Mash really goes "here's 25 minutes of the most haunting story about loss and fear and boredom and war. Here's talented people doing their best in the worst situation possible. Here's people falling in love and falling out of love and arguing and crying and laughing. Here's a nightmare, distilled so it can't hurt anymore.
Now here's Klinger in a plaid apron and fake braids."
warnings: depictions of violence, mentions of blood, death, strangulation
a/n: woo first chapter of the new series! taglist is open and the playlist has been updated (located on the masterlist)
summary: The Winter Soldier is given a new mission, and your quiet life comes to an abrupt halt
Siberia, 1964
The cool air burns his lungs when he takes his first breath. His gasps are greedy, as if remembering how to breathe for the first time, but the muzzle wrapped around his jaw makes the task feel almost impossible. Goosebumps trail along his skin as the mist begins to clear and the fresh air begins to infiltrate his chamber. Two soldiers grab him then, and he doesn’t have it in him to fight back as they drag his limp body towards the medical wing.
The stale fluorescent lights that hang from the ceiling are nauseatingly blinding as his eyes struggle to adjust to the sudden intrusion of his vision. The voices around him come in and out like a vacant fog, but he can still make out the harshness of their tone as they bark out orders to one another. He thinks these voices are new, and he faintly wonders how much time has passed since he’d last been released from his icy cage. Such thoughts are abruptly interrupted as the soldiers slam his body down into a metal chair, their fingers working quickly to strap him down as if afraid he might suddenly become coherent and snap their necks with a single vice like grip. Judging by the rapid beating of their hearts and the sweat that perspires on their faces in spite of the cold climate, he knows such an incident has occurred before.
The medical staff rushes around him as they check his vitals and stabilize his body from the sudden change in climate. He doesn’t realize the mind wiping has begun until he’s writhing in agonizing pain as his brain is reset to mold him into the unfeeling soldier they’ve trained him to be. The electricity ceases, the red journal opens, and the same code he’s heard so many times before is recited until only a vacant haze remains in his mind. He feels nothing but a restless unease until his handler speaks, and he’s quick to fall in line as if someone had flipped a switch inside of him. He speaks, voice gravelly from disuse and sounding foreign to his own ears, but the words easily fall past his lips all the same.
“Ready to comply.”
“Welcome back, Soldat,” the handler greets unfeelingly. A manilla folder is callously dropped onto his lap, and he takes great care in opening the files to access the details of his mission. A picture of a graying man is the first piece of information to catch his attention, the elder’s features solemn despite the paranoia clear in his eyes. The text beside him states he is a retired archeologist turned recluse hiding in a quiet Mexican town so secluded you can’t spot it on any ordinary map. ‘Priority level target’ is written in bold red lettering across the photograph, and it doesn’t take the soldier long to understand what is expected of him from this next mission.
“Everyone thought he was crazy,” the handler explains with a dry chuckle, “a failed researcher grasping at straws, but his work has proven to be true. This man has discovered the key to everlasting life, the cure to any and every sickness, the remedy to a dying man’s ailments— and he’s chosen to keep it all to himself.”
Another picture is presented to him then, and despite the graininess he’s able to make out an intricately carved stone the size of his palm. The etchings on its surface make it appear ancient and foreign to modern times, and it’s unlike anything he’s ever encountered on any mission before.
“This totem is the key to near immortality, healing anyone that holds it in their grasp to perfect health. It was said to be nothing but a figment of ancient folklore, but it’s real, and this man has it. Your mission is to extract the totem by any means necessary. Kill the scientist and anyone that stands in your way. No witnesses. This assignment is your most important yet— should you succeed, Hydra will live forever.”
The impassioned sentiments of the handler send chills down his spine as his mind races to process the onslaught of information that has just been dumped upon him despite only being conscious for a short while. His chest rises and falls in time with the rapid beating of his heart, and he swallows any doubts that dare try to make their way up his throat. He can do nothing but give a single nod of determination as he wills his steely gaze to meet the eyes of his superior. He’s never failed a mission before.
“Hail Hydra.”
And this one will be no different.
~~~
Guanajuato, Mexico
You’ve just finished the last of your soup when your grandfather sets his newspaper aside and looks upon you with a fond smile. Your home is quiet and tranquil, just as it is every evening when you sit down for dinner, but such stillness is a luxury in your grandfather’s eyes. He’s worked tirelessly to keep you safe from danger and free from want, and every dinner that passes, no matter how mundane, is a victory in his eyes.
“I have a surprise for you,” he tells you with a mirthful smile, “in my bag hanging on the coat rack. I found it while I was in town buying groceries.”
You look at him with piqued interest, and when he gives you a single nod you leave your place at the table in search of his bag. You assume it must be a pastry from your favorite bakery in town or a new item of clothing, but you’re shocked to discover a vinyl record sits waiting for you inside.
“Grandfather, how did you get this?” You exclaim through a gasp, delicately brushing your fingers along the cover in admiration. The Ronettes smile up at you as you gaze upon the cover art with awe before looking back at the man. “I hope it wasn’t too much!”
“Don’t worry about that,” he assures you gently, “I only want you to be happy. This life of ours isn’t easy, but I know how much you love music, and I’ll do all I can to make it feel less lonely for you here.”
You hum pensively in response to his profession as you lower your head in quiet defeat. You try not to dwell too often on the fact that the only person you’ve ever spoken a word to is your grandfather, and the only home you’ve ever known is the walls of your cottage tucked away in the outskirts of a secluded town. You’ve never traveled anywhere further than the garden out back, never had a friend, never gone into the city to buy groceries. You know why you can never leave here, and while you’ll do anything to keep yourself and your grandfather safe, you’ll never be able to cease the longing ache you feel in your chest every time you receive a new album.
“May I be excused?” You request quietly. He offers you a wordless nod of approval, and without saying anything more you rush up the creaky stairs to your bedroom in eager anticipation. You haven’t received a new record in some time, so you’re excited to finally have new music to listen to.
You quietly shut the door behind you once you’re in your room before making your trek towards the window to pull back the frill curtains. There’s a full moon out and the stars twinkle beautifully over the expanse of grass stretched out beyond your home. Everything is quiet, and without a second thought you return to opening your new record and placing it on the turntable. Your movements are careful as you set the needle down, the speakers crackling to life as the disc begins to spin and the music begins to play.
You dance about your room as you change into your comfiest nightgown and put your clothes into the hamper. You try to convince yourself that you’re just like any other young woman your age listening to the Ronettes while she uses the wash bowl to clean her face after dinner. You feel a sense of unbearable guilt any time you begin to grow restless of being in this cottage; your grandfather sacrificed so much for you to be here, and you never want him to feel like his efforts are unappreciated or resented. Besides, what waits for you outside is a far worse fate than being cooped up with the man who’s raised you since birth.
You’re not sure how long you’ve been lost in thought sitting at your vanity, but you’re abruptly startled out of your rumination by the sound of the front door bursting open. You gasp, heart immediately leaping up your throat as you quickly rise from your chair to grab your robe so you may go downstairs and investigate. However, the sound of your grandfather’s desperate shouts has you standing frozen in place. Your blood goes cold, lips parting in quiet fear and eyes wide with panic at his frantic pleas.
“N-No! No, please, I don’t have it! It’s gone! Don’t do this, please! Don’t-“
A single gunshot rings out through the house. The sudden silence is deafening, and all you can hear is the ringing in your ears accompanied by the blood rushing to your head. You feel like you’re going to throw up, your entire body uncomfortably cold while your eyes sting with tears that steadily fall onto the plush carpet beneath your feet. Your mouth opens with a silent sob, but you’re given no time to grieve. You can hear the stairs start to creak as heavy footsteps begin to ascend towards your room, and you know whoever had infiltrated your home is now coming for you next.
You scramble frantically around the room in search of a weapon to defend yourself, and the only thing you can get your hands on is the letter opener on your desk. You clumsily throw yourself into your closet and will the doors to close, immediately sliding to the floor and pressing yourself against the wall. One hand firmly clasps the handle of the blade while the other is pressed tightly against your mouth to muffle the sounds of your labored breathing. The footsteps pause outside your door, and in the quiet you pathetically realize you’d forgotten to turn off the record player. They know you’re in here, and it will only be a matter of time before they find you.
Despite the unbearable ringing in your ears you’re able to hear the low groaning of the door hinges as it’s pushed open. Your chest is heaving, and you can hardly see past the tears that continue to well in your eyes, but by some miracle you’re able to remain quiet. You might not be able to stay hidden for long, but you hope the element of surprise will at least help your chances of survival. Each thud across the carpet sends a jolt of panic down your spine, your knuckles turning white from the sheer force of your grip on the letter opener.
Just moments ago you’d been enjoying your favorite meal with your grandfather like you did every day before. Now he was dead, his body waiting for you downstairs while you hoped to whatever God was out there for some form of salvation. You didn’t want to die- you couldn’t die. You hadn’t seen the rest of the world, hadn’t gotten the chance to meet new faces and explore what life had to offer beyond the cottage. In spite of everything, you hope you can at least put up a good fight before they try to kill you.
The footsteps suddenly halt in front of the closet door, the owner’s silhouette casting a shadow through the shutters that blankets you in complete darkness. You hold your breath, not daring to make a sound and hoping the drums of the Ronette’s song still sounding from the record player drowns out the hammering of your heart. Neither of you makes a move, and some naive part of you believes they won’t think to open the closet and will give up on their search of your bedroom.
The assailant’s hand shoots out and begins to jiggle the knob. You can’t help the gasp that leaves you then, the sound only agitating their movements further. The door is locked, but by the ferocity in which the shadow pulls at the door you have a feeling it won’t keep them out for long. The door is ripped off its hinges, and without a moment’s hesitation you lunge forward.
You move without thinking, too afraid to face the intruder and too frantic to aim for your target. Your attack is successful in lodging the letter opener through his suit and into his skin, but your blind aiming results in you stabbing into his shoulder instead of his chest. In spite of your poor attempt, it effectively catches the man off guard and gives you a window of opportunity to escape. You quickly move around him and make a mad dash for the door, but you only make it a foot out of the closet before he has you in his grasp.
His fingers catch your hair in a vice like grip and yank backward with all of his might. You cry out in agony, your scalp aflame and your neck feeling like it might snap from the whiplash. He tosses you onto the ground as if you weigh nothing, and you aren’t given a fighting chance as he immediately cages you in between his legs and reaches for your throat. Your eyes go wide with panic at the feel of his hands slowly squeezing the breath from your lungs, and you use all the fight you have left within you to try and pry yourself from his grip.
“Oh, since the day I saw you, I have been waiting for you! You know I will adore you ‘till eternity…”
You manage to hear the distant voice of Ronnie Spector past the ringing of your ears and vaguely recall the dinner you’d shared with your grandfather just hours ago. It had started just like any other night, but now you found yourself mere seconds away from death. Had you known it would be the last meal you’d have together, you would have sat with him longer and asked about his day. You realize bleakly that at least if he manages to kill you you’ll be reunited with him soon.
“Where is it!” The stranger growls through gritted teeth. You can’t answer even if you wanted to, a sob being the only thing you manage to get past your constricted throat. Your cries only seem to infuriate him further, and through your tears you can make out his calloused features and icy stare. His eyes are the softest blue you’ve ever seen despite the wrath they hold, but you can’t make out much more due to the muzzle he dons and the curtain of hair that hides his features.
The room begins to spin and your throat feels like it’s on fire, and still you scramble to come up with a way to save yourself despite the reality facing you now.
No one is coming to save you.
~~~
The doctor goes down without a fight, not that the soldier had ever believed otherwise. By the frightened recognition in his eyes the Asset knew his arrival had been a dreaded but expected one. No one can hide from Hydra for long, and it would only have been a matter of time before his secret was discovered. He sweeps the entire first floor for any sign of the totem only to come up empty handed, but he hasn’t lost hope yet. He knows it must be in the house somewhere, otherwise Hydra wouldn’t have bothered to waste the resources necessary to free him from his frozen prison.
A faint melody cascades down the stairs into the dark hallway, prompting the assailant to move cautiously towards the sound. A gentle glow emits from the cracks of the closed door above, and he can hear the subtle creaks in the floorboards from the unknown inhabitant. Nowhere in the files was it mentioned that the doctor had an accomplice with him in hiding, but the newly discovered detail did not detour the soldier from his mission. The totem must be somewhere in that bedroom, and he’s prepared to kill whoever stands in his way.
The stairs groan beneath him with each step he takes, his heavy boots thudding deafeningly against the wooden floors. He wants his victim to know he’s coming, to strike panic into their hearts so they freeze like a deer caught in headlights and have no time to prepare for his approach. The Winter Soldier always finds his target, so there is no point in fighting what is to come.
The door is unlocked, allowing him easy access to the bedroom. The plush violet carpet beneath him softens his footsteps as he surveys the area for any signs of life. The room looks seemingly empty, the only movement coming from the frilly curtains fluttering in time with the breeze that wafts through the open window. He makes his way towards the frame, peering out into the dark for any sign of movement in case his target had managed to escape, but there is no one.
“The night we met I knew I needed you so…”
The melodic voice pulls him away from the window as he moves towards the record player resting upon the nightstand. The vinyl crackles to life with each spin of the turntable, but the sound of music is not enough to mask the rapid beating of his target’s heart. His enhanced hearing allows him to easily pick up on what the average person would miss, and the subtle sound easily leads him to their hiding spot.
He follows the ragged breathing towards the closet tucked away in the corner of the bedroom. The cracks in the shutters aren’t large enough to allow him a view of his victim, but the rush of their blood overpowers the music that continues to play in his presence. These doors are all that separate him from the totem, and it is this thought that spurs him forward to yank at the knob. A panicked gasp comes from inside, only fueling his sense of urgency as he finally tires of fighting the lock and instead rips the door off of its hinges.
A young woman surges forward from the darkness with a strained cry of determination, and before the soldier has time to react a metal blade is suddenly lodged into his shoulder. He yells out in annoyance and discomfort at the feeling of the weapon digging between flesh and bone, but it isn’t enough to disarm him. She uses the abrupt distraction as a means of escape, but she barely makes it past his towering frame before his arm shoots out and grabs hold of her hair. She cries out in agony at the assault as he yanks her backward and slams her onto the floor. Her body thuds clumsily across the carpet, the chaos causing the needle to gratingly skid across the vinyl.
“Be my, be my baby! My one- So won’t you please, be my, be my baby! My one and only baby!”
He straddles her floundering figure, knees closing in on her ribs to prevent any chance of escape while his hands make quick work of wrapping around her neck. She wheezes, eyes wide in panic while her arms flail wildly through the air for some form of purchase against him. One hand helplessly tries to pry his fingers away from her throat while the other beats desperately against his torso. He feels nothing, no pain from her pathetically weak fist or turmoil for the brutality he uses against her meek form, only a calloused determination to find the totem and complete his mission.
“Where is it?” He growls through gritted teeth, voice coarse from long periods of disuse. She can only offer an incoherent sob for an answer as she continues to fight against him. Tears fall down her delicate cheeks, and while the thought disappears just as quickly as it had arrived in his mind, he finds himself admiring the beauty in her pain. It wasn’t her fault she’d been caught in the crossfire of his mission, but his orders were clear, and he’d rather take her life than risk the wrath of his superiors should he disobey them.
Her inability to give him the answer he desires only spurs his anger further, and he finds himself growing impatient at her fruitless tempts to fight him off.
“Give up the totem, stupid girl or I’ll-!”
His threats are abruptly disrupted by the sudden feeling of her fingers digging into his stab wound. He shouts in protest but his hold only grows tighter around her neck. She convulses beneath him at the pressure, eyes beginning to roll back as the oxygen leaves her lungs, but her grip remains strong. Oddly, he notices the sudden painful intrusion begins to ebb away in spite of the pressure she maintains against the wound. He knows he should feel agonizing pain considering it’s a tactic he’s used himself before, but there’s nothing but a dull ache.
Her hand falls limp at her side as she finally succumbs to the lack of oxygen, and he’s quick to release his hold as he rises from the ground and moves away from her figure. Pensively, he presses his own hand against the lesion only to feel nothing. The entry point is gone, and all that remains is dried blood and a tear in his tactical suit. The stab wound seems to have just disappeared, as if healed magically on its own.
His frenzied stare shifts down to the carpet where her unconscious figure lies, her bloodied fingers twitching against the fabric of her baby blue nightgown. Her chest rises and falls slowly with each ragged breath she takes, and when he looks upon the column of her throat he notices the bruising of his fingerprints left behind on her skin is beginning to fade into nothing. Her touch had healed him, and now she appeared to be healing herself. The Soldier’s brows furrow in uncertainty and confusion as he attempts to put the pieces together.
A grave realization comes to him then, stomach pooling with dread as he quickly collapses to his knees beside her to examine her bruising more closely. With the gentlest touch he’s ever managed on a mission, he languidly forces her head to lull to the side to get a better view of her throat. The bruising on her neck has vanished completely, and the sight is more than enough proof to confirm his suspicions. The powers Hydra has been searching for all these years lie in this very room. The doctor was telling the truth— there is no totem.
I found s2 hard to watch at times. There was such a gap between the quality of the writing with the quality of the animation that was so dissonant that it made it hard to concentrate. My eyes were seeing some of the best 3D animation I’ve ever witnessed superimposed on a wildly tangential plot that makes less sense the longer it plays. It was just so… odd.
I was trying to enjoy the visuals but every 10seconds the characters say or do something crazier or more out of character than the last. Their own writing/dialog kept ruining the immersion.
Disappointing writing aside, that animation was fire.
