Unlike the Captain, the Winter Soldier isn't prepped with additional drugs. He is, after all, further along in the lessons of obedience that HYDRA teaches. His body doesn't fight off the urge to submit the way it does with the other asset. He screams until he doesn't.
All it takes is a few rounds in the chair and the keywords. Hours later the nauseating pounding in his head has turned into a low-grade headache. The trembling in his limbs fades to barely-there twitches. His lashes are stiff with old sweat and the remnants of dried tears but he can finally see without the corridor tilting, his guards without their features blurring into fleshy smears. The Soldier doesn't feel good, exactly, not with how his head aches with some hollowing need to be filled with purpose, with orders, but his body's more or less behaving and he's confident he can walk without swaying: there's the vague impression that he's recovered faster than the last time, although he can't place a finger on when that last time was but he knows this is a good thing. Today required one less round in the chair, for whatever reason. At least, that's according to what his handler said while he was busy drooling in the chair's embrace, eyes half-hooded, and listening to the machine powering down. It isn't like he can keep count.
Whatever he did, though, he needs to do it again.
He isn't surprised to see the Captain in the room. That happens from time to time, the two of them escorted somewhere and locked in. It's when the guards don't follow him that he hesitates, unable to resist glancing over his metal shoulder just in time to see the door - reinforced; multiple bolts thudding into place - lock behind him. For a moment the Winter Soldier's brow furrows. His lips part. Confusion struggles its way out of his fresh conditioning, for a moment flitting across his face. That's never happened before, he thinks. Usually there's guards with guns pointed at them, handlers with tablets and notepads to take notes about their performance.
He glances at the Captain, the man clean-shaven more often than not, denying him the ability to grab his beard if this is going to be a combat scenario. The other asset stands there like a statue, broad-shouldered, lean muscle and powerful. One look at his placid face and he can verify that the Captain doesn't know what's going on either.
The intercom clicks on.
The Winter Soldier's already moving even before the voice on the other end finishes speaking. He's always been the one to strike first at the Captain and today isn't any different as he lurches toward the closest thing next to him, choosing the metal suitcase sitting on a nearby shelf and popping it open. He doesn't know what they mean by medication, if it's already been injected or force-fed by pills or it'll be vented in through the room in gas form. Whatever it'll be, he doesn't wait to find out, immediately reaching for whatever looks useful inside the suitcase's blood-red felt cushioning.
A plastic breathing mask with a vial attached to it, a mystery liquid sloshing inside, glowing a faint pink. A pair of handcuffs.
Handcuffs. Presumably the mask is attached to a sedative, although the Soldier doesn't recognize the color or the serial code printed on the side, and he assumes it's something new from the labs to test out. The handcuffs in hand, he wheels around in one motion and lashes out a kick at the Captain's knee, dimly aware that the other asset's fast, that you have to control his legs to control him. If he catches him off-balance, he'll be springing toward him with the handcuffs, trying to handcuff him to the bed that looks like it's bolted to the floor.
It might not be strong enough to keep the Captain in place. But it'll slow him down, enough to retrieve the mask, and press it to his exposed face. Now it makes sense why he's shaved, the Winter Soldier thinks. It's for the mask's seal.
no subject
All it takes is a few rounds in the chair and the keywords. Hours later the nauseating pounding in his head has turned into a low-grade headache. The trembling in his limbs fades to barely-there twitches. His lashes are stiff with old sweat and the remnants of dried tears but he can finally see without the corridor tilting, his guards without their features blurring into fleshy smears. The Soldier doesn't feel good, exactly, not with how his head aches with some hollowing need to be filled with purpose, with orders, but his body's more or less behaving and he's confident he can walk without swaying: there's the vague impression that he's recovered faster than the last time, although he can't place a finger on when that last time was but he knows this is a good thing. Today required one less round in the chair, for whatever reason. At least, that's according to what his handler said while he was busy drooling in the chair's embrace, eyes half-hooded, and listening to the machine powering down. It isn't like he can keep count.
Whatever he did, though, he needs to do it again.
He isn't surprised to see the Captain in the room. That happens from time to time, the two of them escorted somewhere and locked in. It's when the guards don't follow him that he hesitates, unable to resist glancing over his metal shoulder just in time to see the door - reinforced; multiple bolts thudding into place - lock behind him. For a moment the Winter Soldier's brow furrows. His lips part. Confusion struggles its way out of his fresh conditioning, for a moment flitting across his face. That's never happened before, he thinks. Usually there's guards with guns pointed at them, handlers with tablets and notepads to take notes about their performance.
He glances at the Captain, the man clean-shaven more often than not, denying him the ability to grab his beard if this is going to be a combat scenario. The other asset stands there like a statue, broad-shouldered, lean muscle and powerful. One look at his placid face and he can verify that the Captain doesn't know what's going on either.
The intercom clicks on.
The Winter Soldier's already moving even before the voice on the other end finishes speaking. He's always been the one to strike first at the Captain and today isn't any different as he lurches toward the closest thing next to him, choosing the metal suitcase sitting on a nearby shelf and popping it open. He doesn't know what they mean by medication, if it's already been injected or force-fed by pills or it'll be vented in through the room in gas form. Whatever it'll be, he doesn't wait to find out, immediately reaching for whatever looks useful inside the suitcase's blood-red felt cushioning.
A plastic breathing mask with a vial attached to it, a mystery liquid sloshing inside, glowing a faint pink. A pair of handcuffs.
Handcuffs. Presumably the mask is attached to a sedative, although the Soldier doesn't recognize the color or the serial code printed on the side, and he assumes it's something new from the labs to test out. The handcuffs in hand, he wheels around in one motion and lashes out a kick at the Captain's knee, dimly aware that the other asset's fast, that you have to control his legs to control him. If he catches him off-balance, he'll be springing toward him with the handcuffs, trying to handcuff him to the bed that looks like it's bolted to the floor.
It might not be strong enough to keep the Captain in place. But it'll slow him down, enough to retrieve the mask, and press it to his exposed face. Now it makes sense why he's shaved, the Winter Soldier thinks. It's for the mask's seal.