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Dr. Owens, a man Steve only vaguely remembered from the lab and one who had only left his mark in Steve’s mind because of his softer expressions. He wouldn’t say the man had been particularly nice, he was a working scientist and still the enemy, but he’d been softer and warmer, enough that Steve could allow his body to relax. It was because of this image in his memory, that Steve recognized him in the Russian base. He’d been groggy and falling in and out of consciousness, but the softened face and creased eyebrows struck him. Steve by no means felt any better seeing him, because he only brought fear this time around, and foreboding for where he was to be taken.
This feeling was all too accurate, for when Steve awoke he was greeted by harsh shackles and blinding white lights piercing his eyes. He squinted them closed, aching, and began to panic. He thrashed on the poor excuse of a bed and found little give to the bonds holding him down. He tried opening his eyes once more, blinking rapidly and still unable to see properly, but among this fear Steve felt cold. The creeping cold that would seep into his bones, and of which he’d thought he’d never have to feel again. It was only aided by the sterile, sparse room, and the many hands that came forward to subdue his wayward limbs. He was still blinded by his own eyelids and the unnatural light, and so he couldn’t see the people attached to the voices he could hear above him—nor could he make out the words. With so many people looming, a terrifying thought struck Steve, was Papa here? Br. Brenner?
His breathing began to quicken. His head was pounding in time to his racing heartbeat, and his body was beginning to bloom new bruises under the rough contact and his own retaliation. Everything around him was only serving to fuel the fire that was his fear, and so in hopes of regaining his footing, Steve opened his eyes and kept them wide. It was Papa above him, greying hair, wrinkled face, and lab coat. Of course, already high on emotion himself, Steve did the only instinctual thing he could.
His powers encased the nightmare of a man from within, and the effect was immediate and quick, over in just seconds. His face contorted into debilitating terror, eyes bulging, veins popping in his neck and forehead, and blood spewed from his rapidly whitening face. Then, his mouth dropped open as if it were a broken hinge and a deafening scream broke free. Steve could feel the spittle against his face as the man fell from view, collapsing just as his vocal cords were ripped to shreds and he became silent. That was all Steve got to see however, as his eyes were soon plunged back into darkness—someone had clamped their hand over his face rendering his ability useless. Due to the strain, his nose began to bleed, and he knew the pounding in his head would only worsen. Save for the sounds of panicked men and women, Steve could only hear a high pitched ringing, accompanied by his disbelieving thoughts. Had he done it? Had he killed Dr. Brenner? Though still in the lab, and still a prisoner, Steve thought some of his fear might ebb away with his greatest threat now gone.
His exhausted body fell limp, and—as if giving up—he ceased all the fight he had previously demonstrated, even against the calloused hand pressing his eyes back into their sockets. There was little point, he thought, his chances of breaking out of the shackles and making it through the undoubtedly heavy guard were slim; he could at least take some comfort in the death of Brenner.
In Steve’s new calm, the door creaked open. Silence replaced the previous panicked shouts, though it was tense. Despite this, as the new presence began walking toward Steve, he felt little fear; Brenner was dead and he was still out of it from the pain and drugs inflicted on him with the Russians.
The footsteps stopped suddenly, and Steve could guess the person had come to stand over the result of Steve’s fear.
“What happened?” An even, male voice, spoke cooly, and the lack of emotion sent a shiver down Steve’s spine.
“Seven lashed out once he woke, we’ve lost him to a heart attack.” A woman answered him mournfully, and there was a loud silence as if they were absorbing the information. Even still, Steve felt no guilt for his actions, however much they were out of his control. But, all too soon, the man rounded the body and Steve could feel the stranger's weight next to his hip as he sat. In contrast to his previous relaxed muscles, Steve was once more wound tight.
“Seven.” Again, Steve felt an instinctual fear. “How long you’ve been gone,” a hand brushed his cheek and Steve couldn’t recoil under the other restraining grip, “and how powerful you have become.” Steve opened his mouth to say somethin— though he didn’t know what—but all that made it passed his lips was a rough croaking, the result of a dry throat and parched mouth. The man ignored the attempt, however, and continued speaking.
“You have finally been returned to your Papa, and though I had hoped for a more joyous reaction I am not surprised.” A sob seemed to wrack Steve’s entire body before he had fully processed the information. “I will have to remove your seeing privileges.” Papa had lived, and whoever Seven had killed was simply a look alike, someone he had projected his fear onto.
“No…” He whispered painfully, any tears he might have shed were held at bay mercilessly. However, Papa didn’t wait another second, nor did he deign him with further conversation. Instead he stood and was already halfway out of the room when he spoke.
“Sedate him, and get the helmet done. Testing will begin in two days’ time.” The door creaked shut, smothering the mad scientist's glee, and sick satisfaction that Seven could sense.
This time around there was no comfort to be found for Seven, not even in Papa’s absence.