A few birds are chirping near his spot, their song monotonous but not distracting. All in all, their presence works in his favor, the same way the dear that's roaming some feet in front of the tree where he's perched on works in his favor. There are no prints on the pristine snow around or near his hiding place—at least not ones left by human feet. For there to be any footprints it would require for someone to have ventured into this part of the forest and he knows for certain that no one has set foot near this zone—not even him.
Snow has been piling on his head, shoulders, lap and thighs for almost three days; still, he hasn't moved unless he's had to adjust his grip on the rifle or readjusted on his perch, something he's needed to do for the optimal fulfilment of his mission while he monitored the area.
A sparrow flies past his left side, close to brushing his cheek, but the Soldier doesn't flinch. He keeps his muscles in tension to prevent them from shivering, his cold breath so shallow the little breath cloud is almost imperceptible. The bird makes one final circle over the dense crown of the tree, finally landing on the same branch as the Soldier, though not near enough to be touched even if he had outstretched an arm.
The man leans back a little and moves the scope of the rifle away from his face. He eyes the little animal, its head tilting in one direction and then the opposite with sharp movements. It opens its beak and chirps once, tilts its head the opposite way and chirps again. The Soldier observes the rapid movement of its abdomen when it breathes. His body tilts forward, just a few inches, but enough so he can observe more carefully the sparrow. The animal looks at him but doesn't scarper; it studies him with similar curiosity, eyes gleaming.
A loud sound breaks the peace that had blanketed the forest for the last hours. The Soldier startles violently enough that he almost falls from the tree. The bird takes flight while some of the accumulated snow over the Soldier's body plummets down—following his white mask to the ground and covering it. The night before, he had decided to take it off. It hadn't been a requirement to fulfil the mission.
He looks down at it, blinking slowly, feeling like he's been hit over the head and woken up from a deep trance.
He took off the mask.
He got distracted.
It downs on him how confused that makes him. The Soldier is an infallible weapon. What would his handlers think about HYDRA's perfect weapon getting diverted from a mission by a simple sparrow? What conclusion would the HYDRA agents that make the team that's in charge of the Soldier's maintenance draw if they knew he took off a mandatory piece of his uniform on a whim? He had felt like he wasn't getting enough oxygen so he had unlatched it and latched it back again, this time around his arm. It's ridiculous; the mask is made for perfect air filtration.
Perhaps the Soldier should suggest they wipe him; too many days have passed since the last one and he can feel himself getting erratic—he's actually having some trouble estimating the exact amount of days. It goes beyond animals distracting him or his neurons firing in the wrong direction, causing a nonsensical caprice to take over his body. Who is he to ensure that next time he will not only falter when he has to administrate a final blow to a HYDRA enemy but maybe he will even help them out?
He shakes his head, more snow falling to the thick white blanket covering the land. He needs to oust these abnormal ideas from his brain. Make suggestions to a HYDRA scientist? Come to the aid of a HYDRA enemy? His handlers must never pick up on any of the weird thoughts that have been crossing his mind these last days. The Soldier will make sure they don't.
Focusing his whole attention on the two women that come into view—each one carrying a rifle—the Soldier waits patiently for an opportunity to eliminate his two marks. The older one—the mother, his handler had briefed the Soldier, though he hadn't supplied the photograph with a name—has sharp eyes, but he knows she isn't expecting what's about to come. Mother and daughter are here to hunt, not the other way around.
They make their way to the dead deer and inspect the animal, a hole right between eye and eye. The two women interchange words but the Soldier isn't paying them any attention. The younger one is stroking the neck of the dead animal, expression turning softer. Her lips shape words the Soldier's brain doesn't register; its rusty cogs are turning, his mind propelled in a different direction than the one his brain has been programmed to go. He wants to understand: why is she being kind to the corpse of a creature whose death she's caused?
He feels something different from the permanent cold that reigns over his body and the strain from keeping said body tense so it won't quiver. That something is a sharp pain behind his left eye. He ignores it, following the two women through the rifle scope.
He takes a deep breath.
Exhales.
He pulls the trigger.
Watching through the scope, the Soldier sees the older woman's body take a second to realize what just happened, then it collapses over the deer's cadaver. The daughter needs a little longer to understand what just took place. She calls out for her mother, one time, two times until she sinks her knees in the snow by her mother's side. She struggles to turn the body, silent except for her harsh breaths which the Soldier can see and hear from his strategic position. The Soldier can tell that even after a couple of minutes the daughter is still struggling to understand what just happened; comprehensible, since she didn't hear any shots being fired.
Everything's silent now, free of birds tweeting or people hunting. The daughter covers her mouth with a trembling hand, twisting her midriff to inspect her surroundings, maybe catch a glimpse of whoever just killed her mother. She doesn't spot the Soldier in his white uniform and tac gear. Trembling and with eyes wide open in shock she tries to stand up but instead ends falling backwards, sinking deeper into the snow.
The Soldier sees her clearly through the scope, dark hair covering her pale eyes. He can take the shot, finish the mission, return to the base with the two bodies, and let his handler debrief him, as it's protocol.
The woman gets to her feet and, after taking a last look at her mother's inert body, she runs, rifle and hunted-down deer left behind. He follows her form with his rifle.
Shoot. Complete the mission, he can hear his instructions inside his head but can't execute them.
His flesh hand trembles.
He loses the window of opportunity and doesn't take the shot.
The woman gets lost amid the trees.
The Soldier finally lowers the weapon, his heart beating ferociously against his chest. The Soldier didn't follow his orders and his body already knows nothing good is coming after a mistake of such proportions.
The man shivers and the wind howls.
"I think he's glitching," the HYDRA tech voices his observation. He's been staring at the Soldier for a long time, face scrunched in thought.
His tech partner snorts while she finishes typing something in a computer. "Of course he's glitching; he hasn't been on the Chair for almost a month. According to his file, that hasn't happened in decades."
HYDRA has been in dire need of their weapon lately.
The Soldier listens to their conversation from his spot near the fireplace. A fire is crackling, flames dancing and casting large shadows, and the Soldier shuffles a little closer without the other two people in the cabin noticing. His flesh hand has been thawing for the past few minutes, just as the joints of the metal one have become easier to control.
"Well, the Chair has been vastly improved since then," the man comments without much interest on the matter. "I mean, we have had something to do with its latest upgrades," he says with a brilliant smile, nudging his coworker with an elbow to the ribs. The woman huffs and shoves him away, still typing with fast and expert fingers.
"He needs to be wiped clean and put into cryo for some time." It sounds definitive and the man accepts it after a roll of his eyes.
The two sink into a companionable silence. The man rises from his chair by the woman's side and, after retrieving his phone, he lets himself fall on the couch that faces the fireplace. He doesn't pay the Soldier any attention, fingers flying over the screen's keyboard. The Soldier feels some muscles relax a fraction, the warmth behind him partly drying his clothes.
He arrived less than an hour ago, informing the agents that the mission took a day longer to be completed because the women's hunting trip took place a day later than anticipated. The Soldier didn't mention the daughter having escaped, sure that the HYDRA agents would take notice of the one body count instead of the two as it was established from the beginning.
"What do you think they will do to him?" the man asks, eyes still on his phone. He scrolls down and huffs a laugh. "You have to see this video, Viv—I'm sending you the video."
Viv doesn't respond, the Soldier flexes his fingers, and the man on the couch huffs another laugh.
"You think they'll—?"
"Okay, we can finally start taking off the arm," Viv interrupts him. "I'll ask not to be put in more missions with you; I haven't had a minute of peace in the last week."
The man sits ramrod on the couch and huffs an offended breath. "It's been four days."
"It didn't feel that way to me," the woman comments under her breath. The cabin is silent enough that the other man doesn't need enhanced hearing to catch the words.
"Soldier, come here," Viv instructs pointing to a chair placed by her equipment. Her tone has changed drastically and there is no exasperated yet friendly banter.
The Soldier doesn't immediately move away from the fire and a second later he finds himself being tugged by his flesh arm toward the machines and computers Viv has been manipulating. "Place him on the chair," she instructs. "Not that one, Xin, the other chair."
The Soldier sits on the cold, hard chair, so tense he's practically vibrating. Xin handles some cables behind him. He's not going to be wiped, he's gathered that much; despite that and still wearing his half-frozen clothes, a bead of sweat slides down his back.
"I don't think I've ever detached his arm before—thought it wasn't possible," Xin comments from his spot down on the floor, untangling cables and plugging them in their respective sockets.
"It's possible, it just takes some time. We'll have to secure him to the chair, though," Viv informs him matter-of-factly, one finger playing with her lower lip as she clicks and types a code into a monitor.
"Ah, that's why the chair is bolted to the floor," Xin adds, getting to his feet and dusting off his lab coat. A self-satisfying smile pulls his lips upwards when he examines his handiwork. "All set." Viv gives him a thumbs-up.
"The boss said to wait for him to arrive since he's going to be the one to, you know, oversee us while we administer the punishment. Either way, he and the team have to come to take Ms. Clarke's body." Xin makes an affirmative sound. "But gave orders to take off the arm."
"Maybe we should ask Eric for a PowerPoint 'cause right now I can't remember that briefing."
Viv laughs. The Soldier wonders, if he knew who Eric is (or perhaps remembered him) would he, too, be able to laugh at the private joke, as an alternative of clutching the chair's metal arms with a death grip, hand going bone-white.
Viv and Xin instruct for him to stop squirming so they can tie him to the chair: a strap goes over his chest, other two gripping tight his legs, a special metal band over the bionic arm so he won't be able to use it, and one more going over his flesh arm. He complies, docile. His heart is like a rabbit inside his chest.
"I think we're good to go," Xin declares with an assured nod, looking at the bonds that secure the Soldier to the chair. Nowhere to go.
"Yes, please, I'm done with this place," Viv groans.
The man on the chair tenses up even further, trying to prepare himself.
The procedure begins, the Soldier tasting blood at the back of his hoarse throat after barely ten minutes.