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The Soldier is not permitted to leave the room.
This does not bother him, as he is a weapon and weapons do not feel emotion. But Commander Rumlow is not a weapon, and Commander Rumlow is expressing his feelings of anger and disappointment so aggressively that his gesticulations are causing damage to Hydra property. The Soldier considers intervening.
“-of a bitch!” Commander Rumlow hits another cardboard box off of the stainless steel table that is bolted to the concrete floor. It bursts open and loose papers float leisurely down to the ground. One of them settles softly at the Soldier’s feet. He looks down; ‘CLASSIFIED,’ the paper says in bright red letters across the front. He frowns, and the Commander makes a sound that is suited more to creatures of the Ursidae variety than any human being.
The Soldier decides that he will not intervene.
“Three hours,” the Commander growls. “I finally get back from a two-week mission in the middle of fucking nowhere-” he throws another fist, but misses the box he was aiming for. The Soldier had once heard Agent Rollins recall an instance in which he had seen someone become so angry that they had gone blind. He watches the Commander closely, concerned.
“-and I come back here,” the Commander continues, “And Pierce says I have to do three hours of overtime to supervise your braindead ass!” He kicks the table, but it does not move, as it is more structurally sound than the Commander’s foot. “Ow!” the Commander yells. Then, to the Soldier: “Stop fucking staring at me!”
The Soldier averts his gaze, settling on the overhead light. It makes his eyes burn, and he blinks once to sooth the dry ache. Dark, shadowy shapes dance in his vision, obscuring the textural details of the grey ceiling.
“On fucking Christmas, too,” the Commander bemoans. “I had plans. Die Hard. Beer. Fucking- eggnog, I don’t know. Something.”
He pauses, and the Soldier can tell from the direction that the Commander’s heavy, angry breaths are coming from that he is facing him. He blinks again, and the shadowy shapes linger even when his eyes are closed. The Commander stands silent, expectant.
“I’m sorry, Sir,” the Soldier says, as this is often the correct response in situations like these.
The Commander grunts. “Whatever.” But, his offensive strikes against the room’s boxes and furniture have ceased, so the Soldier must have decided on the correct course of action. His chest feels warm, and he blinks the spots away once more, facial muscles minutely tensing upward before he stops this unauthorized, deceptive use of expression. The Soldier is not allowed to use manipulative expressions of emotion around or against Hydra personnel.
The Soldier is unfamiliar with ‘Christmas.’ This is not alarming, as the Soldier is unfamiliar with most things. A weapon has no use for information that is unrelated to mission objectives. But the shape the word makes in the cool air of the room sparks something in the mind, something that smells of citrus and burning hickory, that sounds like warm laughter and little girls screeching in delight as they pull small trinkets from an overly large sock.
He shakes the head once, violently, to dispel the vivid image. This is a malfunction; malfunctions are to be reported to the handler. He looks up at the Commander, who is already watching him closely.
“Malfunction, Sir,” he says.
“Don’t worry, buddy,” the Commander replies. He looks bored. “You’ll be wiped and back in the freezer by dinnertime.”
The Soldier nods once, lank hair falling in his eyes. This is to be expected, as it is standard procedure. Its necessity becomes ever more apparent as the stomach roils and prickles of dread make their way up the spine. Malfunction. The fingers of the right hand tremble, barely noticeable. He cannot make them stop.
“Sir-”
“I know. Malfunction,” the Commander says, still watching him closely. “C’mere.”
The Soldier makes his way over to him in five easy strides. He stands at attention, staring at the tip of the Commander’s nose.
“Good,” the Commander praises. The Soldier’s chest grows warm again, and the stomach is no longer behaving faultily.
The Commander reaches into his pocket and pulls out a thin, red-and-white striped stick that is curved on one end. He peels the plastic wrapping off of it and places it in the Soldier’s hand.
“If anyone asks, the techs gave it to you,” the Commander grumbles. The Soldier stares at this odd object, perplexed. Perhaps it is a weapon.
The sound of plastic rustling brings the Soldier’s attention away from the strange weapon and back to the Commander. He has his own red-and-white stick in his hand. He puts it into his mouth. Seeing the Soldier watching, he rolls his eyes. “Like this, dumbass,” he says around the not-weapon. “It’s a candy cane.”
Hesitantly, the Soldier emulates his actions, sticking the end of the candy cane that is not curved into his mouth. It settles on his tongue, and he is instantly struck with a cool, sharp flavor that is accented by undertones of sugar. The Soldier does not have opinions, but this sensation is far from distressful.
The Commander crunches his candy cane to pieces within three minutes, chewing the solid sugar to pieces and washing it down with a swig from the flask that is hidden within his thick tactical coat. This flask is a secret; the Soldier is not to mention it to anyone, no matter their rank.
The Soldier does not crunch his candy cane. He savors the spicy sugar as it melts on his tongue until the end in his mouth dissolves into a sharp point, then he bites the end off of it and lets the other end melt slowly, savoring the taste. He is not often allowed to taste things. The Commander’s disposition must be favorable today.
The candy cane is gone by the time the techs come into the room. All evidence that had been sticking to his lips and teeth has been licked away. The bite guard is shoved into his mouth, and he cannot help but think that the candy cane’s taste is superior to the bland rubber.
The Soldier frowns. Weapons do not feel emotion. They do not have opinions. It is good, then, that Hydra is fixing him, helping him to be the best weapon that he can be. His unsure eyes meet the Commander’s dark ones, and the Commander smiles. The expression is barely there, but it reassures him. He relaxes back into the chair as the restraints clamp tightly around his arms, holding him still.
The headpiece moves into place around his skull, and though he has no memory of previous procedures, he closes his eyes. Sparks dance before his eyes, and he does not realize that he is screaming.
***
The Soldier is not permitted to leave the room.
He is to stay put as the techs retrieve the supplies that are necessary for him to be put into cryo safely and correctly. He sits patiently at attention and waits.
They return, and needles and electrodes are put into place. An IV is hooked up. He blinks heavily and lists to the side, limbs suddenly uncooperative.
“There you go,” one of the techs says. He is dragged over to the cryo chamber and secured into place. There is a hint of something cool and spicy behind his teeth. This flavor is immediately replaced with tinny copper as he bites his tongue.
There are more needles and more wires. A faint beeping sound comes to life outside of the chamber, keeping time with his steady pulse.
“Merry Christmas, Soldier,” one of the techs says. “Good night.”
The Soldier does not know what Christmas is, and he does not care to ask. Weapons have no use for information that is not relevant to the mission.
The cryo chamber closes, and the cold overtakes him.