[HYDRA didn't abandon those who had the strength to believe, he thought. It wasn't his thought though, but it no less swam up from the depths of his consciousness. HYDRA was an ideal, a principle that could not fail so long as there was one person to believe in it. It transcended race, gender, social class, economic status, language even. Those that hadn't the strength to believe were eliminated in some way, or they were kept on, forced to be shattered and rebuilt in a way that allowed their belief to return again.
The Winter Soldier thought only: I should kill him.
He was an absolute, the most loyal, the most hard-core, the most extreme of the elements that HYDRA had in place. They had seventy years to perfect him, and even now, the programming hooked into his mind, rattled down his options to complete and utter simplicity: kill or don't.
Yet, a part of him that had developed from the severity of his programming couldn't lift a hand against his commander. A part of him that was Bucky Barnes at heart, loyal to those who loved and cared for him still existed, had always been fighting. Hell had, to a degree, been good for him, had given him a freedom that had previously not existed and part of that had been Rumlow.
He continued to stare, his expression a void of emotion. Emotion lead to mistakes and mistakes lead to mission failure. Yet, he hurt so badly, like when his chest had been caved in on the helicarrier, like how the horrified expression on Steve's face had reached through his last suffering breaths to hit him harder than the damage to his body. He opened his mouth to say something, to reply to the words and only a squeak of a sound came out.
He snapped his mouth shut and reached for his beer, taking a drag from it and having to literally struggle to force it down. It tasted like ash. He thought he might be sick as he fought his own internal war.]
no subject
The Winter Soldier thought only: I should kill him.
He was an absolute, the most loyal, the most hard-core, the most extreme of the elements that HYDRA had in place. They had seventy years to perfect him, and even now, the programming hooked into his mind, rattled down his options to complete and utter simplicity: kill or don't.
Yet, a part of him that had developed from the severity of his programming couldn't lift a hand against his commander. A part of him that was Bucky Barnes at heart, loyal to those who loved and cared for him still existed, had always been fighting. Hell had, to a degree, been good for him, had given him a freedom that had previously not existed and part of that had been Rumlow.
He continued to stare, his expression a void of emotion. Emotion lead to mistakes and mistakes lead to mission failure. Yet, he hurt so badly, like when his chest had been caved in on the helicarrier, like how the horrified expression on Steve's face had reached through his last suffering breaths to hit him harder than the damage to his body. He opened his mouth to say something, to reply to the words and only a squeak of a sound came out.
He snapped his mouth shut and reached for his beer, taking a drag from it and having to literally struggle to force it down. It tasted like ash. He thought he might be sick as he fought his own internal war.]
Y-your weapon.