Punishment is nothing new; somehow, even though his memories are sketchy, cloudy, he knows punishment and what it means. Knows it means the chair, fire arcing between his ears and the iron taste burned onto his tongue, even when they stuff the rubber bite guard between his teeth.
Punishment means pain and agony and fear; it also means a strange kind of relief, a peace, a… not exactly a desire to submit, but a strange not-caring that always seems to erode over time, in the hours and days between the chair. That much, he can remember.
But this time, when the lightning stops and the bite guard is snatched away and he half-sits, half-lies there, panting and restrained by the heavy mag cuffs he knows instinctively, somehow, that he has tried to break and can't, the room is eerily quiet. His brow furrows - there should be people here. Techs bustling, scientists buzzing, his handlers standing by with their armed guard.
He thinks he's alone, disoriented and reeling, the muscles of his forearms and thighs still twitching with the aftereffects of the shocks, when a slightly too-cool, too-unyielding touch brushes his skin. He jerks against the restraints, but they hold fast, like they always do. He blinks glassy eyes, trying to see who's with him, what's with him, and a pale, bruised face with lank, dark hair falling around it swims into view. Blue eyes gaze into his, and…
He knows those eyes. He knows that face, mangled though it is. He knows each and every bruise, he remembers them just like he remembers the metal arm, the way it had slowed and sparked after long enough, the way the other shoulder had given way and still the Soldier hadn't stopped fighting -
The Captain's lips fall open, jaw just the tiniest bit slack, as he draws a breath, almost like he's going to speak. But he doesn't, eyes darting wildly around the room, seeing that they're alone. They're alone, and he remembers this man, and he doesn't know why. He shifts against the restraints again, testing them and, as always, they pass with flying colors. He's trapped with the Soldier and no one else, and part of him thinks this must be more punishment, very specific punishment, but there's a tiny thread underneath it all, the barest hint of a whisper, that inexplicably tells him to relax. To stand down. To do whatever he can to keep this situation just as it is.
That seems foolish; maybe the Soldier is here to - well, not exactly exact revenge. But to demonstrate his own superiority, now that the Captain can't fight back. That would be one lesson, but his frantic mind isn't sure it's the right one. Isn't sure why he remembers at all, now that the chair has powered down. Is he meant to remember?
Your face looks like a badly drawn map, a voice - his voice? - drawls in his head, as his eyes travel over the Soldier's yellowed and purpled features. But he doesn't say it, just sits there with his jaw slack and his eyes darting wildly, like he can't figure out the game, but knows he's got to, and fast. That slowing pulse is starting to kick up a notch or two again as he finally moves his lips, and the smallest sound comes out: "You."
it's perfect~ :3
Punishment means pain and agony and fear; it also means a strange kind of relief, a peace, a… not exactly a desire to submit, but a strange not-caring that always seems to erode over time, in the hours and days between the chair. That much, he can remember.
But this time, when the lightning stops and the bite guard is snatched away and he half-sits, half-lies there, panting and restrained by the heavy mag cuffs he knows instinctively, somehow, that he has tried to break and can't, the room is eerily quiet. His brow furrows - there should be people here. Techs bustling, scientists buzzing, his handlers standing by with their armed guard.
He thinks he's alone, disoriented and reeling, the muscles of his forearms and thighs still twitching with the aftereffects of the shocks, when a slightly too-cool, too-unyielding touch brushes his skin. He jerks against the restraints, but they hold fast, like they always do. He blinks glassy eyes, trying to see who's with him, what's with him, and a pale, bruised face with lank, dark hair falling around it swims into view. Blue eyes gaze into his, and…
He knows those eyes. He knows that face, mangled though it is. He knows each and every bruise, he remembers them just like he remembers the metal arm, the way it had slowed and sparked after long enough, the way the other shoulder had given way and still the Soldier hadn't stopped fighting -
The Captain's lips fall open, jaw just the tiniest bit slack, as he draws a breath, almost like he's going to speak. But he doesn't, eyes darting wildly around the room, seeing that they're alone. They're alone, and he remembers this man, and he doesn't know why. He shifts against the restraints again, testing them and, as always, they pass with flying colors. He's trapped with the Soldier and no one else, and part of him thinks this must be more punishment, very specific punishment, but there's a tiny thread underneath it all, the barest hint of a whisper, that inexplicably tells him to relax. To stand down. To do whatever he can to keep this situation just as it is.
That seems foolish; maybe the Soldier is here to - well, not exactly exact revenge. But to demonstrate his own superiority, now that the Captain can't fight back. That would be one lesson, but his frantic mind isn't sure it's the right one. Isn't sure why he remembers at all, now that the chair has powered down. Is he meant to remember?
Your face looks like a badly drawn map, a voice - his voice? - drawls in his head, as his eyes travel over the Soldier's yellowed and purpled features. But he doesn't say it, just sits there with his jaw slack and his eyes darting wildly, like he can't figure out the game, but knows he's got to, and fast. That slowing pulse is starting to kick up a notch or two again as he finally moves his lips, and the smallest sound comes out: "You."
I remember you. Do you remember me?