Road to War Part III: I Would For You

Some Things I'd Rather You Not see

The snow was cold and all around him. Or was it the river? People were dragging him places, places he didn't care to go. He didn't mind being left there, in the snow, to die. It was alright, he wanted to say to them. The mission was over, they didn't need to fuss. But they did, and he woke up. And they hurt him, first his arm and then his head and then put him to sleep again.

He was confused and disoriented when they brought him out. He was cold again, covered in ice. They spoke to him in other languages he was surprised to find he knew. Then they sent him out, often into snow, and he eliminated threats. Any kind of threat, from senior officials to children. If he was told, he went. And he killed efficiently and quickly. Then he was put back in that chamber of ice until they needed him again. Sometimes, when he woke up, he stared down at his hands as if he'd never seen them before, as if they were unfamiliar and part of someone else. Some other person who did these horrible things with them. But, no, it was him. He snapped necks and pulled triggers and threw grenades, for no other reason than because they told him to.

Sometimes they could tell he was upset, and they'd tell him how important his work was. And he'd listen patiently to their explanations. Sometimes he'd believe them and go back to work. More often, he wouldn't, and they'd have to hurt him. Recalibrate him, get him back on track to address the mission. They told him how important that was, too. And he let it happen because, really, what else was he going to do? He didn't know who he was or where he could go or anything outside of the chamber, the training room, and missions. There was nothing else.

Except sometimes he was reminded of – something. Something he didn't understand, but only when he was on a mission. From the way being in that American city made him feel to the tearful gaze of the woman who protected his target with her body to the shocked recognition on the face of the man on the bridge. If he talked about those things, and others that were more subtle, they'd exchange looks of distress and strap him down to hurt him again. But he had to know, and maybe this time they would tell him.

He wakes up in a cold sweat, his blanket twisted uncomfortably around his body. Blinking in confusion, he stares up at an unfamiliar ceiling, sitting up abruptly to survey his surroundings. Then he remembers he is on his couch, in his living room. It's still dark outside, so he must have just been awakened by a nightmare. He can go back to sleep. Hesitantly, he lies back against the cushions, trying to slow his heart rate and focus on settling his jangled nerves. The door to his bedroom opens, and he stares at the emerging figure with wide eyes.

Natalia. Of course. He let her stay in his room while he stayed out here. That's all. She looks concerned and he supposes he must have been screaming. "James," she says quietly, gently, as she approaches cautiously. The way a person should approach something feral. He sits up sharply again, trying ineffectually to calm himself, but he can't keep his gaze from darting around the room, in search of some threat. Natalia continues to move toward him until she is about two feet away, at which point she kneels and looks up at him. He stares at her, hands clenched tightly to his blanket, to keep them from hurting anyone else.

"James," she murmurs again. "You're safe here. They can't hurt you anymore." He nods slowly, his tense muscles loosening ever so slightly. "In fact, you destroyed all of their capabilities of hurting you or anyone else like that ever again," she adds, smiling gently. It's not a smirk, not what he's used to seeing on her face, but he feels a little better anyway.

"How did they do it, Natalia?" he whispers, gaze fixed on her face.

"Do what, James?" she asks, holding out her hand.

Tentatively, he lets go of the blanket to take it, and she squeezes his fingers reassuringly. "Take away all the good stuff but leave the bad," he offers.