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Chaos ruled inside his head, his thoughts twisted like barely remembered roller coaster rides. Images, memories, flashed against his eyelids in bursts of multi-colored light, too fast to grab and hold, they slithered through his fingers.
Before was order, order drenched in blood and pain, but order, nonetheless. He was their sword, their never missed gunshot in the night. The Asset never questioned, his will to do so burned out many years ago.
And yet, one word, one softly spoken, tremulous word, had broken that order, his carefully crafted mission. Blond hair, blue eyes, in an impossible face, pierced the Asset, tore cracks into the ice surrounding his soul.
Even as the Machine roared to life, even as white hot heat burned his heart, his mind, asunder, a small, quiet thought refused to die, burrowing deep within the valleys of his mind. The Asset hid it from his masters when they once more sent him out into the night to kill and maim.
The cracks grew, splintering the ice. Seventy years of torture forged him, their perfect weapon, born of their unrelenting hate. As the Asset watched the last of the hidden labs burn, he laughed. Zola had said that Hydra was forever, that their will would never die. He was wrong. Their wall of lies ripped apart like paper from the strength of a simple phrase, 'I knew him.'