@rxmlxw || continued from x. || cause i'm just gonna.
Unprepared.
It's word that doesn't process inside the weapon's mind. They are always prepared in their mission. Down to the last possible second. The smallest detail highlighted, gone over. Filed down to the barest part of itself so there are no mistakes. Mistakes get people killed. People that are not supposed to be killed. People that are his responsibility to bring out of the mission alive. Canonfodder to some in HYDRA's ranks. But the Asset? They've perfected his need to complete his mission to the point that he does not like losing those he has considered his comrads.
Or is it something else? Something deeper? Something he can't see? Or understand? Or grasp? Or know? Only FEEL the ghost of?
Yes. He's programmed to deal with the occasional twist. The inevitable times where even the smallest scenario that's been prepared for twists into something that isn't. What kind of weapon would he be if he misfires under pressure? One that isn't much use. And use is all that he is. All that he knows.
When the doors open to the guards. When Rumlow is face to face with a barrel that could erase him with the flinch of a finger. As well as each one of the others are? Including one pointed at him? It's not the shouting or the removal of safetys or dropping of bullets into chambers or clicks of triggers that the Winter Soldier hears.
It's silence. And stillness.
A slow breath that exhales into a blur of violence. His fingers clutch a blade because a gun at this closeness is damn near useless and that's the fault in their plan. Because the man beside Rumlow is quick to bury it into the temple of the one who would have ended his handler's life should Rumlow move an inch. The eyes of his would-be assailant were taken out on the blade's pathway there. An agony in one sweep of his blade that left the man screaming and the frenzy that started. Bullets fired. Not from their end but randomly and in a panic from their enemy's. Until one after another. The guns stopped. Fear. He felt and smelled fear fill the room deeper and deeper. From the friendly side, too. Bodies began to litter the floor. Bloodied. Blankly staring into empty space. Limp and lifeless with no hope of being saved. The last two died in quiet resignation. Damn near looking as though they accepted there was nowhere to run.
The last one was dead but still in the grip of a metallic hand squeezed tighter and he heard bone shattering. His head tilted. Skin and mask splattered in crimson. Dark hair hung in his face, stuck to his cheek. Blue eyes barely moved to the source of the voice. Only registering the noise once he noticed the warmth of the touch on his flesh and bone shoulder sinking through the leather. The touch to his cheek comes muted but it's enough to jar him out of his mindset. Blue eyes close and open back onto his last kill still dangling from his hand. He drops it. The body heavy enough to rattle the floor under his shoes. Seathing the knife out of his flesh hand into it's place at his hip, he reaches back with a steady hand and unclasps his mask now that they are alone.
Head bowed forward, he stares down at the body as if measuring the damage and without lifting his chin, he flicks his stare about the room.. seeing what he did through a curtain of dark hair before meeting Brock's stare through the mess, shielded behind strands as if it's on purpose.
