Compared with the metal arm and shoulder, it's a simple matter, once they're in the right positions, to simply apply the right amount of force in the right direction to dislocate the Winter Soldier's flesh-and-blood shoulder. Both assets know it the moment the move works and the Captain looks over toward the gaggle of handlers standing off to the side, lets now-useless arm drop. It hits the mat with a dull thud even as he feels the Soldier squirming under him, metal fingers trying and failing to find purchase.
The Captain keeps his knee wedged into the small of the Soldier's back. And he waits, blue eyes starting to dull already, for the command he's sure is going to come. Stand down, they'll tell him, and the Soldier will stop struggling, the Captain will step away, and he isn't sure what will happen next — except he is. He knows the Soldier will be punished. Likely severely. The thought leaves something acidic and thorny twisting in his stomach, but that's just the way it's got to be. He doesn't know what punishment will look like, exactly. But it will be swift, and it will be thorough.
He's not so naive to think that he'll escape punishment, himself.
But no command comes. He stares at the handlers and they stare right back, as the seconds tick by and he grows agitated, confused, even kneeling with his opponent — defeated, he's defeated, he's down — still under one knee, pressed into the mat, struggling like a wounded, dying animal.
And there's no command to stop. To stand down. Only frowns and a tense, unhappy silence, punctuated only by the Captain's ragged panting and the Soldier's frantic, if slowing, movements.
The Captain looks back down at the Soldier, and there's something in him that balks at going on. At drawing this out. That feels ashamed he'd wanted to, in the first place. He reaches down with one hand, grips the back of the Soldier's head, pulls slightly before smashing it back into the mat, with enough calculated force to render him unconscious or, at the very least, close enough to it to count.
Then he lets go. He stands up and steps back, hands by his sides, apparently docile as he turns his gaze back to the handlers and says, lips a little thick — one is split, there's a bruise forming on one cheek, where the metal elbow had caught him in the face (a good, clean shot), "I'm done."
It could be seen as a statement of success: I've completed the task. But it could be seen as a statement of defiance: I refuse to continue.
His handlers seem conflicted as to which it is as their murmurs intensify, as one holds a hand to her earpiece — getting instructions from her handlers, no doubt. The Captain stands there, compliant, not sparing the Soldier on the ground a second glance. If he looks, it will show interest. If he shows interest, they might not let him be done. He will accept whatever punishment he must, but he is done. The Soldier has been incapacitated. This fight is over. The Captain is calling it, whether he has the authority to or not.
His two handlers finally seem to come to an agreement and step up, as the door opens and four armed guards approach, two on each side of him. He catches a glimpse of several more out in the hall, ready to make him comply as one handler says, disappointment clear in her cool tone, "If you're done, then we'll have to make some adjustments."
That explains all the guards, then. Adjustments mean the chair. Punishment first.
Maybe the Soldier will at least be put back together before he gets his, if the Captain's going to be occupying the chair first. He thinks they only have one.
lemme know if anything here doesn't work!
The Captain keeps his knee wedged into the small of the Soldier's back. And he waits, blue eyes starting to dull already, for the command he's sure is going to come. Stand down, they'll tell him, and the Soldier will stop struggling, the Captain will step away, and he isn't sure what will happen next — except he is. He knows the Soldier will be punished. Likely severely. The thought leaves something acidic and thorny twisting in his stomach, but that's just the way it's got to be. He doesn't know what punishment will look like, exactly. But it will be swift, and it will be thorough.
He's not so naive to think that he'll escape punishment, himself.
But no command comes. He stares at the handlers and they stare right back, as the seconds tick by and he grows agitated, confused, even kneeling with his opponent — defeated, he's defeated, he's down — still under one knee, pressed into the mat, struggling like a wounded, dying animal.
And there's no command to stop. To stand down. Only frowns and a tense, unhappy silence, punctuated only by the Captain's ragged panting and the Soldier's frantic, if slowing, movements.
The Captain looks back down at the Soldier, and there's something in him that balks at going on. At drawing this out. That feels ashamed he'd wanted to, in the first place. He reaches down with one hand, grips the back of the Soldier's head, pulls slightly before smashing it back into the mat, with enough calculated force to render him unconscious or, at the very least, close enough to it to count.
Then he lets go. He stands up and steps back, hands by his sides, apparently docile as he turns his gaze back to the handlers and says, lips a little thick — one is split, there's a bruise forming on one cheek, where the metal elbow had caught him in the face (a good, clean shot), "I'm done."
It could be seen as a statement of success: I've completed the task. But it could be seen as a statement of defiance: I refuse to continue.
His handlers seem conflicted as to which it is as their murmurs intensify, as one holds a hand to her earpiece — getting instructions from her handlers, no doubt. The Captain stands there, compliant, not sparing the Soldier on the ground a second glance. If he looks, it will show interest. If he shows interest, they might not let him be done. He will accept whatever punishment he must, but he is done. The Soldier has been incapacitated. This fight is over. The Captain is calling it, whether he has the authority to or not.
His two handlers finally seem to come to an agreement and step up, as the door opens and four armed guards approach, two on each side of him. He catches a glimpse of several more out in the hall, ready to make him comply as one handler says, disappointment clear in her cool tone, "If you're done, then we'll have to make some adjustments."
That explains all the guards, then. Adjustments mean the chair. Punishment first.
Maybe the Soldier will at least be put back together before he gets his, if the Captain's going to be occupying the chair first. He thinks they only have one.