The Captain can't exactly remember good — he's never been told he's been good, never been showed any kindness. And yet despite that all, he knows what good is: It is the cool feel of the Soldier's fingers on his skin and smoothing over his hair. It's sitting here with only one other figure in the room. It's not being poked or prodded as he comes down off the horrible fear-adrenaline-pain spike of the chair, that he remembers without fail every time, even without actually remembering it. All of this is… good, somehow, even though he doesn't think it's supposed to be.
He also knows, without knowing how, that he's got to tamp down on this feeling, wrap it up tight and hide it deep. It's almost an effort, the way breathing and thinking are efforts once the chair starts powering down. But he is nothing if not resilient. He is HYDRA's greatest asset, and it's not for nothing.
The man he had been, the man he doesn't remember being, would have huffed a laugh, cracked some joke, at that statement. It shouldn't take that long. Here and now, though, there's silence for a beat too long, before his voice, still raw as his throat heals from the strain of screaming, says quietly, "I am a difficult asset to control. I require extreme measures."
It's what they've told him, said over him, so many times that he remembers this, too, always. Or maybe they let him remember it, too — remember how hard he is to suppress, like he should feel guilty or ashamed or proud. He isn't sure which they want, any more than he's sure what he feels. If anything. It's always dim and distant, after the chair. He just knows, "There are always guards. But now there's just you." He pauses. "Observing."
He's not sure what the other asset is meant to observe. What the Captain is like when he's weak?
He's not weak, though, even when he is; his hands curl into fists and strain, again, at the cuffs locking him into the chair. "I don't have any orders."
Re: it's perfect~ :3
He also knows, without knowing how, that he's got to tamp down on this feeling, wrap it up tight and hide it deep. It's almost an effort, the way breathing and thinking are efforts once the chair starts powering down. But he is nothing if not resilient. He is HYDRA's greatest asset, and it's not for nothing.
The man he had been, the man he doesn't remember being, would have huffed a laugh, cracked some joke, at that statement. It shouldn't take that long. Here and now, though, there's silence for a beat too long, before his voice, still raw as his throat heals from the strain of screaming, says quietly, "I am a difficult asset to control. I require extreme measures."
It's what they've told him, said over him, so many times that he remembers this, too, always. Or maybe they let him remember it, too — remember how hard he is to suppress, like he should feel guilty or ashamed or proud. He isn't sure which they want, any more than he's sure what he feels. If anything. It's always dim and distant, after the chair. He just knows, "There are always guards. But now there's just you." He pauses. "Observing."
He's not sure what the other asset is meant to observe. What the Captain is like when he's weak?
He's not weak, though, even when he is; his hands curl into fists and strain, again, at the cuffs locking him into the chair. "I don't have any orders."
Is he supposed to observe, too?
He doesn't want to engage again.