~Undisclosed Location, Siberia, January 4, 1992~
"General Karpov."
Karpov looked up from his paperwork as the chief of his medical staff entered his office, his white lab coat billowing behind him as he walked with purpose in his step. Setting his pencil down, he leaned forward to rest his elbows on the desk, clasping his hands in front of him. "Report."
"Prognosis negative, Sir."
"Proklyat'ye!" His loud curse echoed off the metal walls as he slammed his fist down, shoving his chair back as he stood. "What were your findings?"
Unfazed, the doctor opened the folder in his hands. "Significant inflammation to the ACC in all cases," he pulled forth an MRI scan from inside, showing it to Karpov as he came around to his side. "It is one of the key sectors of the brain that manages impulse control, as well as certain emotional reactions. But with the implementation of the serum, that sector has increased to four times its normal size, which would explain the sudden shift to disobedience and psychosis in each subject. Now, compare that to the readings on Barnes' brain in the exact same region…" He pulled out a second MRI scan for him to see.
Karpov exhaled audibly through his nose, taking both scans and looking closely at the areas that had been circled with a red wax pencil. "And there is no way to reverse these effects on the Squad?"
"None, Sir. The results are permanent." Karpov cursed again, then slowly began pacing around the room. "In terms of physical transformation, the serum was a complete success; psychologically, however, it was a failure. It will not produce the level of compliance you are seeking from your potential soldiers."
Karpov continued to pace, staring between the two scans he held in his hands. Though he attempted to maintain a stoic appearance, his agitation was quite obvious, based on the hunch of his shoulders and the tension he held in his upper lip. "The modifications to Zola's serum had supposedly been perfected."
"Supposedly, but apparently not, Sir."
"Apparently not," he repeated, muttering something unintelligible about Stark under his breath. Pausing in his step, he angled his head back at him. "Recommendations, Dr. Ovechkin?"
The two men talked quietly, though terms like "geneticist" and "formula" and "phenotypic alteration" occasionally cut clearly through the muffled conversation. At one point, Karpov glanced over at the doorway, seeing three doctors from Ovechkin's team as they awaited further orders. They didn't appear to be nearly as old their chief.
"It can be properly adjusted, then?"
"Give us time, and we will produce the results."
"Make sure you do," Karpov warned, turning back to the doctor. "You put your top geneticists on this, and make sure they leave nothing to chance. It must be effective on all levels this time."
Ovechkin nodded taking back the scans that Karpov handed him. "Yes, Sir."
"And the Death Squad?"
"All subjects successfully sustained in cryofreeze."
He gave a nod. "Keep them as such. If a permanent solution to the psychological effects can be found, they may prove to be of use to us yet, but until then, they are to be designated as unstable and completely dangerous." Then Karpov turned to the lone soldier who'd been standing in silent vigil beside his desk the entire time. "Well, then, that means your services are no longer needed at this time, Soldier. You are dismissed."
The Winter Soldier didn't move, didn't even blink. Just stood by obediently and stared straight ahead at his General, the man he'd been assigned to protect. Services are no longer needed. He knew what that meant: sleep. Deep sleep. Embraced by the darkness until HYDRA had need for him once again. At least, that's what his mind told him now that his missions were complete…despite the scream of protest that seemed to continuously linger in the deepest recesses of his heart…
Clenching his teeth against the thought, his eyes remained focused on Karpov, and the only response his mouth was able to form was, "Understood."
A sharp pain tore through his back, causing him to cry out as his knees buckled beneath him, and arms seized him before he hit the cold cement floor. It'd been enough to immobilize him, but not completely anesthetize him, and he felt himself being dragged away as the world around him became hazy.
Deep sleep, his mind kept repeating, his head starting to feel like a heavy weight. Deep sleep until…until I'm needed again. For my mission. The mission is what matters, and the Winter Soldier must complete his missions, no matter what the cost. For HYDRA. For honor…
The dim lights of the long corridor were too bright, stinging his eyes and making him wince as the air around them gradually became cooler. No, his mind wheezed as he shied away from the ruthless light. Please stop…
The air was growing even colder. Colder.
Somehow, he found the strength to clench his hands—one flesh, the other metal—into fists. Deep sleep, he told himself as they rounded a corner and entered a vast chamber. His hair fell across his face as he forced his head up, his eyes registering the amber glow of multiple containment tubes within. Only one of them was unoccupied.
Sleep, he told himself, his eyes closing as his head fell forward once more. Sleep…
Proklyat'ye! = God damn it!
