Work Text:
The Winter Soldier’s handlers said she had no need for memories, but she still remembered, in small, bright flashes that made no sense, apart or together.
A boy running down the streets of Leningrad, who filled her with fondness she couldn’t understand.
A handler watching with cruel eyes as she tried cheap Japanese beer—she’d wanted it badly, but she had no idea why. It was disgusting , and the handler had laughed at the face she’d made when she’d tried it.
A recipe card she’d seen on the desk of a target in England.
A mystery novel. The flare of a skirt. The way a handler’s tie caught the light.
A weapon had no need for memories such as these.
She was a tool in her handler’s hands, in the same way that her knife was a tool in her own. She was an extension of their will, and it was an extension of hers.
It was this clear, simple chain of command that allowed her to be an effective instrument of the Organization, and to inspire fear in their enemies.
The people that she fought against were not like her. They had memories and emotions and other useless things that made them hesitate in the midst of battle. Her handlers trained her in how to use these weaknesses to end her opponent’s lives.
Her training was a curious thing. There were times when her body automatically moved into positions that her handlers had not taught her. She was not punished for these times, in the way that she was punished for bringing up other types of memory. The memory of fighting was not the same kind of weakness as the memory of food or drink, it seemed.
But while this other form was allowed, her trainers still encouraged their own style, a brutal, punishing technique that ached down to her bones.
She thought perhaps it was designed for someone broader or more muscular than she was, and certainly, it was not designed for such constant use. She was as fit as a woman with only one arm could be, but she always came back from battle aching, either from fatigue or from hits she simply couldn’t be bothered to block.
A part of her knew that there were martial arts she was better suited to. Just thinking about the whole matter hurt, so she had a feeling that she’d already brought up the question with her handlers, and they hadn’t appreciated it. She felt similar foreboding at the idea of bringing up the way her metal arm pulled at her shoulder, or the way the muscle groups around it ached some days.
So, while she found herself occasionally hampered by the discomfort associated with her current martial arts style, or with her prosthetic arm, she dismissed these things as matters her handlers didn’t want her to bother them with. Although they damaged her efficiency, she was still faster and stronger than her enemies, still the terrifying Winter Soldier who defeated every enemy sent against her.
And then, a blue-eyed man kicked the mask right off of her face and knocked her world on end.