Part I: With You In My Head
Jun. 29th, 2012 10:02 amSunlight filters in through the slatted window, painting the inside of his eyelids a vivid red that jars him from sleep. The Winter Soldier blinks, taking in a sharp breath as he sits up in the bed, and looks about the small room and its bare, wooden walls. The rest of the room is similarly spartan: an empty chair, a plain, large cabinet. There's a revolver under the pillow and a combat knife on the nightstand. This isn't the first night he's spent here, then, just the only one he remembers. He wonders how long he's been out, but dismisses it as irrelevant. It doesn't do to ask questions, he somehow knows. Not about this.
Standing, he flexes the fingers of his mechanical hand -- an upgrade from the last time. To touch it would be to mistake it for flesh, and it's almost by accident that he discovers the switch by the shoulder joint, the flesh bleeding away to reveal cool, uncompromising metal. The ghost of a smile materializes on his lips. For a moment he looks like a different man.
Better.
With no handler to greet him, he does a sweep of the room on his own. The facts are as simple as they are unusual. Tropical environment, probably some sort of hut or bungalow based on the construction. Early morning, judging by the sun. Among his uniform and usual tools of his trade, he finds Captain America's shield mounted above the collection of rifles in the weapons cabinet. Curious. Just the sight of it draws an instinctive, raw reaction. It must be a fake, he thinks, a decoy, some part of the mission he's yet to be briefed on, but before he has the chance to reach out, to pick it up, he hears movement outside the door.
Snapping to attention, he heads out into the hallway, the knife tucked into the back of his pajamas. Sharp eyes fall on a young man. Taller than himself and possessing the easy grace of the heavily trained, Winter Soldier relies on the lack of a hostile response to designate his company as friendly.
In Russian, he says, "Where were you? I've been up for ten minutes."
Standing, he flexes the fingers of his mechanical hand -- an upgrade from the last time. To touch it would be to mistake it for flesh, and it's almost by accident that he discovers the switch by the shoulder joint, the flesh bleeding away to reveal cool, uncompromising metal. The ghost of a smile materializes on his lips. For a moment he looks like a different man.
Better.
With no handler to greet him, he does a sweep of the room on his own. The facts are as simple as they are unusual. Tropical environment, probably some sort of hut or bungalow based on the construction. Early morning, judging by the sun. Among his uniform and usual tools of his trade, he finds Captain America's shield mounted above the collection of rifles in the weapons cabinet. Curious. Just the sight of it draws an instinctive, raw reaction. It must be a fake, he thinks, a decoy, some part of the mission he's yet to be briefed on, but before he has the chance to reach out, to pick it up, he hears movement outside the door.
Snapping to attention, he heads out into the hallway, the knife tucked into the back of his pajamas. Sharp eyes fall on a young man. Taller than himself and possessing the easy grace of the heavily trained, Winter Soldier relies on the lack of a hostile response to designate his company as friendly.
In Russian, he says, "Where were you? I've been up for ten minutes."