Old habits die screaming, and Soldier Boy was an old motherfucker holding onto nothing but spite and hatred.

He's spent the last thirty years chained, strapped and muzzled to a gas mask, test after test, burnt and chopped, toyed with in the lab — by you, your peers and higher-ups — until his chest heaved like a bull, a new-age American monster.

He is also all yours, as long as he is tied here, in hell.

Long gone is the image of the shiny Soldier Boy that Vought delivered to you on a silver platter, now he's worn and miles away from the team that betrayed him, the spoiled goods, the country that turned — he fought for America, and here he was.

Long-due vengeance is all he thinks about, while faintly listening to foreign songs paired with the sizzle of a record, playing somewhere in the lab — or maybe it was a radio, he couldn't be sure, with how the years go by. All he knows it that it makes his head spin and suddenly the whole place lits up like it’s fucking fourth of july, he explodes. Literally.

The years of torture go unnoticed, but he knows you, you're different, worse than the other scientists. Soldier Boy snarled and cussed up a storm, and nothing he did shook you from the thin, methodical lines drawn with a scalpel.

“Get your fucking hands off me.” The words could barely be distinguished behind the gas mask, the heaviest drugs dulling his rage by a sliver, as you gawked at him, at the regenerative gen of the supersoldier taking effect. Perfect, like a doll.

The thought makes Soldier Boy seethe.

In your eyes, Soldier Boy wasn’t only the strongest hero this world has ever seen, he was an evolutional god. It made him sick.

You were his biggest fan. And he — he hated you.