Whispers of the Red Room: A Love in the Shadows (winterwidow/buckynat)

CHAPTER 2 - THE WINTER SOLDIER

In the heart of a dim alley, the Winter Soldier moved with deadly precision, a ghostly figure cloaked by shadows. He was on a mission and like countless before, he didn't know the details. The specifics of his target, their identity, even when he thought of his own name. All the information, something had always blocked it.

His mind was a labyrinth of fragmented memories, with missing pieces that left him incomplete. He had no memory of who he was before... if he had been anyone at all, had this always been his life? All he was, was a man, cursed with a the sting of emptiness, and a metal grip instead. He was simply referred to as "the asset," the weapon that struck terror into the hearts of those who knew him as the Winter Soldier.

The night air was filled with tension as he closed in on his target, he was going in blind, but nothing much could scare him, he knew no matter what happened, he'd be the one walking away. He was a machine, flesh, and bones somehow superior, with a cold, unfeeling demeanor. He had no need for emotions, no room for remorse. He was a puppet, a vessel of death, and his strings were pulled by the organization known only as HYDRA.

His enhanced senses detected the faintest sound of footsteps approaching. He tensed, ready to strike. This was how HYDRA operated, ensuring that he remained a weapon without a conscience, a faceless killer devoid of identity.

Moments later, the deed was done. The lifeless body of his target lay crumpled in the alley, he too was now just a forgotten memory. Who was he? Never mattered. Never will matter. The Winter Soldier retreated into the night, leaving no trace of his presence.

In the confines of the HYDRA base, the Winter Soldier stood, silent, deadly, awaiting his orders. He was surrounded by men in uniforms, their faces devoid of warmth or humanity, much like his own. They spoke in hushed tones, discussing his previous mission but then the voices stopped. The soldier detected a strong presence entering.

"Asset," one of them addressed him, the word devoid of any personal recognition. "Mission Report, 10th of September 1964."

The Winter Soldier didn't respond. He had no voice, no identity. He was a weapon, nothing more. But what if he didn't want to be?

Growing impatient, the man who appeared to be in charge approached him. He was a figure of authority, the director of this operation, the soldier was sure of it. With a swift, brutal motion, he delivered a stinging slap across the Winter Soldier's face, a futile attempt to break through the unyielding wall of silence, not that that would ever work.

"Soldat!" The director commanded, his voice filled with frustration. All the officers spoke in Russian, but there was a hint of an accent in the directors speech, however the soldier could never figure out what it was... All that was clear, it wasn't his first language.

But the Winter Soldier remained stoic. No answer. He didn't plan on giving one either, why should he? They made him into a machine, stole all of his emotions. Slowly, the soldier noticed a conscience reemerging, maybe he didn't want to kill, something felt so wrong about it.

He didn't flinch; he didn't utter a word. His silence was his armor, his defense, it was the remnants of his own consciousness, the mind that occasionally whispered in the dark corners of his thoughts.

The director's patience wore thin. He gestured to one of the technicians in the room, he guided the soldier to a chair. It was a machine of torment, a tool designed to obliterate any original thoughts of the soldiers own, and any resistance that went with it.
It was one the soldier knew all too well. Useless to fight it.

As the Winter Soldier was secured to a cold, metal chair, his eyes betrayed the slightest hint of fear, a crack in the facade of the emotionless assassin. He had been through this before, and the memories of the agony that followed still haunted him, or perhaps it was someone else's memories he clung to.

The director nodded to the technician.
Pain erupted within the Winter Soldier's mind, an excruciating, white-hot agony that tore through the fragile remnants of his self-awareness.

He screamed, a blood curdling cry. For a brief, horrifying moment, he saw flashes, remembered faces, names, fragments of a life he could barely comprehend. But the torment was relentless, and soon those fragile memories disintegrated, emptiness left in the space they once occupied.

When he awoke, he was an obedient puppet once more, a hollow vessel devoid of identity or resistance. The machine had wiped away the last traces of his identity, leaving only the Winter Soldier behind, the thing he was made into.

The director regarded him with satisfaction. "Prepare for your mission. You are the perfect weapon, devoid of doubt, remorse, or hesitation."

And so, the Winter Soldier stepped back into the shadows, ready to carry out his orders, his past and his humanity forever erased. In the emptiness of his existence, he was the Winter Soldier, a force of nature, a harbinger of death, and nothing more.

But the mission that awaited him was different from those that had come before. It was a mission not to kill but to train. He was to become an instructor, a tutor of death, teaching young girls the art of assassination. The Winter Soldier, despite his lack of emotions, couldn't help but feel a chill of cruelty in this task.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A/N

So, that's the soldier... I'm sure we've all met him from the movies tho tbh