SupeWrites
He was never designed to be 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴.
A killer, yes. A liar, absolutely. These were things that he was supposed to be - born to become them. But there were many others who HYDRA birthed for the same fate. The same purpose of murder, the destabilisation of nations, and the clean dismantling of any and all who opposed HYDRA's goals.
He would do his job - as all tools were meant to - until he broke, and then there would simply be another ready to take his place.
That was the expectation, the reality, that had been placed upon him since his first breath. And he had grown up striving to meet those expectations. To train until he bled, and fractured, and healed back stronger, tougher, all so he could be of use to those who engineered his very existence, until he couldn't anymore.
Failure's were tolerated once, and one time only.
Failing to disassemble and reassemble a gun on the first try was expected, and met with nothing more than a rap on the backs of knuckles - hard enough to draw blood, yes; but not break, or maim.
Failing a second time was met with punishment, and a third with dismissal.
A dismissal was crueler than death.
He had done everything right. And then he failed, for the first time, with a gun in his trembling hand, finger twitching away from the trigger, pressed close to his sister's teary, swollen face.
𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘥𝘰 𝘪𝘵.
So he let gloved hands pluck to gun from his fingers, and could barely blink before a deafening crack tore through the still air.
He watched, with wide eyes and ringing ears as his sister fell to the ground limp, like a doll with her strings finally cut. Watched blood pool from where the bullet tore a hole through her skull.
He was sure it would stain the ground. That 𝘴𝘩𝘦 would.
And that's all she would be, in the end, once he was nothing but ashes in the facilities furnace.
𝘈 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥.