The Soldier and The Duchess: Chapter One
She wanted to struggle. With every step she took, she desperately wanted to fight back. Her instincts begged her to do so.
But she had her orders.
Her boots marched in tandem with the soldier on her left and the soldier on her right, both of whom had a firm and rather irritating grip on her arms. A grip that, while slightly painful, could be broken in seconds — if she chose it.
It was because of this she knew that their bruising hold was for no one else other than themselves. It certainly wasn't to keep her in line; she allowed their grip because she'd been ordered to do so. She wanted to scoff at them — these men and their delicate egos. Their sense of self so fragile they felt the need to assert their false dominance over someone as strong as her. It was pathetic.
She knew they were fragile and she believed — deep inside themselves — they knew this too. But in effort to maintain the status quo, she kept in step nonetheless.
Their combined steps were heavy and tromping. Each footfall echoed off the walls as they turned the corner and a set of double doors came into view ahead.
She blanched.
At this moment — in this very second — there was no way to confirm that the room at the end of the hall was their destination. But with each passing second, another step was taken, the doors grew that much closer, and her theory became that much more a certainty.
She was torn. Her assumption of their destination caused a panic within her. An urge to fight to spare herself the torture that would come once she passed through those doors. But she wasn't in control.
She had orders.
The five soldiers that accompanied her marched casually. There was no rush or sense of urgency. What was to come would happen whether rushed or otherwise. So those in charge took their time.
Their time. Time was without a doubt theirs to control, never her own.
As such, time was a strange thing for her to comprehend.
She knew its meaning, its definition. But its purpose and impact was something she struggled to understand.
She knew she was old — or rather that she had been here for a significant amount of time. But for her, length of time was not defined in age. For her, there was no age of time.
Logically, she knew that with time came age. She knew this to be true as she could see it on the faces of those that surrounded her. There were times where she had recognized a face only to be surprised by the impact age had taken without her there to see it.
She, too, had seen it written on paper. The golden age, the greatest generation, the industrial era. These were spans of time she could understand, intellectually. Their meaning and impact could be seen and viewed. History was to be written and remembered. This made sense.
She had once heard a Colonel claim that "He was not the young man he'd once been." And she knew this to be the truth, because she had known this officer as a young man — before he'd been a lieutenant, even. At the time, the Colonel had made his statement in a jovial manner, and those that he had spoken to had laughed. But she simply couldn't understand the joke. Eventually, this officer had been replaced with another, and another after that one. Their time within the organization always had a conclusion while she simply continued.
She understood that with time came an end. But this was never something she had experienced first hand.
She had experienced the passing of some time — minutes becoming hours, and hours becoming days.
There was never such a time longer than the minutes spent strapped to a chair as an electric current coursed through her body in an effort to manipulate her mind.
But she never experienced the effects of time as it passed.
Maybe this was something she couldn't understand simply because they'd never allowed her to have this experience of aging.
She could comprehend time in increments of minutes, days, and months because she'd been allowed to experience them — and keep those experiences as memories.
But a time spent living an age such as a decade was unfathomable.
She knew she had surpassed decades. This span of time happened while she was alive — sort to speak. But she was never allowed to experience such a passing of time as large and impactful as an entire decade.
She had once been told that time — for her — was irrelevant, "We live through time. Those that command us, live in it. We are not subject to it as they are."
Because of this, time was nothing more than confusion for her.
Time as a construct was understandable. But time as a concept eluded her.
When she had questioned the idea of age and time further she had been dismissed and told not to concern herself with such thoughts, it was of no matter to her.
"Why shouldn't it matter to me."
"Because it is entirely inconsequential to your purpose. Concerns such as age, name, or relations — they simply do not matter."
She had later been punished for her questions — severely. And so she had dropped the subject, never forming the questions and frustrations in her mind into words again.
But now, as she walked step in step with her guards towards her own destruction, she wished she could understand time the way that others understood it. She wished she could feel time the way that four of the soldiers that surrounded her felt it. Two beside her, one in front, and one behind.
For them, there was no day but today. But for her, there was every single day from here on. For her the clock had stopped, the second hand ticking in place, destined to never move forward. She was stuck there, in that never-ending second, wishing for something she couldn't quite describe.
Right now, in this stuck second, she wished to catch a breath. In that breath, she could form a plan. She knew there would never be a plan or an option that would somehow let her obey her commands while also allowing her to fight against the pain she was certain she would experience if she were to walk through the doors that were growing ever closer.
There was no universe where both could be true. But her desire for survival, that sense of self-preservation that couldn't be killed inside of her — that natural sense was warring against her programming.
The programming inside her head, the brainwashing that she had endured for decades — literally for as long as she could remember — demanded obedience to those in command.
That too was a thing difficult for her to understand: memory.
She had been taught and trained by the finest minds that Europe had to offer, but still her understanding of these basic concepts teetered on a precipice of darkness.
She had memories. But she also had a lack of them.
Her earliest memories were of this room that they were slowly moving towards. Well, not of the room, but rather of the pain that was manifested in this room.
But she knew that there had been a time before then. A time before the pain, a time that they had taken from her. They had wiped those memories from her mind. And they had done so experimentally. But her first clear and allowed memory had taken place in this room.
That was a strange thing that she struggled with as well — allowed and forbidden memories. She knew she had memories that weren't allowed. Memories of moments from before, that if spoken aloud they would attempt to take from her.
These memories were different from most of what she could recall in her mind. They were dim and faded. And they often hurt to think about.
Right now, if she thought hard enough she could remember a room with green and pink vibrant wallpaper. Sunbeams and specks of dust streaming in from an open window that danced against the beautifully colored walls. But if she thought harder, if she really focused, she would feel a crack in her mind — sharp and swift. A pain reminiscent of a cane brought down upon her legs.
These were the moments that she knew she could conjure on-demand — green and pink-lined wallpaper, a man throwing a fish from a boat, the flashing lights of an approaching subway car.
But other times, these memories came upon her like a surprise. A word could be spoken across a room and the sudden vision of herself being cradled in strong arms would appear in her mind. And she would know with unshakable certainty that there was once a time when she had been gathered up into a man's arms as silent tears ran down her face because she had been stung by a bee in a park.
There was no way to prepare for memories like these that came upon her without warning. But once they came, she fought hard to keep them in her mind.
A bee sting.
Quiet tears.
A man with brown hair.
A bee sting.
Quiet tears.
A man with brown hair.
A bee sting.
Quiet tears.
A man with brown hair.
And a desire to remember.
That was how the pink and green wallpaper remained. Repetition and a stubborn desire.
Letting go of the image of wallpaper she blinked and focused once again on the looming double doors.
Of all the torture she'd endured since the beginning of her memory, her very first recollection is still by far the worst pain she'd ever experienced.
She had been exhausted and confused, uncertain of where she was, why she was there, or even how she'd gotten to be there in the first place.
She'd been scared — for herself, yes but also for someone else she couldn't remember. The language that those around her had spoken was one she didn't understand and her body shook with fear as she was strapped to an operating table.
At some point there had been a warm fluid that entered her veins, spreading throughout her arms and legs. It burned as it flowed through her. She could trace its poisonous path through her body, so painful it set her brain on fire. She couldn't think in a straight line. She was delirious and delusional, unfocused and completely scattered. There was only hot burning pain. She didn't think she would survive this event and she didn't think there could be anything worse. That was until the sudden bursts of electricity jolted through her. A new bright pain that curled her toes and caused her throat to go dry. She had been naive then.
Thinking about it now made her teeth hurt. The pain ran so deep and so vivid that the echo of this memory begged for release.
For a time she had hoped that the memory of that day would fade. After all, they had taken other memories from her. Entire moments that she had experienced were now nothing more than a whisper in the wind. Fractured images that held no meaning because the story had been erased from her mind. She hoped for this outcome, but as of yet, she had no such luck.
They wanted this memory to stay, and so it did.
They had often applauded their excellence when it came to her and her mind. She was pure excellence. A youthful body preserved at its peak and a mind filled with the knowledge of the ages. Knowledge that they chose, and memories that they manipulated.
Her body and mind were a testament to the organization and the excellence of their scientific and technological advancements. They had refined their processes through her experimentation to build the empire on which they currently stood. There had been test subjects before her, but she was their milestone for success. Her existence was because of an experiment — she had been the experiment. A successful one, but an experiment nonetheless.
When all was said and done, they had indeed created excellence — of that there was no doubt. But she often thought that they — the commanders, and doctors, and scientists, and professors, and instructors — often gave themselves credit and glory before it was rightfully due.
The memory wipes — for example — were not all that they thought them to be.
Certainly, the mind wipes worked wonderfully in the short term. If she began to question orders or recognized a face or place, the wipe cleared her of those thoughts rather effectively in the immediate time being so she could focus.
After the wipe, once the words were spoken to ensure her compliance, the particles of memories that floated around in her mind disappeared and she would think of nothing but her mission. For a time.
But eventually, the questions and trace memories would float back to her.
In her dreams, faces of those she killed would return to question her about Brooklyn, and strawberries, a skinny boy called Grant, and a young woman named Rebecca.
These were the forbidden memories. Memories that they had attempted to take from her, faces and events that they believed were ripped from her mind. She never allowed herself to speak of these moments. She wasn't meant to have them, so she pretended they didn't exist.
She was meant to recall portions of training sessions, language lessons, and various missions. These long-term memories she filed away in her mind, keeping them safe and organized in her own catalog cabinet. These were the moments throughout her life where she could remember full weeks, months even.
It was in this time, in these memories, where she'd been taught the most vital parts of who she was.
She'd learned languages — first spoken and then coded. She'd watched films from various cultures where she learned of differences in human natures. She'd been taught how to fight. The list of weapons she was proficient with was longer than the list of languages she could speak fluently.
And for all of this, they congratulated themselves.
They thought her to be perfect.
There was another that was more so — but she had been the original experiment. An accidental perfection for them to build upon.
But she wasn't as perfect as they assumed.
Simply because she could remember.
Whether the memories were pleasant or not didn't matter, the fact that she had them at all was a testament to her silent stubborn defiance. As long as she kept quiet on the matter, the memories were hers to keep.
And she never said a fucking word.
What did it matter?
She was theirs entirely, to use as they saw fit. There was no escaping any of it. As long as she did as she was told and obeyed her orders, they were satisfied. So what did it matter if she kept some illicit memories for herself, as long as she obeyed?
As far as she was concerned, it didn't.
There were moments, like this one she was in now, where she had to remind herself to obey. She knew what was likely to come — and it would not be pleasant. But she had been ordered to follow these soldiers wherever it was they were taking her. And she was meant to follow and obey.
But her instincts told her to run. To fight against the pain that would come if she stepped through the double doors.
She didn't believe that she feared the pain that was to come due to her recent failure. She just didn't want to experience it. In the same way, she didn't want the soldiers to touch her. She didn't fear their touch — she simply didn't desire it.
To her left, the miserable soldier coughed and cleared his throat. It had only been a brief moment of movement, but in that moment with his seemingly inconsequential action, he'd pulled her from her mind. Her eyes shifted towards him and she stumbled over her previous thoughts of compliance.
The idiot had become a distraction and triggered a lapse in her judgment. And now, as she turned her head ever so slightly to observe his insignificant form, her decision had been made.
Her instincts took over.
She fought.
Four of the five men escorting her would be practically effortless for someone of her skill to disable.
She was the Duchess after all — their Gertsoginya. Not only was she trained by the finest Hydra had to offer, but by the Red Room Academy as well. She had easily passed the Black Widow Ops Program decades earlier — leaving her with skills none else within the Hydra organization could claim privilege to.
But she didn't have a metal arm.
That singularity was for one man alone. And as she'd trained with the finest widows the Red Room could produce to give her an advantage over both enemy and ally alike, so too had the Soldat been given something to set him above his peers.
Or rather, peer.
Singular. One peer.
For there were none like them.
It was she and him alone that stood side by side as Hydra's finest.
And now, as she had successfully immobilized the majority of her convoy, they stood facing one another.
The Soldat and the Gertsoginya.
He had waited patiently for her to finish her tantrum. Watching as she eliminated each guard, one at a time. He wasn't going to waste his own time or energy getting involved too early. No, he'd let her fight it out first. He'd let her take out her frustration and pent-up aggression on the grunts, likely in hopes she'd come to terms with the futility in her actions. And therefore go willingly with him instead.
Not today, though. She'd been out of cryo for too long. Her programming was wearing thin, and her stubborn nature seemed to be thriving. A wipe was indeed needed if she were to continue this mission.
"Do not do this."
She braced herself for his eventual attack. She knew his techniques well enough to know, he wouldn't wait long to make the first move, "I tried not to. But I don't believe it is in my nature to walk willingly to the slaughter."
Clenching his fists and rolling his shoulders, the metal plates that made his arm softly clicked and shifted into place as he warned her, "It'll be worse for you."
"I know."
She did know.