fact, there's almost a palpable excitement in the handlers who walk the Captain into the room, the pinprick wounds of several injections still fresh in his neck, scabbed over and nearly healed, minutes from disappearing. He sees the Soldier and his expression doesn't flicker in the least, blue eyes uninterested as he watches the handlers pull the other's hair out of his face, as his own team releases the heavy manacles cuffing his wrists behind his back with a soft but solid thunk, and he lets his arms fall to his sides.
Then the teams retreat, and they are given their instructions, the mission clearly outlined. There is utter silence, complete stillness in the room for a fraction of a second.
Then the Captain springs.
He's been given no information about his opponent, knows nothing about the man in front of him, except what he can see. That's by design — things can go pear-shaped in the field, surprises can pop up, and the best way to judge a fair fight is to make sure it's absolutely fair with a completely clean slate. And what are the assets, right now, but clean slates?
There's the arm — the obvious unknown, and the only way to rectify that is to make it known. So he goes right for it, for the shoulder, throwing his bulk directly at the Winter Soldier like a speeding train, hands reaching for the shoulder to see how it's attached, how strong it is, how well he can feel pressure — or pain.
Maiming is not allowed. But this is testing. Assessing. Then the Captain can adjust his attack accordingly, to better meet the parameters of the test.