𝗕𝗨𝗖𝗞𝗬 𝗕𝗔𝗥𝗡𝗘𝗦 𝗢𝗡𝗘 𝗦𝗛𝗢𝗧𝗦

Blood, Guts, and Pixie Dust

SONG REQUEST FOR THIS CHAPTER: BLOOD GUTS & PIXIE DUST by NEONI

Thank you to Yggthhuytrrdd for suggesting this chapter!

1,843 Words

I don't remember when they brought me back to this room.

The lights are always too bright. That's the first thing I notice whenever they strap me down. White light pouring from panels in the ceiling, bleaching the world into something sterile and holy. Clean. Pure. Necessary.

My wrists are bound to the arms of the chair with thick leather restraints. My ankles too. A metal band curves over my forehead, holding me upright. I don't fight it. Fighting wastes energy. Energy is for missions.

"Heart rate steady," one of the doctors says.

His voice is calm, clinical. I like that. Calm voices mean I'm doing well.

"She's ready," another replies in Russian.

I close my eyes and let the words settle into me. Ready. That is what I was made to be.

They call me Asset 27. They stopped using my real name a long time ago. I don't remember it anyway. Names are unnecessary attachments. Attachments are weaknesses. Weaknesses compromise the mission.

The chair hums faintly beneath me as they power it up. Cold metal touches my temples. The machine will clear the noise, sharpen the edges of my thoughts, align me with purpose. Sometimes there are gaps after. Hours. Days. But they always tell me what I accomplished.

You did well.

You eliminated the target.

You are loyal.

The words are warm blankets around a frozen mind.

Boots scrape against the tile. A needle slides into my arm. The liquid burns, but I don't flinch. Pain is data. Data can be ignored.

"Begin conditioning sequence."

The familiar string of words begins. Code phrases. Triggers. They pour over me like acid rain, dissolving doubts before they can form. I repeat them back in my head, each syllable fitting perfectly into the spaces carved inside me.

I am a weapon.

I serve.

HYDRA is my home.

Home.

The word feels solid. Reassuring. The facility is concrete and steel and routine. It is predictable. Outside is chaos. Outside is noise.

A crash echoes from somewhere down the hall.

The doctors pause.

Another crash. Closer.

A shout. A gunshot.

My pulse quickens, but I remain still. Awaiting orders.

The door to the room explodes inward, slamming against the wall hard enough to crack the plaster. Smoke curls through the doorway. Two guards are thrown aside like broken dolls.

And then he steps through.

Black tactical gear. Mask covering the lower half of his face. Goggles hiding his eyes. A metal arm glinting under the fluorescent lights.

The Winter Soldier.

I've seen him before. Not often. But enough to know the way the air shifts when he enters a room. He is older than the rest of us, a relic of earlier wars. A ghost wrapped in muscle and steel.