The longer it goes on, the more the Winter Soldier struggles with the aimless abandon of a panicked animal instead of a man. Not one of HYDRA's most promising weapons. Not an asset who has every faculty under control. No, instead he bares his teeth in a snarl; both hands curl, claw-like, and despite his writhing, he can't...he can't escape. A first, he thinks, that he's fighting back enough to prevent the stranger from fully forcing a submission. Then it sinks in that no, he's being played around with somehow and that suspicion gets confirmed as he's tossed aside like nothing.
The Asset hits the ground.
Immediately he scrambles to his feet. Chest and shoulders heave, his face reddened with exertion and a strange feeling that seems to burn from the inside: adrenaline? Shock? Unaware that it's rage, the Winter Soldier's eyes narrow suspiciously and he's well aware of the clock ticking away on the wall, the eyes on them. The way his lead handler has shifted weight from one foot to the other, her arms crossed over her chest in his peripheral vision. The fact that this match is being timed and that he has likely already failed. The chair might be coming no matter what now: if there is anything he can do at this point, it's maybe shave off how many minutes he's in it, at least. Even a few seconds less in the chair is worth fighting for.
He comes at the stranger again. And again. Each time he finds it impossible to get him into a chokehold, finds it impossible to go for his fingers to break them, to go for his groin to stun him. To even get a firm grip on his beard to control his head.
How? How?
The questions lance through the Winter Soldier's head like lightning, and soon he'll find himself twisted up in another one of the stranger's holds, his left arm bent at an unnatural angle, the chrome fingers clawing uselessly for purchases as he writhes and twists under the Captain who has managed to get him in a submission position again. Blood smears across his face now from a split lip, from the cut above the Winter Soldier's brow, and it'll have left dark strokes against the training mat, against patches of the Captain's skin in his struggles.
some timeskip, feel free to start forcing Bucky to submit
The Asset hits the ground.
Immediately he scrambles to his feet. Chest and shoulders heave, his face reddened with exertion and a strange feeling that seems to burn from the inside: adrenaline? Shock? Unaware that it's rage, the Winter Soldier's eyes narrow suspiciously and he's well aware of the clock ticking away on the wall, the eyes on them. The way his lead handler has shifted weight from one foot to the other, her arms crossed over her chest in his peripheral vision. The fact that this match is being timed and that he has likely already failed. The chair might be coming no matter what now: if there is anything he can do at this point, it's maybe shave off how many minutes he's in it, at least. Even a few seconds less in the chair is worth fighting for.
He comes at the stranger again. And again. Each time he finds it impossible to get him into a chokehold, finds it impossible to go for his fingers to break them, to go for his groin to stun him. To even get a firm grip on his beard to control his head.
How? How?
The questions lance through the Winter Soldier's head like lightning, and soon he'll find himself twisted up in another one of the stranger's holds, his left arm bent at an unnatural angle, the chrome fingers clawing uselessly for purchases as he writhes and twists under the Captain who has managed to get him in a submission position again. Blood smears across his face now from a split lip, from the cut above the Winter Soldier's brow, and it'll have left dark strokes against the training mat, against patches of the Captain's skin in his struggles.