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Most of the time it was a machine. Clean, cold, efficient. Its mind empty, focused only on the next move. The next objective of the mission. When it was focused, given orders, it would stop at nothing to carry them out.
It was the downtime that made it struggle. Its mind got loud when it didn't have an objective.
It was soup, mostly. Voices with no faces attached, images divorced from context. A lot of screaming. Sometimes its own. New York. Moscow. Words with no meaning. Emotions that came from nothing. Blue eyes. Phantom pains. Gunshots.
That it could handle. It would tamp down the noise until the next wipe. Its not like any of it meant anything.
When it started meaning something, that was a problem.
It was never a full person, but sometimes its mind convinced itself it was a fragment of one.
It had been training when it broke. They had to keep it moving, had to keep it sharp. Too long in cryo would atrophy they skills they had fought so hard to instill in it. Practice trained its muscle memory, and muscle memory lasted through wipes.
Another memory snuck through this time.
Counter the left hook. Through him off balance. While he's adjusting, go for the jaw. Knee to the chest. Don't stop, don't let him breathe even for a moment. Don't give him the chance to get a hit in. You're better than him. You're better than—
It stumbled. It had a moment to breathe before its knees buckled and it was on the floor.
It screamed. It didn't know why. It hurt. It didn't know why.
Footsteps thudded against the ground.
"Please," it said. It wasn't sure what language.
"What the hell is wrong with it?" someone asked.
It was shaking. Why was it shaking?
A boot on its neck. Beg for your life.
"I can be useful," it said, uselessly. They knew that.
It felt fear, like a rush of ice water through its veins. It felt desperation, choking out every last calculated thought.
It was trapped in the memory. It knew, logically, it was in no physical danger. Perhaps it would face discipline later, but as of now, it was perfectly safe.
All it could feel was the boot on its neck.
It kneeled there for a moment, spewing out useless "please"s and "sorry"s, until someone took pity and dragged it away by its metal arm.
It wouldn't fight back, not in this state, so they took the opportunity to shut it up. The muzzle clasped over its face.
It was stuck, a record skipping over and over. It didn't matter that it couldn't move. It didn't matter that it couldn't speak. It didn't matter that it wasn't there.
When it had calmed down enough that it could stand on its own, it was clear that it was time for a wipe. A malfunction like this compromised its efficacy. No, it needed to be a clean slate. Clean, cold, functional.
It was walked down. Guided into the chair. Locked in place. Mouth guard placed so it didn't bite its tongue off. An injection to slow its heart rate, although God knows what help that did.
He wondered if he believed in God once.
And then there was only light. A brilliant, bright white light burning, singeing away everything that wasn't baked into its bones. Pain in the body, but the mind was so clear.
They helped it out of the chair. It was ready, now. It would be efficient.
It was a machine.