A/N: The next A/N will be longer, and there will be some thank yous and comments concerning comments. For now, enjoy the chapter and apologies for any errors.
Chapter 11: Unleashed
Two bowls of porridge, three pieces of toast, and four apples. Following that, Hermione can think clearly, and her shakes are gone. Now. Now, she needs a mirror. She gets up from the table, abandoning The Baron in favor of her bedroom. He follows her there, and she opens the closet door to study her reflection. She's…taller. Not by much but a couple of inches at least. The muscles in her arms are more defined, and the material of her leggings stretch thinly over the muscles in her thighs and calves. She lifts the hem of her t-shirt and pokes at her lower abdomen. She no longer hurts from the surgery, and the bruising and breaks the Winter Soldier gifted her are gone.
Her fingers brush over the raised skin of her ved'ma scar which has faded some thanks to the serum, but unlike her apple scar, she sometimes experiences phantom pains from it. There were times where she'd wake in the middle of the night while at the Red Room from a nightmare—a dripping wet and ghostly Dmitri hovering over her bed with a dagger dripping of blood in hand. Her lower side would sting or have a deep, pinching itch.
Her apple scar is faint, too, but it's still there. A thin, red shape. She traces it, thinking of when she did it and why. It's funny. She remembers digging the screw into her skin, so she wouldn't forget her parents loved her. But at the time, she couldn't recall how they feared her and wanted her gone. How had she forgotten that?
"You're beautiful," The Baron comments from the doorway.
"The physical changes," she starts, "will take time getting used to. But it's the least of my concerns."
"What do you need?"
She turns to face him. "A safe place to understand my limits. The old sparring room in the basement will do. I only have a few days to get all this…" She shakes her hands. Her blood still feels like hot static, and the light on the ceiling flickers. "Under control."
"What else?"
He's eager, and she gets what he wants her to request next. She doesn't have to read his mind, even though she knows she could do it so easily now. The static in her veins thrum, and she rests her gaze on his forehead. The layers between the skin and brain might as well be tissue paper. He is tissue paper. They all are.
"I need a person."
"We have plenty of students—"
"I want the Soldier."
"Milas—"
"I need someone who won't break easy."
"You're going to fight him again soon enough. In front of a more critical audience, I may add. You'll be giving him an advantage by introducing him to your new abilities."
"You can wipe him clean when I'm finished with him."
The Baron gives her a nervous look. "It's possible I can arrange it."
"I promise I won't kill him."
"See that you don't. Or you'll be replacing him." He then adds, "And if you thought the last eleven years were hell. The Soldier has been on active duty for over fifty."
"Duly noted."
Hermione goes to the dresser in search of a new shirt, finding a tank top that should suit her well. As she peels off the one she's wearing, The Baron says, "Try not to…stir things up too much for him."
"Hm?"
"You're excellent at getting into people's heads. I see no reason why you should need to practice your already perfected talent on him."
She smirks at him over her shoulder. "Are you afraid I'll see something I'm not supposed to? The only thing he'll remember is what he had for breakfast. Unless you didn't feed him. God knows he's wiped clean often enough. I'm almost feel bad for him if I'm not certain it's for the best." Her smirk widens. "Speaking from experience."
She smooths out the wrinkles of his wife's shirt, pointedly ignoring The Baron's unamused face.
"You remember, don't you?"
"I got hit in the head with a ballet barre not long into it. It rattled somethings loose, but yes, I remember everything."
"Perhaps we should—"
"I will never get in that thing again. Do you understand?"
"I only want what's best for you."
"No, you want what you think is best for HYDRA, and this really isn't it. I'm loyal. Remembering my parents locked me up and forgot me isn't going to change anything."
She bends down to retie her shoes, missing The Baron's satisfied and relieved grin.
"Right. That's what they did, didn't they? Their loss. My gain." He clears his throat. "I do wonder…if you plan on finding them in the future. So many of those who left here yearned to track down their parents."
"I see no reason to."
"Not even to make them pay for abandoning you at that institute?"
"I've made peace with what they've done. I doubt I'd reach nirvana doing anything more."
The Baron sighs as she stretches. Her muscles ache a little, and she needs to loosen up before going head to head with the Soldier again.
"I was hoping," he comes up behind her, massaging her upper back and shoulders, "we could have some time to ourselves."
Whatever he's doing, she can't lie. She's enjoying it very much. No one's rubbed anything of hers since Taru. "As tempting as your proposition is, I really need to do this. But when I'm finished, I promise you'll get what you want."
He grips her shoulder, coaxing her to face him. "I want you to want it, too, Milas."
She pinches the lapels of his blazer, smiling bitterly. "Don't you concern yourself with what I want. You never have before." She leans in and gives him a kiss on the cheek and whispers into his ear, "Now get me the Winter Soldier."
And then something odd happens. His body stiffens and backs away. Her arms fall, and she watches him march out towards the hallway, saying, "Right away, my darling."
She stares, confused, at the empty space and then gasps softly, bringing her fingers to her mouth. Did she just…? Oh, God, she did it! She actually did it! She forced him! A person and not an animal!
Hermione tries not to get carried away and even attempts to write off The Baron's eagerness as circumstance, but he had really been too eager and too mechanical. He walked out of the room without a second glance at her, and mixed emotions bombard her. It's both thrilling and terrifying. She clasps her fingers and rubs her temples with her thumbs as she paces.
Unstoppable.
Yes, she would be. By word of mouth she could potentially command an army at her will.
Her thumbs dig deeper, and she shakes her head. No, she can't let this go to her head. The Baron made her into a weapon, yes, but those with power who overstep their bounds become arrogant. Prideful. Stupid. In history, even the most elite in power were cut down.
Hermione thinks…no. Hermione knows out of all things she may be able to do now, inflicting her will on someone with such ease is her most dangerous ability. She can't let The Baron find out what she did to him and if that's impossible, she won't allow him to tell anyone. And she knows he always wanted her to be able to do this, to control a person, but he likely didn't mean to place himself as a victim.
He wants her to be unstoppable, not uncontrollable. One becomes uncontrollable—like the other Winter Soldiers—they apparently get postponed indefinitely.
Turning to face the mirror again, she inspects herself thoroughly and gives herself a firm talking to. "You are loyal to HYDRA, but that does not make them loyal to you. Give them no reason to be afraid of you. Give them no reason to kill you."
Outside of the old sparring room, The Baron is there with the Soldier. She walks up to The Baron and frames his face with her hands. "You will not ever inform anyone or anything I can control minds."
She's sees something she didn't catch before. A thin, white film glazes over his eyes and then return to normal. "Never, Milas."
The Soldier's usually blank and stoic expression twitches, and he blinks at her. He frowns deeply, and she clasps his head quick before he can push her off. "You saw and heard nothing of what I just said to The Baron."
The thin, white filmy glaze seeps over his eyes, too. "I saw and heard nothing."
She lets go of his head, and he shuts his eyes for a moment before reopening them. She bypasses him to get into the sparring room. "I'm ready when you are, Soldier."
The moment he steps into the sparring zone, she attacks. At first, she holds back on her abilities, wanting to know if she can beat him hand-to-hand now with her new strength and pronounced agility. There's a satisfaction in it, too. Especially when she's not put down and broken in three minutes like before. It's exhilarating she can keep going. The big hand on the clock skips number after number, but soon reality sets in. She good. Really good. But he's better, and he does manage to get the upper hand and throw her across the room against the wall.
Sweat drips down her face, and her back smarts from being thrown like a ragdoll. The Soldier is coming at her, and she needs to think fast. The time for a decent right hook and high-kick are off the table. It's time to see what she can do, and she needs to decide what.
In the few seconds she's got, she mentally skims over all the things she thought herself capable of but hadn't been able to do. And then she remembers 54. Or more precisely, 54's memory of her father teleporting.
Hermione closes her eyes, the Soldier's metal hand clenched in a fist and flying towards her. She pictures the space behind him and sees herself there. She wants to be there. She needs to be there. There's an unyielding metal fist coming for her face—
The next sensation Hermione felt, well, she almost thinks she'd prefer the punch to the face. Every particle of her being felt like it is both being squished and spread apart. Like she's been shoved into a plastic baggy that's too small, and she's being smashed. When the sensation fades, she is indeed behind the Soldier who's fist connects with the wall where'd she had just been. She falls to the floor and dry heaves.
He whirls around and his brows furrow. "What in the hell?" he says in English.
His choice of language and accent is enough to knock her nausea. Wait? He's American?
He recovers quick from the shock of her jump. He's about to punch her again, but that teleporting idea was bad idea. She did it. But, God, the cost of it…
She regrets everything.
She raises her hand at him. "Hold on," she says, choosing to speak in English, as well.
He doesn't listen. He takes that swing at her, and she rolls to dodge it. She swivels her legs to kick behind his knee, but he catches her ankle and uses it to throw her. She lands on her stomach, the wind knocked out of her again, and then he's on her. He's got the full weight of his body and armor pressing down on her, and his metal hand clasps around the front of her neck, squeezing her throat.
Oh, God! He's not just restricting air, he's crushing! Wasn't he given orders to not…?
Her vision swirls, and she wants to throw him like she did with 54 but reacts on instinct. Make them see their worst memory. It's not something she ever had the heart to do when sparring with Taru and Natalia, but with the others, she had no qualms. Her hand flies up behind her and buries her fingers deep in his hair, planting the palm against his cranium and shoving herself into his head.
The journey in finding his worst memory is like being on a rowboat on a sea of raging, electrical waters at night with a lighthouse far off in the distance. She sees almost nothing but glimpses, and those glimpses are not much to work with. There's death, death, and more death. Every once in a while, there's just fighting. But she only sees bodies. A lot of them. And then she comes to a blockade. She rams against it over and over again because the Soldier has not loosened his grip, and she's running out of time. The blockade chips away, and she's sees a bright light and Dr. Zola. Her belly then flies into her throat because she's falling, and there's a train above her and a man reaching out screaming a name that echoes off the snowy, mountain wall.
The Soldier's grip flies from her neck, and he's flailing off her like she's on fire. She collapses and rolls onto her bag, her hand flying to her throat as it shutters to gulp in sweet, sweet air. She coughs and stares at the Soldier who's on all fours and, like her, gasping for breath but she expects for an entirely different reason.
"What did you do?" he growls.
She feels the feral coming off him and puts up a placating hand. "Calm down. We're going to fix this."
He lifts his head and snarls at her. "Don't touch me! Get away from me!"
"It's going to be all right, Soldier."
"Soldier," he murmurs and he gets to his feet. She follows suit, checking behind her, hoping a hundred guards will show up and do their goddamned job.
"That's right," she encourages.
He looks from side-to-side, pressing the heels of his palms to his forehead. "I can't…" He squeezes his eyes shut and bares his teeth. "Where's Steve?"
Hermione rehashes the last image she saw in his mind. The man on the train. Steve Rogers. That had been Steve Rogers. Searching around the room, she tries to find something to knock him out with, and there's nothing.
"I'm going to go find him. He can't be far," she says.
The moment she turns, there's a lurch in her peripheral, and the Winter Soldier is coming at her with a knife. She grabs his wrist and rebreaks it with an unnatural twist. He curses in English at her. She then balls her fist and punches him in the nose and then the larynx. He drops the knife and brings her wrists and the sides of clenched hands to his temples, hitting him hard. He stumbles backwards and then finally falls, disoriented but still conscious, the stubborn arsehole.
For a moment, she considers him and her abilities. Maybe she can make him pass out or fall asleep or, hell, stay there and not move a hair. She did that once with Robert. She froze him in place, but no. She doesn't want to do that. It took all night for that to wear off, and Robert wet himself the moment he shook loose. The sleep part, though. That might work.
She kneels down beside him, and he tries to get away from her, and she shakes her head. "You lost this round."
There's a wheezing sound coming out of his mouth. He's trying to speak, but she broke his larynx. His lips are pressing together like he's trying to make the 'p' sound. She skims his thoughts and hears, 'Please. Let me go. I don't want to go back in the chair. Kill me if you have to, but don't make me kill again. I can't. I can't.'
"Milas!"
The Baron comes into the room, a few guards behind him. He looks from her to the Soldier with a broad grin. "You did it. Wonderful. I knew you could." He motions to the guards and then to the Soldier. One of the guards takes out his tranq gun and shoots him in the neck.
"Sir?"
"Take him to the chair," he orders the guards.
Hermione closes her eyes, an uncomfortable sensation settling on her chest. It's heavy and like when she killed Taru. Guilt. It's guilt. But worse. She was able to relieve Taru from her hell and couldn't do the same for the Soldier.
"Sir?" she repeats.
"Hm?"
She climbs to her feet. "You know that thing you told me not do?"
The pleased expression fades into fury. "What did you do?"
"I'm sorry." She stares down at her feet. "He almost killed me, and I reacted on instinct."
He takes a step forward, his mouth set in a grim line. "What did you see?"
"Enough." She folds her arms and continues, "I had no idea that he was—"
"Do you have any idea the damage you've done?"
Hermione rolls her eyes. "You're going to slap him in that fucking chair, and it'll be like he never even met me when I fight him again tomorrow."
"You're thinking of him as a person with feelings. Stop. He's one of HYDRA's top assets. Scientifically engineered to aid us and to better our organization. Without the Soldier, do you want to know where we'd be? He's necessary, and I thought the Red Room would scrape this emotional nonsense you seem to cling to like the weepy, irritating little girl who came to me all those years ago."
"He wants to die!"
"He is a weapon and will be purged of his wants."
Hermione opens her mouth and then snaps it shut. "Am I not a weapon, as well? What about my wants?"
"You already clarified it doesn't matter what you want, didn't you?"
She says nothing.
"You're a servant of HYDRA. We all are, but each of us have different parts to play. You know they're not all glamorous but are for the greater good. The world is chaos. War and bloodshed and unfairness and inequality. Disorder. It's up to us to enforce compliance, so there can be balance."
Not even an hour later, Hermione watches from the sidelines as the Soldier is anchored to the chair and shocked for what seems like hours on end. His screams of despair echo off the walls.
She suddenly has the urge for a cigarette. She hasn't smoked since before her surgery but now seems like a good time as any to hit up Kristof for the goods.
There's something…off. And it's not just the Winter Soldier. It's growing up and coming back here to the facility. It's getting to know The Baron on a more intimate level. It's scrubbing the rose-colored glass and stepping closer to try and see past the purpose she always thought she had. Because for the first time since she was little, she feels doubt.
To Be Continued…