I do not own Captain America anything.

I am not HYDRA and neither is Cap.

Unmade

They didn't destroy him.
Not exactly.
They did something worse.
They unmade him.
They took every brutal, ruthless, uncompromising technique devised by the ill hand of man.
And they built a new being. A new creature.
They named it The Asset.
It took years and years of diligent, dedicated work.
But they did it. The ones of them that survived.
And when they did, they masked and muzzled their killing machine, wrapped it up tight.
In a leather straightjacket. Thick pants and heavy boots.
To protect it from bullets, knives, and other weaponistic paraphernalia.
Wrapped it up so menacingly and mercilessly in order to strike fear in the hearts of its targets.
And of course, to remind it that it too was trapped. Caught.
A prisoner.
And then they taught it, trained it, to kill.
There were no levels of the lethality in regard to The Asset's kill code.
The Asset simply analyzed the situation and neutralized the threat using the most direct strategy available.
Zero to sixty in the span of 'Soldier?'.
And then they jammed it all inside a man diminished by pyschological torture, weakened by physical trauma, and abandoned by all.
They constructed a list of seemingly innocuous words, each leaden with purpose and meaning.
To, one by one, pull forward the merciless assassin and paralyze, deactivate, the good man standing in its way.
And when it was done killing, they covered up their tracks, wiped away their sins.
By sandblasting The Asset's memory clean.
Until all was smooth and blank as the day it was created.
Or so they thought.
Leaving The Asset active for too long caused . . . problems.
Glitches.
Malfunctions.
Some might call memories. Opinions.
Preferences.
The beginning struggles of free will.
And that was unacceptable.
And so they would wipe again.
And again.
And again.
For the good of all mankind.
Or so they told themselves.
When they procured volunteers, those that required no wiping, no . . . convincing, they jacked them up.
And pitted them against The Asset.
Recorded experimental procedures and findings.
And took bets on the outcomes of the fights.
At least until all hell broke loose and they were to forced to utilize their most elite death squad bit more . . . cautiously.
Until only The Asset, the lone machine soldier, remained.
Most easily controlled. Contained.
Managed.
And when they were done, they shoved it back in a glass tank, hooked up to wires and tubes and mechanisms.
And assailed its cells with more glaciate compound per square inch than any living being should be able to suffer and survive.
As it felt its breath ice in its lungs.
Marrow chill in its bones.
Blood crystalize in its veins.
And its eyeballs freeze in its sockets.
Until the next time when they fast thawed the meat popsicle pawn.
Drug it in stabbing, mind cracking pain.
To sit freezing and confused and trapped in the chair.
To become yet again . . .
"Soldier?"
. . . the soul-less, inhumane murder puppet . . .
"Ready to comply."
. . . of HYDRA.

One day I will stop writing for Bucky Barnes. But today is not that day. ;)
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