The AU starts to kick in around here. I suggest going back and reading Jumping, Falling etc if you already haven't. Thanks.


His family, Hydra, calls him the Soldier. He likes that name. Most everyone is frightened of him, and he knows they should be. Technically he can't fight or hurt any of them, though, or more accurately he shouldn't; if he does, they will reset him like a clock - or that's the idea, at least.

He catches himself thinking in English, then keeps codeswitching out loud to it on mission, and they reset him.

He breaks a spy's arm for calling him a "thing," and they reset him.

They know he will remember the reset itself, and that it happened. That's why they do it. But they treat him like he remembers nothing, so he pretends like he remembers nothing, and he doesn't remember lots of things, not in any real way. When he looks at maps and sees the United States, something happens, some thought goes through his head, some image, some feeling, but it makes no sense to him.

It's safer not to remember things.

Zola is his anchor, something he remembers. The Soldier doesn't remember much, and he likes remembering, when it's safe. "Good, good," Zola is saying to him, bringing a file over to the table where he sits. "You're being very good. I am very happy with you."

He nods, and Zola smiles - the Soldier's hands, metal and flesh, both tighten, as they almost always do, for reasons he couldn't and would never try to name - as he goes on. "We have something for you to do. Something important. Are you ready?"

"Yes," the Soldier agrees. "Where am I going?"

"India," Zola says. "You'll be briefed in a moment. I just wanted to see for myself about these rumors that you had advanced, my dear Soldier."

"Advanced on whom?" he asks blankly.

Zola adjusts his glasses, appraising him. "How do you feel about being the Fist of Hydra?"

He doesn't hesitate. "I serve at the pleasure of our commander."

That answer doesn't seem to make Zola happy, which disappoints the Soldier, honestly. "Do you enjoy killing people for the good of the world?"

"I enjoy serving the good of the world," the Soldier confirms.

Zola's smile stretches thin. The Soldier does nothing, says nothing, and waits until the scientist reacts. "I will see you soon, Soldier. Do well. Be well."

The Soldier salutes. He opens the file after Zola leaves, and sees the face of the man and woman he is meant to kill. He feels no joy at the thought, and has only a second to think on Zola's questions before the commander enters the room, speaking swiftly and curtly. His focus zeroes in on the mission.

There is nothing but the mission. There can't be anything but the mission. He is the Fist of Hydra, and what good is a leader without a hand to lead his people by?


The Soldier doesn't like to sleep. There is the sleep that comes with the ice, and he doesn't mind that. It takes away the people he doesn't like from Hydra and brings in new faces, some of which he doesn't like either, but brings new technology, new weapons, and change, which he likes most of all. The sleep that comes when his missions stretch out over long periods of time, the sort that drags his eyelids down and makes him see things that aren't real, were never real, could not be real, is the kind he doesn't like.

Zola says these disturbing images are called dreams, and they're just accidents in the brain. The Soldier doesn't understand how things can get into your brain from outside, if you've never seen them or heard them or touched them.

Zola's eyes are bright behind his glasses when he asks about this. "What is it you dreamed of, Soldier?" he asks.

"Metal spikes," he answers, "and a rubber ball. And a girl."

It gives Zola pause. "Strange indeed," he says. "I don't recall anything like this in your time here."

"Did I kill the girl?" The question is out of his mouth before he can retrieve it, and he regrets it immediately. "The girl with the yellow ribbons in her hair."

Zola looks at him for a long moment, and the Soldier knows. He knows this isn't good, that admitting this was a mistake, and now the yellow of her ribbons and the warmth of her laughter will be shattered by the reset. "I will admit I don't know," Zola says. "Does it matter?"

"No," the Soldier says, immediately; that was an order, and he knows how to follow orders.

"I am worried about you, my dear Soldier," Zola says, smoothly, and he nods, lowering his gaze. "Come. To the lab. Let's see what we can do to ease your pain."


It's not that the Soldier doesn't see color, or that there isn't much color where he is most often kept. It's that the corrupt and nearly unsalvageable world outside is spattered with brighter and more intense colors, on the simplest things, on cars, on buildings, on overpasses, everywhere.

Red isn't a problem, it's familiar, the color of blood or the star painted on his shoulder; it's so palpable he can almost taste it, and it makes sense to him.

(He traces the star at night in the safehouse. The gesture feels familiar, but different, all at once, and he feels the absence of something, touches the air in front of him as though it'll call something into existence in front of him. No one is there. His family is there.)

When it's the white-gray mottled hue of ice he thinks of the sleep that the chamber brings, and it makes sense to him. The gray-green-black of gunmetal makes sense to him. It's the bright blues and reds and yellows of cars, the vivid green of trees in spring, the buzzing audio-visual assault of neon, that overwhelm him, that make him taste things in the back of his throat that he can't name.

It doesn't matter, in the end. Half of the detail and staggering reality of it all leaves each time he's led back into the lab and they place the instrument in his mouth.

Today, there is a yellow car, small and cramped-looking, which his mission has centered around following. The Soldier doesn't want to dwell on what might happen if he enjoys the taste the yellow brings to mind (something sweet and sour and something chemical that bites in a not unpleasant way) too much.

They don't see into the Soldier's head - as far as he knows.

He's focused. He's never not focused. Everything but the mission is a secondary reaction, second nature, old instinctive mental rituals that detract from the mission. The moment arrives. He takes the shot.

The man falls, and the people on the street panic, the people in the car climb out, and it's as simple as this - he picks off the second target, the woman in a short dress with tall blonde hair, and only then does the security realize where he is and begin to fire.

He picks off one, two, three, and his mission is over. He runs.

(There's no point in killing all those who oppose Hydra now. They'll embrace their true family when the time is right.)

He isn't sure he understands enjoyment, and even if he does he isn't sure he enjoys this. But it is a purpose. It's a reason to be woken up from the ice and to see the sky blazing blue above him, feel the gentle grip of yellow sunlight on his skin, to glimpse blood blooming on bright flower dresses and starched white shirts. And maybe that's what enjoyment is.

The Soldier returns to the facility. He is docile as they put the instrument in his mouth, and is led to the chamber without a fight.

He doesn't have a concept of years. The file numbers get higher; his family ages; this is how he measures change. They want him to remember things, but they don't want him to remember much. There are still the missions, more than he could count even if the lab people who aren't Zola weren't trying to make sure he can't remember anything at all, based on the delay between the reset time and his ability to even understand a briefing.

The clocks twitch. They twitch forward from the nine to the twelve, or the twelve to the six, but never backwards, which pains him for reasons he can't really name.

"It's not a straightforward process," the lab people say to Zola. "We haven't perfected him yet, but we're close."

Eventually they push too hard, and the clock hands twitch again, wildly, but never backwards; his head throbs, threatens to explode, and blood pours from his nose. He is incoherent but he understands enough of what's happened and gives them hell for it, shedding his share of blood to give them a reminder of who to fear.

He remembers it all.

At long last Zola leads him out of the detention cell and sits him down.

"I knew this day would come," he says; his eyes shine behind his glasses with something that makes the Soldier's throat stop. "That you would actualize, in and of yourself, away from your unfortunate past. And I am happy with what you have become, my Soldier. It is time we trust you further."

The Soldier just nods, uncertain of what to say, and Zola laughs, a broad and open laugh for a man so small and now so worn and old. "You are to eliminate a great enemy of Hydra," he says. "This will prove you are one of us, for now, forever. Do you understand?"

"Yes," the Soldier says. He wonders why he wouldn't be one of Hydra, then, why the Fist wouldn't be part of the body, why the Soldier wouldn't be part of the army. He meets Zola's gaze, though. There's no point arguing. It's a mission. "When?"

"Tomorrow." Zola's small, still vicious smile breaks out. "Get sleep. And, Soldier - whatever you do, do not dream."

He still remembers. The girl's face is unclear, but the sunlight and shade and the air and feel of the rubber ball in his hand, they're all as clear as this moment, and the solid fact of his feet on the ground. He lifts the corner of his mouth, just slightly, in answer to Zola, and goes to his barracks.


As they fly to the location, the team exchanges looks, as ever. The Soldier delivers terse orders in Russian to keep them busy, quiet them, and remind them who could easily throw them off the plane if it comes to that. He did not have a good night's sleep.

Of course he's used to a troubled existence, trusting in his family to weigh the balance between lesser and greater evils. This is the nature of being Hydra, nonetheless the use of the Fist of Hydra himself. This is different. Zola questioning his loyalty, the sudden need for proof of who the Soldier is and who he always will be, even after what must have been twenty years, has forced him to try to think of things locked away too far from reach.

Why?

It's a word he knows. It's not a word he's ever chosen to dwell on.

Finally, the train is in sight. Snow is lightly falling from the sky, the same white-gray of the ice of his chamber window, and the Soldier nearly smiles. They parachute down once the plane can navigate closely enough. Once inside, one of the commandants says, "Sir. You have your orders. We have ours."

"I know," the Soldier says, and recalls the makeshift map of the train's compartments as he dismisses half of the team. "Go. Do your work." He looks back at the remaining support team flanking him, and nods curtly.

The whole train is SHIELD. No civilian losses, no one the world will mourn when Hydra saves the world from itself. They gun down two or three compartments' worth of agents without much of a fight, the Soldier doing the bulk of the legwork with the weapons on both on board and brought along with them. Then a door slams open; the Soldier dodges gunfire, blocks shots with his arm, and fires the machine gun. The assailant ducks into the compartment and fires her pistol at him, and as he moves to evade her gunfire and draw closer, bring her into physical combat, he sees her face.

In the file, he saw a name. A description. A date of birth, military experience. There would be "high-level agents," his objective to "minimize losses and bring an end to the reign of SHIELD in a supposedly neutral nation." It didn't include a photo. This is the test, and he is failing it, because there is a weathered and beautiful woman in front of him who his trigger finger refuses to put down like a rabid animal, and this cannot happen. Not now.

"I know who you are," she says in English, her English accent crisp, her dark eyes flashing, her red lips in a firm line. "Put down your weapon, Soldier. And I'll let you live."

The address stops him, and he looks at her. She's SHIELD. She has to die. This instinct to refuse is a traitor's voice in his head, against all that he is. Still... You're important, he can't help but think at her as he stares at her, seconds passing like hours as he remains frozen to the spot. I can't let you die.

It's too much. He doesn't know what to do. He reaches for what he knows, the red of blood spreading (and pink, he thinks, out of nowhere) and the white-gray of snow-crystals, and rushes at her. Her cartridge runs out with her last shot - he slams her into the wall with his arm, strangles her, clenches his metal fist around her throat, then drops her there where she collapses, blood blushing red on her neck in color so vivid it inexplicably makes the Soldier's stomach turn. Then he leaves the compartment and the Swiss Alps are outside, the snow swirling in a way that's both terrifying for reasons he doesn't understand, and reassuring, too, because he will be asleep soon.

He jumps.