Виолетта / ˈvī(ə)lət
violetta / violet
1. a stunningly beautiful girl. She's a sweet girl, but a feisty one, who makes sure she gets what she wants. She's a crazy being, that's fast, smart, and brave. She isn't afraid of anything.
2. a blueish-purp...
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HYDRA Facility South Siberian Mountains, Siberia October1943
"Stop it, please."
Iola could feel her body go limp, her head falling towards her shoulder.
"You know how to make it stop," a voice announced in front of her. His Russian accent was thick, he barely spoke english, and those were the only words he knew. They were repeated over and over to her, for hours on end.
The pain never stopped. The punching, the kicking, her blood mixed with the cold sweat upon her body. Both dried and fresh blood was all over her, either seeping from new wounds or dried over old ones.
It had been like this for a two weeks now. The same routine. She knew the soldiers tried to help her. She knew that they were scared for her, because they knew that eventually she wouldn't be the only one. The first day they came for her; they tried to protect her, shoving themselves in front of her trembling frame, but they were quickly forced back with guns to their heads to retrieve her.
She would be dragged from her circular cell in the early hours of the morning, and be brought into a room past the double doors of the prison entrance. She walked the first day, the next she did not.
There she would be asked the same string of words. The same sentences, never different, by the same person. Arnim Zola.
"What is your name?"
"What is in the serum?"
"Stop lying."
Iola always gave the same answers.
"Sergeant Iola Hyde."
"I don't know."
"I'm not."
She knew what came next. The beatings were the least harmful, and always came first, despite being beaten black and blue. Next, was the knives. They danced over her skin, almost teasingly, before tearing against her. Then came the worst of the three. The electric. The feeling of lightning burning through her blood, tearing through her like it was a race for the volts in who could do the worst damage.
It was the same cycle. The soldier's listened to her screams, always too loud for the doors to silence them.
She never returned to the soldiers conscious. They watched as agents would drag her body back into the room, looking more broken each day she returned. They would throw her towards them with no real care, and the soldiers tried their best to tend to her wounds.
