Secretive - Bucky Barnes

8 || A Lie and a Problem

»I never thought I would declare myself lucky for not being around with someone willingly stepping into the alliance with us.« Schmidt announces, his tone scolding like he just found his child climbing atop the bar to get to the forbidden chocolate. Not like I just erased a whole base of his from existence because I let my feelings take over, causing all of the survivors to be removed from the very place immediately, and brought to a base on a whole other continent. From the durance of the flight, we either landed in Africa or Europe. Hard to tell with climate being non-existent as deep below the surface as we are. »Why would you risk your boyfriend's life so freely? I thought you were smarter than that.«

My only response to this is a bitter stare to the men in my front, unmoving like a statue. The highest ranked officers who survived, some with first and second level burn-degrees already having been treated, and a couple familiar faces missing, probably barely kept alive with a body roasted like a steak. 

I do not fear whatever is incoming. I have not yet done all Hydra wants from me, so James is being kept alive for the very last. The problem is that I do not know if there are other things certain implant can do. Whether it could stimulate brain regions, build a blockade or barrier of some sort, could make him paraplegic. Of course, I would not love him any less, but he certainly would not be all too fond of this. 

And they could tell me anything. They could tell me the most absurd stories, the most pathetic and bizarre explanations to make me behave and get me back into line, and I would believe it. Not because any logical sense was behind their phrases, but because I feared there was something beyond logical happening, however improbable. I could not risk it. They could tell me the sky was purple, and I would believe them. It already turned black; this change would not even make me wonder.

Speaking for me, Steele takes his chance. His blonde hair is a mess, like he just woke up to be summoned into meeting after meeting. Red eyes burning extravagant this time, I fear they might leave marks on anyone he is looking at a second too long. His middle-pitched voice rumbles rasping through the room like a sharp blade, trying over and over again to cut my throat, and yet, always failing. »You should push the button once and for all.«

»And make her some suicidal terrorist? No. We have to find another way. Any suggestions?«

I ended up as their executioner. Thinking this would get at me, this would make me crumble from the inside, fold in a way I would fit into the gap of their lines held free for me. The next week was a mere bloodbath. I sliced through more skin, with my bare nails, weapons, teeth, whatever they got in their mind, than countable. Took numerous lives, inhaled numerous last breaths. Stood against cries of agony and suffering caused by my own hands, which were soaked with a deeper, deeper scarlet then they already have been before. 

All for the hope of them to get to me. But they forget I started this when I was thirteen, and it took less than three months for me to make this kind of interrogation and punishment common for me at said age. As common as a job in a boring office in one of the high, glassy skyscrapers of New York. It was louder, it was nastier, and yes, I wanted to flee from it. But they pushed me back into something that is mere a blink for me if anything, and with that, they pushed me back into the icy part of myself that I wanted to bury the moment I moved into the city that never sleeps.

I almost laugh about the irony of my destiny. 

All it did is proving Steele right in every of his accusations. Proving him, on one side, that I am reckless. That I am merciless, emotionless, could do the level of torture that made the performer vomit into the corners of the room without even flinching. Proving him the mere sight of my hand sticking inside a person and squeezing their hearts until they could not beat no more is evoking no other reaction of mine than the hard bread they feed me with each and every morning: none.