Winter ★ Soldier
Classified
Info
—Names—
࿐ Wraith is the current name that he goes by. It’s an old name given to him by Rumlow and since he has no affiliation with S.H.I.E.L.D, and has no intentions of returning to his past self, he’ll keep using it.
࿐ Winter is also appropriate.
࿐ Yakov is a previous moniker he will oftentimes go by.
࿐ James and Bucky is a no as he doesn’t recognize his past self. Unless it’s Natasha that’s calling him it. Only for her does he make that small exception.
—Traits—
— ✰ Height is 6'1".
— ✰ Accent is Russian tinged.
— ✰ This is an AU where he is back with HYDRA running his own operations of bunkers throughout the United States, his main facility being in Siberia which he often times is located.
— ✰ He’s got a sadistic complex and a short fuse.
— ✰ More of his traits will be exploited with SL’s and interaction.
—Notes from the scribe—
✪ Please note that I do post works of poetry (sometimes) and I do not claim any of them as mine unless stated otherwise.
✪ Most solos/storylines will have triggers involving violence, gore, sexual content and torture.
✪ Out of personal preference I like long storylines with angst and/or meaning. Slice of life really isn't coinciding of Wraith's darker character, a little is okay if it feels right. I'll write small bits of fluff here and here and there, but smut is a no all around; sorry. I'm not a minor, I just don't feel comfortable writing it.
✪ Although I like ships I don’t have much interest in actually shipping Wraith. He’s always been better off alone and unfortunately I'm not active enough to satisfy a partner.
✪ Above all, many thank yous for the follow and your interest in Wraith’s story.
✪ Any questions please feel free to shoot me a DM. I don’t bite– very hard.
—Micolash
Solos
** solos have triggers of blood, gore sexual content, and language
The Price For Metal - Beginnings
It hurt…
It hurt everywhere. They said it wouldn’t hurt so bad; that it would vanish, but the pain was nearly unbearable to stand. Words couldn’t form from blood stained, swollen lips as they were utilized often to bite down on, stifling the whimpers emerging from the male’s throat so not a sound could slip into the dark dank cell he lay in. The soldier’s stomach wracked with bubbling nausea that couldn’t be coaxed down do to the fervent persistence of flaring nerves that originated in his left ‘arm’, creating a sour stench of retched bile to permeate the atmosphere and himself. He couldn’t even reason with his mind to escape the endless sea of delirium. Lights were always too bright and distorted every aspect that caused his glassy eyes to advert away; noises registered decibels higher and pounded in his ears. It was an endless circle of anguish with no-one around to offer compassion and shoot him up with morphine to nullify distress.
He had to learn to fight; to /survive/ mentally.
Overwhelming pain had been gracious enough to strike him out of consciousness during the amputation of his organic, mutilated limb, but showed no leniency in keeping the pain at bay after the product was finished. Minutes felt like hours as hot and cold flashes overtook him like fever; blanching his once healthy skin and leaving it in a cold, clamming sweat. The soldier’s body would need to adapt and grow accustom to the alien of metal molded to his frame of flesh.
Wires conjoined in an intricate affair with existing nerves yet those that were nonexistent were replaced by a marvel of synthetics. Reddened, scarred flesh needed precious time to conform not only to the new makeup of artificial nerves, but also synthetic muscles and mechanized fabrications of cybernetic craftsmanship to repair what was crudely damaged by his perilous fall; with the aid of serum injected into his bloodstream to cease the growth of scar tissue and provide needed substance to extensively mend what time couldn’t. Seen as a weaponized limb by most, an engineer or scientist could spend eager years just unraveling the genetic invention of this design. But for now all it was, was the cause of this soldier’s suffering. Delusional from pain and blank-minded from being cleansed of his past, his memories; the male didn’t understand why this pain was echoing though his weakened state like it did. His arm hurt, his bones felt violated with aching and not a soul pitied him.
The events blurred from when first opening his eyes and seeing the procedure to misshapen faces of people in lab coats that over looked the results of change. Next he knew he was too dizzy to sit up, too dizzy to breathe in a void of darkness with only a cold, concrete surface to support his back.
— He didn’t even remember his own name.
Origin of the Wraith
Normally tears would be shed after enduring a session of three or four handlers. Once they left their mark, there was no end of torment in one's mind. The methods were always the same, but he never remembered; never recollected how many times it had happened over and over again once being taken out of the frigid ice box. His brain was a slate having no manner of etching or scribble of memory. Just blank. Devoid and ready to be written upon again once when he knew his place. He was always placid after the thaw which left the sparking networking nerves of his brain alerted and even more than often assertive to whomever came close. Thus they had to tame the pet.
Afterwards, the only thing he found relief in from was the cold, sanguine stained floor; slippery and copper scented that wept from wounds to slide into spidered cracks on what used to be green tinted tile. The scent mingled with the still permeated aroma of arousal that adhered to sweat slick skin, dishelved mocha locks, and whatever fragments of cloth that still retained to his body. The asset had been put back in his place when the session was over and stayed submissive long after they had left having fulfilled their brutal desires. What was there for him to do? He had no inkling to crawl into a shadowed corner and sob, he had no emotion at all. Stay put and be quiet. One had told the soldier before, just after sinking canine teeth into the soft flesh at the base of his neck to mark him after his round. That bite was only another to add to the collection bestowed to his once blanched skin along with the various lengths of reddened and swollen scratches down his scarred back and muscular thighs. Everything stung but not a sound spilled from his tender, cracked lips. Making the slightest whimper was instantly put down the first time when his mouth was fucked raw from the handlers, so he knew better than to show any miniscule sign of weakness despite how much his body displayed it. So, silent and still he stayed. It wasn't until nearly a half hour later until someone came for him, but comprehending his surroundings or the passing of time was impossible when in this state. Fuck dazed, he tried his best to keep his body still as this figure knelt down beside him and placed a warm hand to his shoulder; wrapping long, masculine fingers to gently constrict the chilled flesh beneath. “Get up.” The voice was low and commanded with authority so the asset obeyed.
Like a good boy, palms pressed to the sticky surface and he arose shakily to his knees, his entire body screaming to be babied and for rest. He ignored all of the senses and clambered to bare feet while his head hung low in obedience, letting the tangled locks of his hair weep over his face. The man's face was still unknown, awaiting in silence for his order. The order came not with words, but a touch of his index finger to his chin in coaxing his head upwards. He was a younger man in comparison to the soldier, albeit taller than him; probably in his early thirties. His caramel eyes scanned the soldier slowly to take in his face, noting his red puffed up lips and weary half-lidded eyes. They weren't the same the last time the man saw them; once fierce and crystallized, now grey and seemingly lifeless. Empty. The soldier could see this man's jaw clench tightly but wasn't sure if he was displeased or not. Or it could have been the pungent smell around them that made his nose wrinkle up the way it did. “Alright, c'mon.” His arm was taken gruffly by the once gentle hand, leading him passed the door of the room and down an unrecognizable corridor.
Shredded pieces of clothing barely covered his frame, hanging loose and swaying loosely with every trembling step that tried to keep up with the man's longer strides. The chill inside of him lingered and brought about even more bolts of pain, shooting up and down his nerves like electricity. But still, he kept quiet. He was brought to a room; this stranger's room more likely, and taken to the bathroom where lights were flicked on and he was left to stand in the centre. Blank eyes watched the older man as he fiddled with the bathtub, adjusting the water to a tepid warmth.
“Okay...” The stranger turned back to him once the water was shut off, he, inhaling a deep breath while he worked to remove the fragments of cloth hanging uselessly on the asset. The asset flinched from the touch, lifting his eyes in an almost pleading manner. Once eye contact was made, the man paused in his work to place one of his hands to his chest, “My name is Brock Rumlow. You...” The hand then extended to touch the asset's shoulder, “...are Wraith. It's the name I've given to you.” It had been forbidden for anyone to speak the asset's true name. Rumlow had received so much shit for 'giving him a pet name', so said the other handlers; but what else was he supposed to call him? The soldier's eyes shifted to follow the hand before peering back to Brock's eyes, not ushering a single word of understanding.
Brock sighed again and slightly canted his head with a look of dissatisfaction. This procedure was monotonous.. Wake the asset, fuck – break - the asset, then clean him up and ship him out. The cleaning part was his job. Well... he was responsible for Wraith here on out anyway. “Wraith.” He repeated, chewing the inside of his cheek. The soldier was still not comprehending, but only time would tell if the name was to click. Resuming, the older man undressed Wraith of his remaining garments and brought him to the bath's porcelain frame; the crystal water peacefully undisturbed. “In you go.” His words demanded but his tone was gentle as if speaking to child. And the soldier obeyed.
At first the water did nothing by surround his calves before Brock's hand yet again gave command for him to sit. Wraith bit hard on the edges of his tongue, stifling the need to wince from water stinging the wounds upon his flesh. The tub was much to small and his knees drew in slightly so he could sit comfortably, hunched over with his chin resting to his knees. Unexpectedly, Brock had retrieved a bucket and poured a goodly amount of water on his head; locks clinging to his face from the flow and frightening him which in turn made him attempt to escape. But quickly that drive was ceased as the STRIKE agent withheld him with firm hands to his shoulder.
“Behave!” He yelled, giving Wraith a sound slap to his face. The soldier stilled himself, now dipping his head in shame and squeezing his eyes shut. “Shit... see what happens when you fuck around? You do as you're told and things will turn out alright, but you get all defensive and freaked with every damn thing that spooks you needs to stop. Now.” Brock huffed lightly and snatched up the bar of soap and a washcloth, lathering it up in the water. “You behave and you won't get punished, understand?” He waited for a response but none came. As usual. Wraith hardly ever spoke after being awoken much less even dared to look to him. He just sat there with knees pulled in, both flesh and cybernetic arm wrapped around to cocoon himself. “Understand?” Brock inquired again, tilting Wraith's head up, using one hand to brush away the clinging locks while the other began wiping the soaped up cloth to the outline of his face, significantly lowering any pressure when bordering his tender lips to wipe away the stains of saliva and release. The soldier suppressed any sounds, looking into Brock's eyes and giving just a light nod. “I want you to say you understand, Wraith.”
“I understand..” The soldier spoke in graveled tone without hesitation, previously having been trained to speak only when commanded and his throat ached from the lesson taught. Brock understood the reasons for HYDRA bringing such force down upon the asset's shoulders, to ensure he'd never question or grow familiar with kindness. But he had a different way of seeing him. Before the freezings and wiping's, Brock had grown more as a friend than a handler to Wraith; taking care of him and spurring him onward to perform the mission's they had in store. He'd wait for weeks, months to see him again when the ice box was turned on and Wraith was froze solid inside. Just waiting until he had to nurture him again back to the terrifying assassin he was before. It amazed him how something so assertive and cold-hearted could look so delicate and broken right now, here quivering like a leaf in the bath water which had now turned a tint of grimy pink. “Good. Now hold still.” After cleaning Wraith's face, he preceded to wash his hair; combing long, lathered fingers through. His amber hues swept from the work of his hands down to view the soldier's expression which seemed to be coaxing his eyes to close. Brock lightly smirked, “You like this, huh?”
Wraith's eyes snapped open in response, startled that perhaps he was making a mistake in enjoying the touch. “Well do you?” The question was pressed further, wishing him to find the voice and actually use it. “I... I do like it...” He spoke quietly, lowering his head ashamedly. It felt far better than tugging, grateful the handlers didn't pull a lot of it out from how tightly they tangled fingers around it.
The younger man continued, then let the suds formed to settle as the cloth was taken up again to run over the surface of Wraith's back. He caught the instant tightening of his muscles, due to the soap burning the travels of biting nails, enough to streak in blood. Jesus... they always fuck you up after you thaw out. Poor bastard... Pressure lessened, softly swiping the wounds clean from debris and sweat. He wouldn't be able to patch him up, but that would do. The command was given for the soldier to lean back, allowing him to sink to the back of the tub so Rumlow could clean his chest. Wraith's eyes fixed upward, staring passed the textured ceiling with a blank expression. “Y'know you can talk around me, right?” Brock spoke up, wiping up the residue left to his warming flesh. Thank God the soap had enough scent to get rid of the smell of sex on his body.
A soft sigh left the his reddened lips, not even being able to form anything in his empty mind to talk about, “Yes.” He answered simply, swallowing back the parch in his throat and shutting his eyes for the moment as the squeeze passed over the raw muscles inside and brought about a low groan. It hurt so bad that he tried desperately to contain the pitiful sounds, not wanting to be hurt again for disobeying. Wraith's eyes and mouth opened at the same time though words were stifled with Rumlow's index finger touching over them.
“Don't. You don't gotta apologize or say 'I'm sorry, sir' when I'm givin' you a bath. I may be your handler, but here I'm more than that.” What? More how? The soldier attempted to comprehend the gentle reprimand, searching Brock's eyes for any answer other than just 'follow orders'. His lips pressed closed and he turned his head to face forward, watching as the STRIKE agent scrubbed his thighs and calves clean. It actually felt wonderful being clean, even if he didn't remember what it was like before. But being covered in filth from the floor, blood and the white ropes of release didn't appease him.
Sighing seemed to be the 'action of the day', knowing it was useless as of now to even try to make him comfortable. What's the use? If Pierce finds out then I'll be dead and he'll get the worst for it...Rumlow didn't know why he did it, but showing this more caring outlook brought a sense of purpose to his life other than serve HYDRA. Hindering speech further, he told Wraith to stand so he could be rinsed off.
Water from the shower head poured over him, running the liquid fingers though his hair and caressed his masculine frame; washing away every imperfection. Once that process was complete, he was taken from the bath and a decent towel was applied to dry him, the younger man vigorously rubbing the towel to his long hair and work it down to his feet. “You dress yourself.” Rumlow tossed the damp towel aside and rummaged though the bathroom cabinet as Wraith slipped on the pair of boxers and black fatigues provided. This would be one of the few occasions where he would be able to dress in casual clothes which made it look like Brock was pampering him more than anything. And maybe he was. Wraith was still something underneath the ice and metal, something dangerous in one instant yet so malleable in the next. “C'mere.” The soldier once again obeyed and seated himself on the directed stool, turning his ageless eyes upward. There was hardly any expression that showed on his face which was normal even if having its eerie moments. It was impossible to get any emotion out of him no matter how hard anyone tried. He was a machine being fed orders and instructions without so much as a word in return.
Puffing his cheeks and releasing the built up air slowly, Brock looked him over for a moment before applying the frothy shaving cream to Wraith's cheeks, who slightly pulled back from the feeling. “Hey. Don't you start now.” A frown of disapproval etched into his brow, guiding his hand to the back of the asset's head to tangle fingers into his dampened hair and tug downwards to raise his head. “I'm not gonna hurt you at all. Just making you not look so much like a bum with all that scruff on your face.” A moments pause fleeted before the unexpected happened. “Can you cut my hair?” Wraith spoke... With slower movements, Brock stared at him with brows raised. “Why?” “I don't like it...” The younger man snorted, softly scraping away the shaving cream and underlying hair with the sharp edge of the shaving knife, “Really now... Well I dunno if I can do that, Wraith. Actually I can't.” “Why?” Such innocence slipped with that simple question, making the blade to his cheek cease from its task for the moment. “Because HYDRA wants it long.” Stupid-ass excuse, but what the fuck else am I 'sposed to say?
Wraith softly pursed his lips, letting a light sigh of defeat from them. There was nothing else he could say. If HYDRA wanted it, then he had no choice but to leave it long. It was a stupid request anyway. The touch of the cool blade to his skin resumed, dragging downward or sweeping smoothly to the side in removing the bristle-like hairs. Brock wanted to give him more than that for some reason -even if he didn't know why himself- tell him the truth that he had a different identity, or some other purposeful answer besides 'HYDRA wants it long'. With a satisfied grunt, his long digits grabbed hold of a wetted hand towel and cleaned his now smooth face; letting a pleased smile tug the corner of his lips. “Looks good. Y'think so?” The vanity hung from the opposite wall where Wraith could properly see how he looked.
He still appeared lost and orphaned; cuts and bruises arrayed on his face. In truth he looked half dead now, but that would all change in a few days. Wraith drew in his tender lips, lightly soothing over with his tongue while looking back up to Brock, deadpanning silently. He didn't know it, but this was just the first stage of metamorphosis for him. Just the beginnings of the machine starting up. Plans were coming into affect, first letting him know where his place was. Second; he'd get his chance to destroy the bastards who defiled him. And third; once his taste for blood was quenched, then he'd be let loose to complete his missions.
“Awe, it's not that bad.” The STRIKE agent lightly laughed and nudged his elbow to Wraith's silvery arm, “You'll be better in a few days. You'll see.” Not a trace of disbelief touched the asset's eyes, nor did hope. Expressionless. Emotionless. The man beneath in ruins while HYDRA's creation had firmly built the new foundation in creating a weapon of shock and awe, something deadly and unstoppable. It was unbelievable how capable he was at withstanding injury. He'd taken bullets and gouges without even the slightest etch of pain on his face, been ripped apart by the shrapnel of close explosives; enough to break bone and remain steadfast to his target until they were annihilated. Brock worried his bottom lip and mussed the soldier's hair while pondering to himself. You're so quiet it's like you're not even here. Like your body is here, but you're trapped somewhere else.
You'll never understand anything other than what you're told to do. And no-one is gonna save you, Wraith. Hell, no-one knows you exist. You're literally are a wraith in the shadows, awaiting for your chance to fulfill commands and do what they want you to do. The perfect soldier. A perfect machine. It was time. Time to unleash HYDRA's secret weapon upon the world once again; turning the tide and shaping the nation just like Pierce wanted. “Come on then. Best get you ready...”
Satiated Vengeance
𝒀𝒆𝒂𝒓: 𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟕, 𝒕𝒉𝒓𝒆𝒆 𝒅𝒂𝒚𝒔 𝒂𝒇𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒂𝒘𝒂𝒌𝒆𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒄𝒓𝒚𝒐𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒔𝒊𝒔 (𝑶𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒊𝒏 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑾𝒓𝒂𝒊𝒕𝒉)
Sleep: it was a period of rest were one rejuvenated their body when it was diminished of energy.
Even the wicked slept, but none came for Wraith during those long night alone after being awaken from cryostasis. Even after the relentless fuck session when his body felt as though it had been ripped apart, he remained awake laying on the filthy and torn cot; his only means of comfort. Surrounded by the concreted security of walls that were inlayed with rebar to ensure a difficult escape -should it be tempted- he was greeted with nothing, but silence. His body made no action of boredom, or being irate with the situation of being alone. No fiddling digits to the sheet covering the thin mattress, neither twitching toes in the leather boots that were bounded about his feet. Not even a sigh of discontent arose from his stilled frame. Thoughts were a foreign concept so rarely did any come forth, except for occasionally delving back several days beforehand to the warm bath water and the peaceful way it ebbed around his skin when the liquid was stirred by his handler Rumlow. He did like it though. Wraith liked feeling the dirt and grime off of his flesh.
Minutes turned to hours. The asset stayed as quiet as death itself, and still sleep never came for him to whisk him off to some serene dream or vivid nightmare. He was already prepared for whatever was in store. Eventually Brock or another handler would come for him again and take him to his next assignment.
He was detached from reality until the door to his room screeched open. Deadbolts slid back into the titanium door and it swung heavily to let the lights from the corridor behind shine though. The soldier sat up in attention, letting his boots place to the floor, but he didn't dare stand just yet.
It was a different handler this time, one who was older then Rumlow by the looks of it; his face just starting to wrinkle like an old dog and his sandy, slicked hair showed the signs of grey aging. First thing Wraith noticed was the musky smell of his cologne that penetrated the air around them as he came closer. The asset tilted his head upward to view the other male's face.
Brock had instructed him not to flinch away at a touch even if he wanted to so badly; this stranger raising his hand to caress the soldier's cheek and softly pressing the fat pad of his thumb underneath his eye whilst sweeping outward. “I see Rumlow is taking good care of you.” The man carried authority all over his person, Wraith could see it in his worn, yet intense eyes as he looked down on him like he was some sort of prized artifact. He could feel it in his touch which was different than that of the handlers' brutality and Rumlow's gentleness. This was a touch that brought him down to omega instantly, subjecting him to obedience with just the caress. Wraith said nothing as the other man's eyes were searched; his own showing nothing but respect to the other man's authority. A twitching tug at the corner of the stranger's lips was noted; a silent smirk which the solider didn't quite understand. The hand still remained even as the STRIKE agent entered the room, dressed in black kevlar and equipped with side arms, soon to be deployed back to SHIELD.
“They're all ready and awaiting, sir.” He said, flicking his amber eyes to Wraith.
“Good. I trust you're ready as well?” The question was directed to the asset who turned his eyes back to the superior male after taking note that it was Rumlow who was standing at the doorway.
“Yes, sir.” Speaking the other male's appropriate title indicated that Wraith knew his place was beneath this other man's, even if his face hardly displayed signs of being docile.
There was a hum of approval from the man as he closed the distance between them, his lips nearly pressed to the soldier's ear and letting a whisper slip from them: “Prove your worth. Show me what your capable of. Make me proud, huh?” He pulled back afterwards and let his hand fall to his side to turn back to Rumlow; exchanging inaudible words for a moment until he took his leave.
Brock seemed to be in angst, noticeably uncomfortable with whatever idea that was about to happen. “Well...” His steps lead up to Wraith and he looked down into his eyes, “I'm gonna be headed out. Got some serious shit to do, so you're gonna stay here and do what you're told.”
But Wraith wasn't quite paying attention to the agent. Instead the other man's words echoed off the walls of his skull. 𝘗𝘳𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘩. 𝘚𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘱𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘰𝘧. 𝘔𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘮𝘦 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘥. What did that mean? He lightly sucked in his cheeks to graze the crowns of his teeth along the warm, wet flesh; debating if he should ask Brock about it.
“Hey, you listening to me?”
Wraith refocused to the younger man, fanned lashes blinking several quick times. “I said you're gonna impress Pierce. That means no dickin' around in there.” Rumlow took hold of the asset's arm and hoisted him from the cot to stand. “And no weapons either. Just use your raw talent, okay? Put that arm of yours into use.” A tap with the nail of his index finger made a soft clink which drew Wraith's attention.
That was another thing: his arm. It wasn't like his other arm which was all soft, warm and covered with muscular flesh to where the sense of touch was always there. This one had a different sensation. Touch was registered in a different fashion, anything that created a reverberation against it was instantly noted. It was sent though like the way its counterpart did, only having a metal casing around where underlying wires and circuits meshed in fabrication of a limb once lost. If only he remembered how. The sense had no delay; instant feeling that coursed from the silvery pads of fingers to his shoulder that could register textures as well as temperatures.
Fingers snapped in front of the soldier's face and again direct attention was given to Rumlow. “Jesus, kid... You need to bring yourself together.” Sighing, he lead Wraith away from the silence of his room to the labyrinthian-like halls that twisted and turned. The asset listened to every foot fall his boots created as they walked together.
Supposedly, his mission was to see the men who broke him into submission several days before. He didn't know why he needed to see them, other than that they could share his body amongst themselves again. Inwardly he hoped that wasn't the case.
When the door came within arm's reach, Wraith was turned to look at Brock who spoke further instructions. “Your mission is to kill them. Understand? Flip that switch for that beast inside you.” Kill? Something already seemed to switch like a key unlocking a forbidden and dangerous vault in Wraith's brain. He simply nodded, expression unchanging.
“I'll be back in a few days. Just don't get yourself into trouble.” A hand clasped to Wraith's shoulder which ushered him though the door as it opened. As soon as he stepped inside the door closed securely behind him.
The room had been recently cleaned and was rather large to be housing the four handlers who sat around aimlessly at the table in the center, dealing out cards to each other and taking drags of cigarettes. A blacked out window was also fixed to one side of the wall, but other than that there was nothing significant about this place. For some strange reason, a pit was growing in the hollow of Wraith's stomach; not of dread or discomfort- just empty and desiring to be filled as he silently looming by the door. His presence certainly didn't go without notice as one of the handlers smirked over to him, obscenely sweeping his tongue over his lips.
Clearly he —they— had no idea what was about to happen. These mere pawns were simply sacrificial pieces in order to challenge the malicious nature within the asset.
Wraith watched as cards were placed to the table, one by one the handlers sauntering to him. Some with hands already working to unbuckle their belts. “You look dolled up, soldier. Back for another good time, eh?”
The asset stayed silent, hinting nothing of what his intentions were; appearing docile while a secret burn kindled a dangerous cavity of his brain when they came closer. Their scent was noted; each one becoming marked as his newfound prey. Wraith let the one who spoke place that hand to his shoulder and lower him to knees in submission. While he did so the soldier directed the ever growing intensity in his eyes to the floor. As they surrounded him, the sound of their snickering and eager voices mingled with the quick release of zippers and pants falling to the ground.
𝙿𝚛𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚑. . .
One to face him, one behind, and the other two to each side. Eyes fell closed while the handler behind trailed the pads of his fingers up the base of Wraith's neck, traveling though the dark locks of his hair and gripping firmly to jerk his head upward. Yet his eyes remained closed. “C'mon, soldier~.” The handler before him cooed and pressed his swollen length, still tented in the stressed fabric of his boxers, against his cheek. “Open those pretty eyes and gorgeous cock-sucking lips of yours. I wanna see your eyes as I fuck you smoothly like last time.”
𝚂𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚙𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚏. . .
Smoothly? Hardly so. Wraith's lips were still on the mend from the first battle with the handler's member plowing into his mouth; cracked and surely they would begin bleeding again should he be just as ruthless as last time. Giving the impression he was obeying, the asset's lips parted and teeth took hold of the elastic rim of the other man's boxers; slowly beginning to tug downward. “есть хорошая сука~.”(There's a good bitch.) The handler uttered in his mother tongue which Wraith instantly recognized. He felt the same handler's hand stroking salt-sweated finger tips against his upper lip.
𝙼𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚍. . .
Wraith ceased in the movement of removing the undergarment with his teeth, alternatively creating another motion which he had never done before; until now. His eyes and the corner's of his lips synchronized; the predatory gaze of ice looking up to the other man, and those lips curling to a malevolent, deathly smirk. The first expression that was ever to light his face with emotion. HYDRA's weapon had been deployed; the mission of goring the handlers placed into effect.
The handler had no time to even respond. None of them did. The asset swiftly charged his balled, cybernetic fist into the facing man's knee; driving it to immediately crack in the completely wrong direction. The sweet sound of shattered bone and shrieking cry of agony rang harmonious in his greedy ears, beckoning him to pursue in annihilating the others.
The one behind neither stood a chance against Wraith's fury. With a defying quickness he was upon his feet, his metallic digits gripping the soft throat of the handler and ramming him brutally into the wall. Both his head and neck made contact to the concreted surface and the asset's hand was unyielding as it continued its lethal destination, crushing the soft muscle of esophagus, and trachea and ending with the sickening snap of his neck when planting to the wall. Crimson spewed from the gaping handler's mouth and splattered on the soldier's face, the victim’s eyes now holding nothing, but paralyzing fear imbedded in lifelessness.
The merciless massacre then preceded, Wraith understanding the target was dead when his head lulled to the side with a gut looping flop. He let the limp body fall unceremoniously to the ground before swiftly bolting on deft feet to snatch up the screeching and tear-shedding man from before who was so eager on being pleased.
No mercy issued, not an expression of compassion passed over the weapon's fierce eyes. Silvery digits imbedded into the handler's shoulder, amplifying those delicious sounds of pleading while flesh and blood gloved those metallic fingers and his collarbone gave way to the force applied.
The asset now having a fatal hold, leaned his head downward and spoke thickly in his heavy Russian tongue: “Ты моя сука сейчас.” (You're my bitch now.) The glimmering, sadistic shine of glacier blue eyes bored into the ones of his target; a blood curdling smirk still spread acrossed his face which was dappled with scarlet. “Что это такое, как знать вещь , которая принесла вам удовольствие...” (What is it like to know the thing that brought you pleasure...) Wraith's hand of flesh smoothly glided fingertips to the victim's trembling lips, “Также, что сделал ты кровоточить?” (Also, did make you bleed?) He wasn't looking for any answer, not needing one for any more satisfaction other than what was already provided. Without warning, the asset heaved his target from the ground and heavily brought him down upon the table; wood rendering from the sudden pressure and velocity applied which sent the pieces splintering in opposing directions. The symphonic melody of cracking vertebrae silenced Wraith's prey, his jaw slack as whimpered gasps for air were a struggle to obtain from the intensity of pain overtaking, and deflating lungs ceased to cooperate in aid soon after.
Two down. Two to go. In a split-second, Wraith descended upon the third who was just now able to draw his pistol and fire off half of his rounds in rapid succession. Fate was none too kind, for his shaking hands targeted everything, but the impending weapon who came crashing into him; knocking every ounce of breath from his lungs. The string of curses that fell from lips died when repetitively the asset's fist of alloyed metals ravenged against the framework of his ribs; skin and tendons ripping graphically and the fragments of bone puncturing though the vulnerable organs. Scarlet graced Wraith's body, bathing the silver limb in sticky floods of life which wept unhindered.
And finally his last. He recognized his prey as the one who scarred his neck with his teeth just moments after Wraith was unleashed from his icy prison. Something special was in store for him. Primal fixations watched the handler bang and claw at the door; already screaming to be released from the asset's merciless wrath. But no-one answered. The asset was onto him in a heart beat, shoving the target into the wall with his back facing outward. A hand of flesh buried fingers into the pleading man's hair, forcing him upon knees and yanking his head ruthlessly to the side; exposing the pale patch of flesh already layered with salted sweat and veins protruding underneath soft skin. Wraith toyed with his prey, bowing his head to breathe heated air against the skin, causing pin pricks along the pulsating surface. Further ignoring the whimpering cries stuttering from the man, a craving implanted in both his brain and stomach. The need— the desire to taste the helpless handler before him.
With eyes concreted in darkened desire, Wraith reared his head back and lunged it forward to the vulnerable flesh; sinking jagged canines deep to pierce though the surface of skin. A resounding scream of excruciating agony shook the man's body when the sensation rippled though his nerves, giving nothing but a sadistic pleasure to the soldier. Holding him fast, those teeth ruthlessly tore though sinew and the blood-rich jugular with a thrashing shake of his head, destroying the precious vein to unleash the pressure built within. A spray and flood of metallic tasting blood intruded Wraith's maw, overflowing passed his teeth and streaking messily down his own chin and tensed neck. The rolling stream found its way to pool on the surface of the floor and white walls now displayed the aftermath of the kill.
Breath having grown rapid from the intense and new destructive behavior, the soldier released the lifeless body when the supply ran out and straightened himself upright. He was a gruesome scene to behold; face utterly unrecognizable from the sanguine stain that adhered to his skin and dripped from his jawline. It splattered in a horrific array of pictures upon the floor beneath him. His hair, matted in blood and gore, clung to his cheeks. His mission was complete and darkened eyes grazed about his handiwork, taking in the bodies that lay in stillness and silence.
Sweeping his tongue slowly over his bloodied lips, Wraith stepped over his last kill that was smothered in a coat of scarlet, and walked steadily over the slick surface to take up an overturned chair; sitting himself upon it so casually as if nothing of great importance had just happened. And thus he'd wait for someone to come get him.
His breathing took only several moments to level out, and yet his stamina wasn't even remotely depleted from the massacre. He cared not for what he did, nor what he was becoming. No second thoughts or despair affected his depraved soul.
After all he was just a machine, and all that mattered at that moment was making Pierce proud.
I've Got Your Back If You've Got Mine
The living room smelled like gun oil, a faint lovely fragrance with a sweet twinge of minerals intermixed into it. It provided the room a sense of sanctuary that he could rarely find elsewhere. Cleaning a weapon was a past time Wraith had been brought up with since before he became overshadowed, having found the practice soothing as he dedicated his attention to a rifle or handgun’s perfection. Today’s plans had been laid out for a rifle he had procured from a pawn shop just down the road, who's owner was oblivious to just what sort of treasure it was; looking too rough to motivate anyone with the patience to fix it. Pity. Now it was in the hands of an ex-assassin accredited for countless murders. But Wraith held no intentions as far as putting a bullet into someone’s skull. Not today. A relic by his standards, (dated around 1987 where its primary use was probably with the Union’s Spetsnaz) this rifle held one of the first features of being knocked down and compatible in a briefcase; the perfect sniper rifle wielding armor piercing rounds back then. Though the barrel was now an ungodly spectacle, dingy with rust from its sights to its muzzle to which Wraith tediously dissembled and had set upon the coffee table. His brows were in a continual knit that scrutinized the poor state it had succumbed to, and every so often a curse would be expelled on a heavy huff or he’d take another drink from his glass. The vodka bottle at the glass’s side was almost emptied as the time passed, the rifle slowly unveiling its beauty as he worked away with loving strokes of steel wool, liberally applying the oil so his fingers felt gritty with the efforts of removing the rust. But his sphere of serenity was interrupted by a light knock at the door.
Raising his eyes, Wraith took one look at the door and rested his task down, only to pick up a knife off the corner of the table while cautiously approaching. The apartment complex he was in, he had later come to find out was home to a number of rejects, delinquents and drug addicts so it wasn’t unusual for someone to disturb his privacy. If it was another skanky whore coming to bribe him for sex he’d have the utmost pleasure of gutting her against the stair railing and moving onward to another location. Another knock came into contact with the door just before the soldier had the chance to open it and it creaked on its hinges until he could see who it was through the sliver of space.
“Well it’s about time.” Wraith was dumbstruck for a moment seeing the taller man on the other side, then realizing that his eyes weren’t deceiving him, he closed the door again to unlatch the chain and pull it open further. And there he stood, dressed in a dark t-shirt and jeans with black hair styled up. The only noticeable difference about him was the angry red scarring around his left eye that looked like it had once been a nasty burn.
“Rumlow…” His voice was small though not out of fear nor respect, but out of confusion. “Yeah, yeah, good to see you too. Gonna let me in, Wraith?” Rumlow dismissed the puzzled look on his charge’s face and side-stepped around him to get in though the door. “Kinda a dump you picked out for yourself after having lived in one for so long.” He glances through the living room which was sparse of furniture except for an old musty couch, a coffee table and a few lamps. “No TV, no radio. Not even WiFi?”
Wraith latches the door behind and doesn’t make eye contact with the other male, “Radio is in bedroom.” Rumlow scoffs in way almost sounding satisfied, “Ah. So what do you do then? The place —,” he peers into the kitchen, “— is empty. It’s like your livin’ in your cell again for Christ’s sake.” Wraith doesn’t say a word at the mention of his previous environment, looking over to his handler. It had been nearly five months since he last saw Brock in D.C. and for the record, he had assumed him dead. Yet here he was alive and breathing… and just as bitchy.
“You’ve been busy though I see.” He takes a gander at the rifle and vodka bottle, not to mention the trash bin beside the couch filled with empty coffee cups. “A Vintorez? Where the hell’d ya get that?” An answer back wasn’t expected because Wraith looked to be in too much thought to form words. Still, it would have been nice to know how he came about having cash to buy the weapon. “It’s quiet… I’ll give it that much…” He adds in reference to the room, giving it a once over and his stamp of approval before venturing onward to the kitchen, muttering incoherently to himself and Wraith pads after him. The handler turns back to finally take a closer inspection of the ex-assassin. “So?” He questions, palms turned upwards to emphasis on his point before shimmying down into his pockets. Still nothing. Winter isn’t speaking. Why isn’t he speaking? He stares acrossed the kitchen at him, a caramel gaze reflecting his own manner of bewilderment with a small ounce of hope that he would at least say /something/ for himself. “I would have sworn you would have scurried off with your boyfriend Stars and Sparkles after the whole Triskelion thing.”
“Roger’s is not my boyfriend.” Wraith finally pipes up with a scowl of his dark brows, and that induced a look of surprise on Rumlow’s stern visage. Expelling a long sigh, the soldier closes the distance between he and the other to retrieve a rag just atop the counter and retreats back into the living room without another word.
He being unable to produce words now, Rumlow followed in silence and sat upon the couch where Wraith positioned himself, seeming to ignore him as he started to shift his focus back to a rifle he was cleaning up. This brought back memories that were could have been labeled ‘better than most’, watching his prized asset expertly take apart a gun in a matter of moments and clean each piece until it was brand new. The way his focus trained solely on it and his hands worked their magic to restore it back to its original glory. He could remember fussing with Wraith’s hair from time to time and it didn’t even phase him — unmoved, until his hair was swept aside and affectionate kisses were caressed to his neck. “How much do you remember?” He was answered with a barely noticeable shrug. Apparently there was more to Wraith now and he had learned to hold a grudge; or something. “Wraith.” Rumlow let slip a bit of force in his voice which maybe would drive out his stubborness. “Look at me.” Still nothing. On his last note he extended the grip of his hand out to Wraith’s shoulder with the other coming around to his neck, prying him back just enough to make him zone in on Brock and what he was trying to do. Nevertheless, a struggle broke out; handler and asset and they both tumbled to the floor, knocking back the table which somersaulted over and spilled everything on its surface onto the floor. “How much — ,” Brock hissed out with bared teeth when a cybernetic hand wrapped over his face, “— do you fucking remember?!”
“Отвали!” Wraith growled against the elbow driving down on his throat which angered him more, revving back on strength in his arm that hummed with mechanics and charged forward, sending Rumlow sailing into the kitchen. He was swift to gather his feet again and meet his handler once more, hoisting him from the floor only to ram him against the fridge. “Что это значит для вас, если я помню?” His tone spurred onward with venom, fixating a dark gaze into the other male’s eyes as if he were intent on tearing him apart. Filtering though English he adds, “Does HYDRA plan to take me back? To erase my memories again and use me as as their bitch?”
To his disadvantage, Wraith hadn’t allowed Rumlow much of an airway for breath with that damn metal hand constricting around his neck so he does his best to cough out a simple response, “HYDRA? — You think HYDRA sent me to come fetch you?” A smirk shakily curls the corners of his lips, glaring into the cold eyes staring back at him, “I’m not here to take you back to HYDRA, Wraith — now let me the fuck go before I put a bullet in your gut.”
Just now realizing the pressure against his abdomen, the soldier could distinctly make out a ‘click’ of the safety being switched off to prove the STRIKE leader’s threat was true. It would have been so easy to take him out right then and there even if a gun was poised to fire, feel each vertebrae in Rumlow’s neck snap under a relentless exertion. But as it were, the grip slowly began to subside and the other man heaved in breath. If anything he would have liked to know why it was that Rumlow came to find him before killing him out of sheer frustration. On the other hand, the permit of a second chance was only granted because Rumlow was one of the only people to have ever shown him a lick of gentleness in the order, and to have had some form of a bond created. “So why are you here?” Winter poses out his inquiry.
“For you, dammit.”
“For what reason?” The question pressed harder.
“I wanted to see if you were okay. Couldn’t come any sooner since I haven’t been in the best conditions as you can tell.” Rumlow verbally indicates to the scarring on his face and of course Wraith doesn’t show a concern. “Look… What ever happened after D. C. it’s —“
“HYDRA told me to keep quiet until they got their shit straight.”
“…And then what? You’re just gonna follow after them like a good boy? Eh?” His face twisted into a scowl as he gingerly rubbed at the soreness in his throat, keeping a steady eye to the soldier who falls into silence again. “You go back and they’re not gonna let you keep your memories.”
“I don’t have many…”
“It doesn’t fucking matter if you’ve got them all or just the special moments. Step foot there again and you can say bye to everything all for the sake of kissing someone’s ass. Just like all the other times.”
Wraith turns his head away and he can catch Rumlow breathe out a long breath of air with exasperation. He hadn’t the faintest idea as of what could be done since more than likely HYDRA was keeping a watch on his every move, more than likely he was traced. In the end, whatever fantasy world they allowed him to concoct by himself would have been for nothing; still being a lapdog whose master’s choked and chained him for their benefit once they called him back in. “Suggestions?” He spoke after mulling over those details, sweeping his gaze back over to Rumlow.
“We fly solo from now on. Just you and me.”
The asset slowly hikes a brow, wordlessly wanting more of this profound idea.
“I know SHIELD isn’t going to let me back in. And I’m not taking shit from another power hungry crank like Pierce either. You and me, we could be great,” Confidence was evident in Rumlow’s tone yet it did nothing to stoke the soldier’s appetite, “we could be something together. Working covertly like I know you want to do. I know that thirst you have, Wraith, and I’ve got a tall glass of water just for you. I want you by my side…” he steps upward to the soldier, close enough to where he’s almost within arms reach, “just like old times.”
The ex-assassin scoffs inwardly, recollecting all the ‘old times’ they had together. Throughout most of those ‘old times’ Rumlow was overseeing him get bludgeoned down and then fucked raw afterwards into submission or just for the pure enjoyment of a sport having him on his hands and knees. Pushing past that though there was always those moments where Brock uncovered a side to him he let no one else but Wraith see, that side which nursed his wounds or treated him to coffee or some sentimental shit like that; a pet here and a kiss there when he’d done a good job.
“I’ll let you think about it. Okay?” Brock had been worrying the inside of his cheek when the soldier had the look of resentment in his eyes and he figured some time needed to be given for him to ponder what he had offered. A hand, more sympathetic in its entirety curled around Wraith’s shoulder, providing it with a squeeze before releasing it as he walked passed to leave. “I can get you a better place to stay too if that means somethin’ to you.”
Winter’s glacier hued eyes trail after Rumlow and he exits the kitchen as well, asking, “My name is Bucky. Isn’t it?”
And Rumlow feels as though he could fall over, stopping in his tracks with a sharp huff and twisting back around, “Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes if you wanted to know the whole name, yeah. You remember all the way in the 40’s?”
“No… I just remember Steve calling me that. And you called me that one time in Kabul, by accident when you first came to HYDRA….” Winter’s words grew quieter, struggling to concentrate on the details that were still buried under a dark haze, “…then you started calling me Wraith and Pierce hated it because it made me more human — I’ll do it, Brock.” The conclusion to his sentence made Rumlow pleased and he could tell by the slow smile creeping its way to his lips, hatching plots where they’d still be apart of their nefarious professions while no more being controlled under the New World Order. If this plot to evade HYDRA was doomed from the start, as least he wouldn’t be alone. He’d have Rumlow at his back every step of the way.
While You Did Sleep
Music softly weeps into your ears. You can hear but you can’t see much in front of you… except for a faded face… the face of a young child with dark brown hair. Her laughs are filled with mirth and they accompany the music so well. Gold leaks into your view and slowly takes on a definite shape. They’re beautiful, yellow daisies and this girl is handing them to you, their scent full of life with fresh dewdrops of spring clutching to their petals. They feel like smooth silk when your fingers glide over each and before you know it, the little girl is gone. “Rebecca!” You call out, and you become mildly perplexed as to why your voice carries the tune of a child. “James!” The girl replies back but her voice is distant.
“James!” You look back down into your hands and instead of flowers there is a rifle clenched tightly between them and the scenery warps into a mist of black smoke and chaos. Your back is laden down with a heavy field pack and its weight can be felt driving against the heels of your feet. Weariness tugs at your muscles and yearns for you to shut your eyes but the sounds… the screaming sounds blare straight into your body and echoes for what seems like years. On the horizon over an expanse of barren territory, fire lights up the night skies in orange and red. Mortar shells impact the earth, leaving a wake of devastation and shrapnel to tear through the soldiers hurrying past you to the other side. “Sergeant Barnes!” Red, white, and blue snaps in front of your haze filled eyes and a man grabs your attention. “Bucky! We’ve broken through! C'mon!” He expresses success and your feet move to run after him, but at the first step you feel yourself fall rapidly.
The darkness consumes you. It grapples on all sides of your body, snuffing out your hearing. Liquid restricts breath from taking vacancy in your lungs. Your body is completely numb and you see nothing. The membrane of your cold skin relinquishes heat stored inside your body, and a deathly chill seeps into every pore. The pressure humbly seeks to shatter the bones of your skull as you sink downward into the icy depths. No sounds ripple in the inky blackness. It’s serene and quiet in these waters.
Open your eyes…
Light glares, machines are brought to life and your body is set aflame by a virulent fire. Your bones moan in distress when the tendons and muscles spasm out, so many hands pushing and pulling to keep you steady it’s like they’re intentions are to rip you apart. Panic spiders itself from your stomach which is equally stretched with nausea, it boils up and spills relentlessly over your lips, its acidity burning your sensitive skin. Your skull is harshly compressed by something of chilling metal, restricting your movements and singing at an octave that incapacitates your hearing. Then an electrifying wave charges into the vulnerability of your cranium, scuttling acrossed every nerve, every synapse, very painfully purging out everything. Your past is the first to go. The daisies wilt and fade into ashes that are swept up into a storm. Red, white, and blue sink into a pool of black where your hands desperately try to reach for it. But at halfway, out of the darkness behind you, chains lash out and coil around your wrists; one flesh, the other as silver and metallic as the chains themselves.
The ground flees from your feet and your suspended in a dimly lit room. The chilling atmosphere smells like rancid meat and the walls are streaked with blood. You can feel a warmth creeping down your right arm from the chain around your wrist, the flesh underneath rubbed raw where inflammation and swelling have burst through your calloused skin and is now weeping bloodied liquids. Your tongue can’t pry itself from the roof of your mouth when you try to make a sound, the only voice you have is a pitiful whimper vibrating in your throbbing, parched throat. Whispers and laughter pierce the veil of silence and the chains begin to move, finally letting your numbed toes touch the slick, red floor. It’s not until your knees touch too that the chains disappear and you’re swirled into another room.
It’s a comfortable area and you stand in its centre point. Mirrors caress the surrounding walls and a single barre runs mounted against it. Music… it twirls delicately in harmonious notes just as a woman does, catching your eyes. Her posture is almost like a liquid as it synchronizes to the fluttering keys of a piano, her balance possesses cunning nimbleness. Crimson locks are tied back and wrapped in a precision braid to expose the grace of her neck and face which turn towards you, as if she senses your presence. “Наталья …” The name slips unhindered past your lips and the only answer she gives you is a small smile and a beckon of slender digits for you to come closer. The thick soled boots covering your feet silently close the distance between you and her until you can gently place a hand to her waist, “Я думал, ты не придешь, Джеймс.” She whispers sweetly, her back lightly against your leather bound chest and both of your feet moving in a soft dance.
The music plays on. Drowsiness wraps around your eyes and she too… disappears. You can’t retrieve her name in the troubled complex of your thoughts. Your own name sounds alien and forbidden when you tempt to taste it on your tongue. Before you can try, before you can even think for yourself you’re awaken by a set of hands digging its nails into your collar length hair, yanking you back and a sting races over your cheek. “Asset!” A voice roars furiously and pounds you down upon your bleeding knees, your body damp with sweat and heavily lacerated from a whip contained in this person’s hand. Its hard to recognize this body to be your own until you reach your arm outwards to the male, your finger’s fashioned from metal and pleading for mercy as they extend in pain. The grip in your hair pulls harder and forces you to drop your hand in surrender. Your sensitivity is heightened, making you capable of feeling gushes of blood bleeding down your back and thighs. “Please…” Your begging cracks and a smile races across your tormentor’s toxic lips, his fist driving into the side of your skull….
From out of the brutal claws of your nightmare, your eyes snap open. You’ve drenched your mattress in sweat and your hands instantly seek to tear the sheets from your quaking frame. Deep breaths inflate your lungs when you attempt to calm the pulse galloping in your burning veins. It was only a dream… only a dream… you have to remind yourself over and over but your mind won’t let you stifle the images.
The girl, the flowers, the man in red and white and blue – they’re somewhere.
War has always been in your existence and it is so often that you feel like you’ve been drowning.
Hands have peeled you apart and sewn you back together, scars stain every inch of your skin.
A Widow once mended the bloodied chasms of your heart with her silken webs, but then they were severed.
Now all your left with is you. Alone to face a reality you’ve been sequestered from. Be it as a man or a machine, these memories will strengthen – or break you.
Rectification In Ice
“What the hell happened, Wraith? You were doing so well.” Rumlow’s tone had an eerie calmness to it, but Wraith knew in its entirety that his handler was beyond the pinnacle of rage. Black eyes stayed to the grubby concrete floor as the other male paced in front of him, hand scrubbed over his jaw to provide some essential easement for his frustration. This couldn’t be happening… Not again… Déjà vu had a fucked up sense of humor, but of course it was inevitable that he would start showing slivers of memory; humanity. Wraith could hear the heavy sigh Rumlow made as his boots grew silent; standing right in front of him with his taunt exterior on the verge of snapping, “Might as well FUCKING speak to me if ya got thoughts for yourself, Soldier!” Fury billowed past his lips as a hand shot out to backhand acrossed the asset’s face, making his head twist off to the side until Rumlow redirected those icy blue eyes to look at him with a harsh grasp to Wraith's hair, yanking him back and utilizing his other hand to clutch at the man’s jaw. The handler could see it – he could see it damn well; that small glimpse of fear deep within Wraith’s once solid and soullessgaze. Rumlow leaned in closer, caramel irises lit with fire that scanned though the asset’s as if perhaps he could be being deceived into thinking this was what reality was offering now, “/Speak/ goddamn it or I swear, I’ll let every man in Sector Five fuck your ass wide open until I can shove an artillery shell up it.” Threat seethed passed his teeth and he could feel the soldier’s jaw shift to swallow back his silence.
“Too much…” The asset spoke timidly, feeling a shiver creeping up the curve of his spine. He tried so hard not be swayed from outer influence which pounded passed HYDRA’s fortifications, but like anything that was relentless those walls were bound to start fracturing.
“/Clarify/.” The order grew severely authoritative as the tips of Rumlow’s nails dug into Winter’s scalp and skin, causing his brows to flinch against one another, mentally being thrown to the alter of judgment for confession of his sins.
“I… I couldn’t stop it all from coming into my head. Too many faces… too many things being seen that I… I remember.”
So coffins of memory were cracking open… /shit/. The handler’s grip very slowly relaxed but his expression had been etched into marble, his response thick with irritated sarcasm, “Well that’s a fucking shame now, isn’t it? My golden boy lost summa his shine and is turning into every other shitbag that’s here. It’s a /goddamn/ tragedy.” It was also a waste of effort and his breath to dish out these cursed reprimands because Wraith wasn’t going to remember them anyway. Wraith had been perfectly formed and was once again slipping back into Barnes, where there was only one way to deal with it. Fact was, irony was also looking pretty fucked up because just the other day Rumlow was given the go-ahead to have the cryo-chamber prepped for their asset until he was needed again since things were going to be heading deeper underground until funds and resources were scrounged up from being close to dried out.
Wraith could feel his weeping locks tickle against his flesh as Rumlow’s breath heaved out another sigh and it was as if in the blink of an eye the other male’s demeanor warped. Forehead’s made contact when his handler’s came to rest against his, catching the scent of his spiced cologne with the faint traces of gun oil on his skin; darkened depths darting up into liquid amber. Wraith had made him angry but now the distinct signs of pity channeled though the touch of his fingers as they edged down from his hair and cheek. That was something Rumlow rarely bestowed to him throughout the period of time he had come to know him… again. Yes, there was even memories from before past cleanings; his handler carrying out the same routine of wiping a damp cloth to his skin after being thawed, attempting to wipe away a smudge of blood, or a smack on his back for praise over a successful sniper’s shot. And then there were the quiet nights, the ones that held slicks of blades being sharpened, and gun components clicking together with an occasional smirk over each others progress to see who was faster and better at assembling a weapon. He could even remember Rumlow’s arms snaked around his torso and lips touched to the bend of his neck; steamy water from a shower head above raining down on his clinging hair and caressing their tight woven frames. It was hard to believe at one time this man made of cigarette smoke and dark intentions had a more intimate standing alongside him, but then again there it was… that gaze seeping into his to fill him up with a deep sympathy. What was it like for Brock? To go through such monotony where he couldn’t express himself, where he felt an emotional connection to his asset but still needed to uphold the brutal status of handler? Where there more memories?
“That was a big fuck up, ya know. But it’s somethin’ that’s inevitable.” Once again he would have to watch Wraith slip into cryostasis and wait until HYDRA would need to resurrect him from clutches of stasis. There would be no other way that this mistake could be corrected. Once on the brink of gaining memory, then there was only a matter of time that his performance would become a steady decline from lack of order inside his brain. “And things have been steady for awhile. You’ve done a good job since you’ve been bright eyed and bushy tailed… but tomorrow…” Teeth gnawed at the wet flesh inside his cheek, ghosting a hand to the back of Wraith’s neck, “…they want you back under ice…”
Nothing. No reply. Just as it should be. Rumlow could almost hear his heart drop.
[A day later]
“Asset prepped and ready for stasis, sir.” Rumlow was chief overseer of the event, quietly observing as the asset was reduced to nakedness and prodded with several advanced formula injections created to spread though his blood stream and cradle around each individual cell that occupied even a trace of water so the freezing process wouldn’t cause them to crystallize. The prepping needed to be done thoroughly and very carefully. Failure to do so could cause Wraith to suffer extensive physical and/or mental damage if a step was overlooked or had fault. The technicians tended to the monitors and machines while Rumlow strode over to the asset who had been seated quietly and submissively, looking down to his hands.
“It’s time, Wraith.” The voice interrupted the weapon’s thoughts and he compliantly nodded when Rumlow’s fingers curled around the ball of his right shoulder, slowly rising to his feet to be lead to the freezing chamber. Wraith could already start to feel the injection’s affects start to weaken his body since the absorption of water molecules was becoming inhibited. The body could only function for so long without a proper water level so they needed to hasten themselves and get him put into the box. With Rumlow’s strong hands to guide him, they came to the opened chamber and he was turned around only to be backed up inside. The enclosed space suddenly became claustrophobic and the soldier snapped his gaze to the other male with pleading eyes to gain something – anything to help settle his spiking pulse from fear at the encroaching knowledge that cold would consume his body.
Rumlow saw that look widening Wraith’s eyes and he brushed away a draping tress of hair from his face, leaning down to whisper something dangerously close to his mouth, “Don’t worry, Wraith. Relax as best you can.” Eyes spoke just as sincere as his gentle words, thumbing over the soldier’s lower lip, “One for the road.” And sealed it with a kiss. Everyone else was too occupied keeping focused to the screens to notice the handler’s open display of affection, so risky yet willing if it would take Wraith’s mind off anxiety. Pity all that this would be the final minutes of being something less than the machine HYDRA put together, but the clock was counting down; back to the beginnings again like so many years ago. He pulls away after a moment and takes that step away, leaving the soldier in the chamber alone, “See you on the other side, Wraith…”
The door shut tight, all sides locking in a vacuumed seal and everything became deathly quiet, leaving only the soft sounds of Wraith’s breath to accompany the silence. These were the last instances he would clearly remember the faces who caused him pain and the one’s who had an impact on his life; pulling the remnant of that man out buried memories.
He had been doing so well, but as twisted fate would have it he had been claimed by the one thing he had feared the most – his humanity.
“Cryostasis activated in three… two… one…
Asset successfully preserved.”
Eradication By Pain
New вlood joιɴѕ тнιѕ eαrтн,
Aɴd qυιcĸly нe'ѕ ѕυвdυed.
Tнroυɢн coɴѕтαɴт pαιɴed dιѕɢrαce
Tнe yoυɴɢ вoy leαrɴѕ тнeιr rυleѕ.
It was a rude awakening that blared all though all his highly sensitive infrastructures, breaking though with explosions of light and distorted voices he couldn’t yet pick apart. He was shaking, shaking violently from a death-like chill residing in his body without so much as a blanket or clothes concealing him and he could hardly walk much less keep seated in the chair. Trying to open his pain-stricken eyes stopped as soon as the invasion of white pierced though delicate pupils, snapping them closed just as fast again and jerking his head away from it. He could feel some kind of heat on his wrists and forearms to still the tremors sparking deep within the revived nervous system; assertive hand holds forcing his weakened state to comply to what their demands were until those were replaced with metal cuffs clamping onto both wrists and upper arms. Incoherent mutters of anguish made their vain pleas for help or rest; just anything to save him from something he couldn’t yet understand. Shadows amidst the light would briefly pass over his face, someone’s fingers prying open an eyelid here, another puncturing the clammy flesh in the crook of his elbow with a syringe there. He couldn’t keep anything straight though the dysfunctional blur that rearranged shapes to look like a conclave of demented spirits twisting his body this way and that until they were satisfied that he was ridden of all chances of escaping.
“Your name… your name…
what is your name….”
Name? The in and out fades of voice grew clearer when his breathing steadied and frame settled from its relentless quakes. “….” Take a breath, fill your aching lungs and answer. Not fast enough apparently. A sudden swipe of pain shot a wake of stars into his eyes when it bashed into his temple, opening them wide and swallowed up in blackness. “Говори! Мы не получили в течение всего дня!” Two languages and he knew them both so well as if his brain were now firing up the program to translate them.
“Wi…. Winter… Barnes…
Sergeant…. 32… 5570… 38…”
What was this? Something mentally wrong like everything was tossed into a jar and random things were plucked from inside. Memories mixed and matched, utterly jumbled with fire singeing the corners of things he still couldn’t comprehend; two entities warring in one body with a god just by his side readying to separate and destroy one of them.
“Asset will need wiped of course.
Can’t have him remembering things he
shouldn’t.”
“I don’t want to do this…” He speaks beneath the small breath of a whisper, a pang of fright tasting bitter acrossed his dry tongue though the walls of delirium as he’s pushed back into the chair, “…please…” No-one pays any attention to his supplication, everyone dressed in white or black watching, looming over a body that doesn’t belong to him as they converse one to another of electricity levels or adjustments to the depth charge. No-one was listening as he mews in pain, testing the strength of the steel binds that keep him in place with subtle movement of his arms, but it’s of no use. They’re too strong and he feels spent from waking up after several months layered under a sheet of ice. Something is pushed roughly into his loosened mouth, sliding between teeth with the texture of molded rubber and just as quickly did the abrupt noise of mechanics switch to life. The chair clenched the soldier’s back tight against it causing his heart rate to rapidly increase as if his soul were trying to evacuate the fleshy prison before shocks of deafening electricity pulsated on both sides of his skull; hindered screams and cries of agony pouring passed the bit as the only source of mercy so he wouldn’t shatter his teeth.
How thoughtful.
A Past Forgotten - featuring Rogue @AdonisRogue
February 16th 2002-
“Red Team, do you copy?” Static rang through the line. Rumlow had been trying to get a hold of someone for at least ten minutes, each time progressively making him more and more irritated when no-one answered. “Dammit, Anders, do you copy?!” Maybe hitting the walkie talkie on the dashboard for the umpteenth time would pick up a signal. But to no avail the agent growled in frustration and threw the device against the windshield, ricocheting it off the glass and smacking Wraith square in the chest.
“Они мертвы, (They’re dead,)” he spoke in quiet monotone, glacier blue eyes fixated to the passenger window as he watched the rural scenery slip by. He disliked riding in the military trucks, especially in winter. Rumlow had the habit of having the heat wide open so it was unbearably hot in the layers of protective leather he always wore. The snow outside seemed to be mocking him too as it continued to fall steadily into wet slush, a cold allure that wanted to bite at his skin the more he looked at it. He yearned for it.
Wraith could hear the handler sigh defeatedly. “Fuckin’ shitheads probably are… stupid motherfuckers, I told them to wait, but does anyone listen to me?”
The asset looked down to his lap where the radio lay, staring at it though draping bangs in contemplation. They hadn’t been in transit for long, yet it felt like hours because of the unkempt back roads in these wild, Russian parts. Some were treacherous enough without a layer of ice and two feet of fresh fallen snow.
Just how far had /he/ gone?
During the earlier hours of the morning one of HYDRA’s assets had escaped, so the daunting task of bringing him back was laid upon Rumlow and Wraith seeing as the prior team had vanished entirely. Wraith had heard whispers about the soldier; rumors, or truth, that was spread off the tongues of other agents: a man who devoured other men like a ravenous beast, a man who was similar to himself… The soldier assumed there were others like him, but he’d never had the opportunity to see them, so curiosity surrounded his musings. At the same time, however, he felt mildly disgusted at the concept of an asset defecting the organization; little did he know the reasoning behind it…
Rumlow had smoked almost a full pack of cigarettes since they left, so needless to say Wraith could tell he was on edge. He could only guess how much trouble HYDRA’s handlers would be in for letting a dangerous weapon get away. “/Shit/–” The truck slowed to a stop as they neared the place, wipers brushing the damp snow off the windshield to reveal what had taken place just an hour earlier.
The two vehicles that were dispatched were empty, one having driven into the ditch and the other having wrapped around a large tree. No words needed spoken as both men vacated the truck, Rumlow immediately withdrawing his pistol while Wraith readied his rifle close to him. Indeed it was just as cold outside as it looked. Flurries of snow quickly decorated the soldier’s hair and his boots softly crunched in the snow, but he payed no heed to the sound, observing only his surroundings.
There had been a total of fifteen members of Red Team; Wraith counted eight– not including the various limbs carelessly tossed here and there. The once white snow was insanely drunk with blood: splatters in several areas, pools in others. Several piles of intestines were grotesquely pulled out and strung away from the bodies they had been contained in, so the whole area reeked of death. After some searching Rumlow even found what remained of Agent Anders who was mercilessly torn open from the neck down, his splintered ribcage open and baring a sloshed mess of ruptured organs half covered in frozen snow. The handler even dared to entertain the idea of checking the more ‘intact’ agents’ pulses, but to his dismay frostbite had claimed all bodily functions of those that might have had a chance of surviving. Unless the rogue asset had finished all of them off.
Strings of quiet-toned profanities fell off of Rumlow’s lips and he hissed at Wraith, “They’re all fucking dead.” Intense caramel eyes met the asset’s, spiked with controlled fury and demanding. “Find the bastard, but do not engage until I tell you too.” And not a moment did Wraith waste to comply, already having slung his rifle over his shoulder and taking off into the direction of sprinted tracks leading away from the scene.
As vigilant as the assassin was it would take little time to trace someone down, yet the rogue asset that had created the horrific bloodbath behind him still possessed the ability to cover his tracks well. And the flurries that blanketed the ground weren’t playing in his favor either. Wraith had to be quick; luckily with heightened senses and trained vision he adapted to learn of his rival’s patterns.
His path followed onward from winding his way around dense tree growth where snows were more compacted, to finally reaching a small clearing. The soldier focused towards the middle of the clearing while he kept his distance in the tree line, carefully blended into the shaded surroundings until deeming it safe to continue. What caused his cautionary levels to rise was a fresh mess of scarlet mixed with chunks of bone and flesh. Wraith’s brows furrowed at the site as he knelt down next to it and caught the distinct scent of bile throughout the gory spectacle. He concluded in his observation that the rival has gorged himself full to the point of vomiting, which had to explain the dog tags that were included in the congealed blood. Clutching hold of the beaded chain, he laid the tags in his silvery palm and smeared away the crimson to read the name engraved within them: Aarons, David… one of HYDRA’s expert marksmen and veterans. Things were looking bleaker in Rumlow’s political situation, but that wasn’t Wraith’s problem. His only worry was to locate the man that did this.
Steel blue eyes flicked upwards and his breathing hitched in his chest, making his next movements precise as his rifle was swiftly placed to his shoulder and the sights were inline with his eye. He noticed quickly the copper smell that grew heavier with the incoming, snowy breeze, and there was an eerie stillness that crept up his spine like a shiver of cold. “Я знаю, что ты там, (I know that you’re there,)” he spoke lowly, gaze peering amidst the trees to catch any sign of movement. He knew he was ordered not to engage, but what else could he do when the hunter suddenly became the hunted? And with such a threat lingering about so closely Wraith could not afford to pretend not to notice.
Snow fall began to thin and there, out of nowhere illuminated a set of scarlet eyes; unnatural in the soldier’s perspective, but at least he pinpointed the rogue asset’s location. From what he could tell the other male was knelt down behind the tree line, holding something dark and dripping within his hands and his face was painted in the blood of the agent’s he had slaughtered. Wraith didn’t move, nor did he speak. But slowly his rifle lowered just enough away from his eye to where he could see without the assistance of the scope. How odd it was to see a reflection of his own design, to see his own face staring back at him yet belonging to another soul entirely. It was unnerving. Yet, as he focused deeper it was as if he could feel an additional presence surrounding the other soldier; a malevolent aura that shifted and stared back at him though the eyes of this defected male.
“Они послали вас вернуть меня? (They sent you to take me back?)” The familiar tongue of Russian speech reached Wraith’s ears, flowing off a throaty growl life a wolf that was capable of talking. The rival male kept his cold red stare upon the soldier as if assessing whether he too would make a meal or not. At least that’s what it seemed like to Wraith.
“Yes,” he replied, internally hoping that Rumlow was somewhere close by unless he too shared the same fate as the others. “You’re not meant to be out here, товарищ.”
The rogue bristled, lowering his head but not his gaze as his filled hands rose to his mouth, “Я не твой товарищ– (I am not your comrade–)” he spoke before sinking his teeth deep within the gory hunk of reddened flesh, tearing muscle off with very little effort attached. The snow beneath his position blotched bright crimson, overwhelmed with the foreign life liquid yet drinking it up all the same. “I won’t go back, yet… I won’t– they make me– so, so unbearably hungry…”
Hungry? Wraith tempted to near closer, taking his steps with caution. “Then what did you hope to gain? You cannot run from them, or they will kill you.” He tried to give some common sense to the starved male, but would he accept it? Even if he did come quietly there was no guarantee that he wouldn’t be punished for the destruction he had caused; and hunger certainly wasn’t a valid excuse. “Посмотрите, (Look,)” His blue eyes clashed against the gaze of carmine that continued to stare at him, “there needn’t be anymore death today. If you come willingly it may not be as bad…”
The bloodied asset growled in defiance, swallowing what was left of his sustenance and rising steadily to his feet. “Ты считаешь меня дураком? (Do you think me a fool?)” he questioned distraughtly, peering down at the smaller soldier. Even if the other male resembled him, he wasn’t interested in being caged like an animal for the rest of his days.
All at once Wraith felt like he was at a severe disadvantage as the other man stood over him a good foot, if not more. In spite of being starved continuously the rogue seemed to be built like a beast. Where the fuck was Rumlow? He stood his ground, however, unchanging in his stance as he now had to look up to the other. “You’re a fool for running away,” Wraith retorted cockily, subtly adjusting his hold on the rifle. “They will not be lenient if you resist, and I won’t stand aside.” If this stand off resulted in a fight, then there was a chance he very well could be eaten alive before Rumlow found them. Wraith was confident though in his abilities and would hold out for as long as possible.
This made the rogue bare a menacing smirk. “Spunky little shit, aren’t you?” he replied most degradingly. “I’m not going back until I’ve had my fill of flesh.” The male closed what distance remained betwixt them, snowy daylight framing around scarlet painted features so Wraith could properly see what exactly he was up against. It was peculiar looking at him; one moment he looked like a larger counterpart, yet the next it was like a great antlered entity shifted into perspective. Perhaps he was just seeing things that weren’t actually there… but why?
Wraith held his position in spite of the other now towering over him, body locked and ready for a fight if that’s the direction this was to go in. Tensions rose and the air grew thick around them, his adrenaline spiking as the other soldier’s sharp teeth bared right before he was about to lunge. But a shot shattered the veil of silence, causing the asset to dart back while the rogue bellowed out a splitting cry; somewhat of pain, but mostly out of kindled rage. Immediately regaining his sense of direction after being startled, Wraith frantically looked from the furious asset to the point where the gunfire had come from: Rumlow. About time, but because of this matters were now out of his hands.
The agent loaded another round into the chamber of the rifle he now carried, having switched from lethal measures to a tranquilizing method. HYDRA didn’t want the soldier dead in spite of know how much of a pain in the ass he was going to be in trying to bring him back. “Ya’ like that, you piece of shit?!” Rumlow yelled out, sighting in once again for another shot.
Wounded and very much alerted now, the crazed male was torn between attacking Wraith and going after Brock. The smaller asset was nearest to him, but the agent posed a substantial threat. So without further thinking he rushed towards the handler, effortlessly dodging the next shot that was meant to target him again. Barreling forward with a maddening yell, the rogue lunged with intent to rip Rumlow to shreds, but was caught off guard by Wraith’s interference.
Not wasting a second Wraith shouldered his weapon, firing multiple rounds into the other’s back without pause to think that he could possibly kill him; unlikely though. The objective was to capture him, and yet his handler’s life was on the line. If he could steer his attention away they might be able to survive the asset’s onslaught. Several bullets met their mark, staggering the soldier and giving Wraith enough time to run after him and leap onto his back. In this position he could wrap his silvery limb around the male’s neck and only hope that the contraction of mechanisms would be enough to slow him down.
A rasped howl left the asset’s lips as he clawed at the soldier gripping him tightly, a fit of snarls and furious shaking induced in attempts to free himself. Grabbing hold of Wraith’s tactical vest with his own metallic hand, he tugged and tore the other male away just enough to loosen him and slam him onto the cold, hardened snow; instantly upon him like the deranged creature he was and ready to just plunge his teeth into the smaller man’s throat. He was hellbent, fighting against the relentless struggle Wraith put up, even smacking the knife from his hand that tried to be driven into his side. Warm and delicious flesh awaited him, it was right there–
But before dangerous incisors could gore themselves into the soldier’s skin several shots more penetrated his body, the pain and the affects of heavy tranquilizers racing through his bloodstream at an alarming rate; his vision blurring and mind swirling in delirium. The last he saw was droplets of blood splotched on Wraith’s face and terrified blue eyes fixated at him. And then all went black…
——————————-
A chaotic chain of events rolled out after returning to the base. The cannibalistic asset was rushed into surgery for the internal damaged he suffered because of Wraith’s gunshots; afterwards he was scheduled to be tortured for his retaliation and brainwashed. Wraith was confined to solitary until they decided it was best to rip these memories from his mind also. And Rumlow went though his own version of hell dealing with his superiors. All in all, such a drastic event was never recollected by Wraith, as he was fortunate enough to remember meeting Rogue on better terms. If he had, their connections may have been established quite differently. But maybe that was for the best. Maybe fate desired the two assets to be loyal and close with one another than to be eternal rivals as they would have been before.
Poetry
Kill of the Night
He feels more alive when the knife smoothly glides over her skin
Severing the barrier and unleashing the flood
The weight of devils on his shoulders
Whispering, conniving, deceiving
A lovely crimson slowly dripping
He pulls gasps from her mouth as she sings for breath
Eyes are pleading and prayers slip away into a void
Her body shakes from fear
Spasming, aching, weakening
His arms are a cradle of death for the dying
Silver clashes against a red star beneath the city lamps
Distorted away from man and into a machine
Mechanics releasing its strength to drop the corpse
Humming, shifting, locking
A ghost vanishes into the night
Leashed For Life
All eyes on the Soldier, make him walk
Down our road; do not stop.
You have no control, don’t you see?
You’re everything we want you to be.
The way you kill as we command,
And you slice his throat upon demand.
You shape the nation with your hands.
But something is wrong, oh we can feel.
Your steps stagger to what is ‘real’.
Wrong way Winter, pull the string back!
Don’t let him stray from off the path.
Your eyes are different, what do you see?
Ah… So it’s broken memories…
Soon it’ll be time to prep the machine.
Correct him for now and give him pain.
Show him there is no hope to gain.
You are ours, this is where you belong.
You cannot go out there, that is wrong.
Don’t think of those things inside your head.
Only do what HYDRA wants instead.
Winter is here, James Barnes is dead
Merciless
Let me whisper Russian words to you with vodka stained lips.
Let me encourage your breath to deplete as I reign in on your hips.
Can you tear your eyes from mine; encased in bitter ice?
Or dare to dance with the devil, just for the night?
My shadow makes you feel weak as it hovers over you.
You tremble, whimper and groan; how sweet your little mews.
Cornered is where you’ll stay when night chases away the sun.
And when the dawn comes back again, even then I won’t be done.
I’ll swallow you whole and tear your skin till blood is weeping passed.
And there will be nothing you can do, except know that you won’t last.
Have you heard of betrayal? That love is just a thief?
Well, I’m the ghost who stole your soul and spoiled all your sheets.
Restricted
Noteworthy Individuals
I couldn’t make Wraith come more alive without these people. Extraordinary writers with equally extraordinary characters that have been archived into Wraith’s permanent records.
**links are attached to pictures
Name - Yasha
Status - Accomplice, Brother
Reflecting Wraith in both demeanor and response, Yasha is the perfect comparison to a twin. As equals they form a deadly brotherhood in service of HYDRA, occasionally carrying out missions together and sharing the spoils of blood
Name - Rogue
Status - Accomplice
A cannibalistic counterpart and a pain in the ass, Rogue either compliments or distracts Wraith. Besides the notable differences and getting on each others frayed nerves, they work together at fulfilling contracts in gruesome outcomes. Throughout the decades the two have remained in contact.
Name - Sam Winchester
Status - Friend
Although Wraith has very few acquaintances, Sam Winchester turned out to be a very valuable and loyal friend whom the soldier can depend on whenever he needed.
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