No matter what he does, the Winter Soldier can't get free.
The dislocation is final, the pain searing in a jolt as he feels his flesh shoulder pop in a way it shouldn't. Doesn't feel broken. The only positive: his accelerated healing can deal with dislocations faster than fractures and breaks. These thoughts fill the precious seconds he has and, even knowing that he will be punished for failing, his heart is still jackhammering away as it can escape any better than he could.
He could just simply give up, go still under the stranger. Submit. Doing anything less is a waste of time. A waste of energy. And still...still he struggles, writhing uselessly, unable to dislodge the other man - bigger, not weighed down one one side by a malfunctioning prosthesis - and he can feel those eyes burning their way. The feeling of being assessed hangs heavy.
Fingers grip around the back of his skull, tangling in his matted hair with finality and he knows damn well that this is it, that it doesn't matter how much he stiffens the muscles in his neck and strains with everything he's still got. The mat rushes up. White flashes as his faces meets it hard enough for the thud to echo, and even with the cushioning of the mat, it's with enough force to immediately render him unconscious. Finally he goes still under the Captain in a limp sprawl, face down, his hair a dark, knotted halo.
As soon as the Captain stands, the handlers move. They cluster around the Winter Soldier, hands gripping under his armpits and his head hangs down, blood drooling onto the floor, and they sweep out without another word.
"Next time you will do it faster. Next time you won't hesitate," the handler studies her asset with narrowed eyes, her thin lips pursed. "Or maybe you're still weak enough to feel mercy. Don't."
A tilt of her chin. A flick of her fingers at her hip.
The chair it is.
Hearing comes back first: he can hear his gasping, the whispers of handlers and techs. The heavy staccato of his heart. The hum of the supression arc as it powers down.
Sight comes back second: fluorescent flashes. Dim lines of his own lashes cutting across as he squeezes his eyes shut and then opens them immediately at his lead handler's voice.
The last is scent: the Winter Soldier regains full awareness of all his senses even though he knows he's been walking and talking for several minutes. It's when he's herded into a new, very, very reinforced room that his sense of smell kicks in. A man's sweat and blood hangs heavy. A cloud of it hits him in a wavy and the Winter Soldier will chalk it up to his training that he doesn't hesitate at the stench. His flesh arm is in a sling to assist with the recent dislocation, to speed up the healing. His face is a healing map of yellow and faint purple bruises that he, surprisingly, remembers getting. This is your lesson someone hissed to the Winter Soldier while he drooled in the chair. You must remember from this failure and learn from it.
Observe.
Observe.
He can do that, even as he shakes and his knees tremble despite drinking the water and eating the food offered to him. Despite sitting (slumping?) on a bench, waiting for the shadows to resolve into facial features.
Observe echoes. Solid. Tangible.
And so the Soldier is herded into a room that is all too familiar. The metal suppression chair - cutting edge rimmed with rust and old tech - embraces That Man that somehow subdued him in what could be hours or days or weeks ago. (Why does he still remember that?). There are more handlers, more guards. That jaw is slicked with sweat despite the unacceptable beard. He twitches in the chair...but apparently that isn't enough to bring him back into the fold. Unfortunate. The Winter Soldier isn't a tech, but he has a base understanding of how the chair works. How it should work. From his fragmented memories, smeared at the edges, he can tell that the chair isn't enough for this stranger.
Somehow it's still a surprise when they're left together, the stranger - designated "The Captain" - is still in the chair and the Winter Soldier is ordered to check his vitals with his good hand. That dislocated shoulder is still in the sling, but he can still use HYDRA's arm: now he'll reach out, the chrome fingers cool against the Captain's skin, hot with pain and sweat.
"Vitals acceptable. Pulse slowing."
The Winter Soldier leans over the Captain, and he recognizes this man despite the agony etched in his face, the furrow digging itself between his eyebrows. This man has...forced him to submit, against all odds. A first.
and back at you - I winged it :3a
The dislocation is final, the pain searing in a jolt as he feels his flesh shoulder pop in a way it shouldn't. Doesn't feel broken. The only positive: his accelerated healing can deal with dislocations faster than fractures and breaks. These thoughts fill the precious seconds he has and, even knowing that he will be punished for failing, his heart is still jackhammering away as it can escape any better than he could.
He could just simply give up, go still under the stranger. Submit. Doing anything less is a waste of time. A waste of energy. And still...still he struggles, writhing uselessly, unable to dislodge the other man - bigger, not weighed down one one side by a malfunctioning prosthesis - and he can feel those eyes burning their way. The feeling of being assessed hangs heavy.
Fingers grip around the back of his skull, tangling in his matted hair with finality and he knows damn well that this is it, that it doesn't matter how much he stiffens the muscles in his neck and strains with everything he's still got. The mat rushes up. White flashes as his faces meets it hard enough for the thud to echo, and even with the cushioning of the mat, it's with enough force to immediately render him unconscious. Finally he goes still under the Captain in a limp sprawl, face down, his hair a dark, knotted halo.
As soon as the Captain stands, the handlers move. They cluster around the Winter Soldier, hands gripping under his armpits and his head hangs down, blood drooling onto the floor, and they sweep out without another word.
"Next time you will do it faster. Next time you won't hesitate," the handler studies her asset with narrowed eyes, her thin lips pursed. "Or maybe you're still weak enough to feel mercy. Don't."
A tilt of her chin. A flick of her fingers at her hip.
The chair it is.
Hearing comes back first: he can hear his gasping, the whispers of handlers and techs. The heavy staccato of his heart. The hum of the supression arc as it powers down.
Sight comes back second: fluorescent flashes. Dim lines of his own lashes cutting across as he squeezes his eyes shut and then opens them immediately at his lead handler's voice.
The last is scent: the Winter Soldier regains full awareness of all his senses even though he knows he's been walking and talking for several minutes. It's when he's herded into a new, very, very reinforced room that his sense of smell kicks in. A man's sweat and blood hangs heavy. A cloud of it hits him in a wavy and the Winter Soldier will chalk it up to his training that he doesn't hesitate at the stench. His flesh arm is in a sling to assist with the recent dislocation, to speed up the healing. His face is a healing map of yellow and faint purple bruises that he, surprisingly, remembers getting. This is your lesson someone hissed to the Winter Soldier while he drooled in the chair. You must remember from this failure and learn from it.
Observe.
Observe.
He can do that, even as he shakes and his knees tremble despite drinking the water and eating the food offered to him. Despite sitting (slumping?) on a bench, waiting for the shadows to resolve into facial features.
Observe echoes. Solid. Tangible.
And so the Soldier is herded into a room that is all too familiar. The metal suppression chair - cutting edge rimmed with rust and old tech - embraces That Man that somehow subdued him in what could be hours or days or weeks ago. (Why does he still remember that?). There are more handlers, more guards. That jaw is slicked with sweat despite the unacceptable beard. He twitches in the chair...but apparently that isn't enough to bring him back into the fold. Unfortunate. The Winter Soldier isn't a tech, but he has a base understanding of how the chair works. How it should work. From his fragmented memories, smeared at the edges, he can tell that the chair isn't enough for this stranger.
Somehow it's still a surprise when they're left together, the stranger - designated "The Captain" - is still in the chair and the Winter Soldier is ordered to check his vitals with his good hand. That dislocated shoulder is still in the sling, but he can still use HYDRA's arm: now he'll reach out, the chrome fingers cool against the Captain's skin, hot with pain and sweat.
"Vitals acceptable. Pulse slowing."
The Winter Soldier leans over the Captain, and he recognizes this man despite the agony etched in his face, the furrow digging itself between his eyebrows. This man has...forced him to submit, against all odds. A first.