Five
The Soldier didn't like the cold.
No, that's not quite right. If the Soldier was allowed to think these things then maybe, maybe, it would admit it didn't like the cold. As it is, the Soldier is not allowed to think, to feel, and currently, move.
The superiors have been pacing non-stop for the last hour, talking, arguing, debating. The Soldier has long since tuned out, going into that small space in its mind, the one he kept reinforced with steel walls and under lock and key - away for the mad men-
The Soldier has retreated to the mind box. The space where he allows himself to breathe and think, while it keeps a careful watch on their surroundings. The box is cracked in a few places, and although the Soldier can't remember where these cracks came from, it thinks he does. The cracks make him sad, and quiet, and another emotion the Soldier can't quite place.
Sometimes when it's really calm and all it has to do is stand watch and await orders, the Soldier joins him in there, inhaling the scent of gunpowder and soap, the sharp tang of antiseptic that usually heralds her arrival. The dreams he has in the machine after that are usually always good ones.
For now though, it stays outside the box, one eye on the events unfurling before them.
Commander is agitated, prowling from one end of the room to the other. It is not an unusual sight for the Soldier, superiors are usually always agitated. That is why it is called upon after all, lured from his slumber like Smaug, angry and hungry and ready to wreak great devastation-
The Soldier is not sure where that thought came from. It does know that it warmed the pit of its chest, as if two hot hands had suddenly been plunged in there.
"So, you're telling me you cannot tell me a single thing about this…this woman?" The Commander spits, drawing the Soldier back to the moment. It should be paying attention, he needs the information. "If we can even call her that."
"I'm sorry, Mr Pierce, sir, but it's almost like she…"
The Commander's face slowly grows purple. That is not a good sign. The Soldier folds a little more of him into the box as the Commander spits, "She what?"
The younger man in front of him is trembling, "She disappeared."
Commander draws to a halt. Some small part of the Soldier braces itself; it knows exactly what is going to happen seconds before it is done, can see it in the cold that spreads across Commander's face, the way his fist clenches and his feet plant themselves firmly on the floor-
Bang. The man drops to the floor, like a puppet whose strings have been cut.
The whole room stills. No one dares move, no one dares breathe. Commander places his still smoking gun onto the table with a hefty sigh. Then he beckons the nearest soldiers closer with a brisque, "Clean that mess up."
They jump to attention, eyeing the Soldier as they slip past him to the bloody mess on the floor. Commander rolls his shoulders with a shaky exhale. He is angry. Good, that will make his plans much easier.
"Soldat." The words are firm, flat and empty - somewhere deep inside, he shivers. Out of all the commanders, handlers and superior officers it has had, this one gnaws at him the most. The Soldier is not quite sure why - no, that is a lie. The Soldier does know why, can feel the echoes of irritation and wariness in the depths of his bones-
-gunpowder, smoke in the air, soft gentle hands pressing against him with sharp words, "Don't call me doll"-
"Ready to comply."
The Soldier stands with a fluid grace and power, the kind that makes the nearest agents eye it warily. It does not faze the Soldier, the cool glances and hidden terror, it is long used to those looks.
Commander says nothing, just exhales and then makes his way around the desk to plant himself in the crisp black leather chair. The Soldier remains still, feet planted and hands behind back. The silence spreads between them, like a sticky darkness polluting the air, dragging dark talons over its mind, gnawing anxiety growing in the gaps it leaves behind. The machine is coming. It knows it.
But Commander doesn't speak. He continues to sit at the desk and watch the wide screen before him, the videos playing out. When it becomes apparent he has nothing further to say, the Soldier looks up at the screen-
-and its breath stops in his chest.
The devastation of New York is playing out in a ten second loop, a ship - or what he thinks is a ship - smashes into the side of a building, sending brick crumbling down onto the street below. A man screams, and then, there's a flash of golden light which halts the rocks mid-air. It flickers once, twice before moving sluggishly, shifting the brick out of harm's way in just enough time for people to come crawling out of the smoke and debris and - there. A woman stands under the light, her hands raised towards the sky, her honey blonde hair, smudged with dirt and dust, swaying in the breeze. He knows that shade-
-the rich Italian sunset shining through golden hair, how it felt to hold those strands between his fingers-
The box grows a little bigger in his mind, and instead of folding himself inside, he starts to pull himself out.
"Breathe, soldier."
So he does, he inhales and then exhales, even as awareness starts to spark through him like a live current. Because that woman, the woman in the video, it's her.
He's not sure how he knows, something deep inside tells him it cannot be her because she is dead, she died and with sudden clarity, he can remember the flimsy paper of the telegram he clutched with numb fingers, the thick black words printed on there in the dim light of his tent:
BOMBING. M.I.A. DEAD.
The words that he couldn't voice to - blonde hair, a darker shade than hers, leather jacket, a firm grip on his hand in the biting cold-
The cracks in the box swell-
"Soldat, to me." Commander Pierce's words snap through his turmoil. He is moving towards the Commander before he can think, and thank god, because he's not sure what he's going to do because that is her and he is him and the Asset and the Soldier-
"Leave us," Commander waves off the other agents, who slip from the room like smoke. He barely manages to keep a hold of his blank mask as Pierce turns back to him; behind him, that flash of honey hair repeats. "Soldat, new mission."
"Awaiting new orders."
"Find this…girl," Pierce says firmly, with a lazy wave of his hand. "Bring her back, alive."
The box crumbles.
"Confirmed. Locate and retrieve."
Pierce nods his head once, satisfied, before turning back to the screen, turning his back on him. A mistake, the last mistake he ever makes.
He remembers vaguely, Pierce boasting about the soundproof ability of this room once, how it would keep Hydra's secrets safe within the walls of SHIELD, right under their noses.
Pierce comes to regret being so thorough when no one is able to hear his screams.