POV: The Winter Soldier Location: HYDRA Black Site – Sublevel 3, Training Annex
The girl was new. Soft.
Too soft.
He noted it in the first three seconds. Her posture—relaxed. Not loose from laziness, but unguarded, like a civilian caught in the wrong hallway of a war. She flinched at the metallic grind of the reinforced door behind her, blinked too much under fluorescents, kept her hands loosely clasped behind her back like she’d been taught not to threaten anyone.
They called her Asset-47, but that wasn’t how she smelled.
The name didn’t fit.
She smelled like lavender.
Not the synthetic kind used in cleaning solution—real lavender. Earthy, pressed, wild. Like summer clinging to the hem of her skin.
His boots thudded dully on the rubber matting. Her gaze tracked him, not like a threat, not like she’d been trained to watch the center of mass for a strike. No. She was curious. Studying. Eyes big and warm, like she still thought there might be something inside him worth seeing.
Stupid girl.
He read her file—what little there was. Subject demonstrated high neuroplasticity. Compatible with Serum trials, subject showed accelerated recovery from Phase 1 trauma conditioning. Emotional compliance maintained, cognitive break pending.
Translation: They hadn’t broken her yet.
Rumlow said she cried during the drills.
He said it like it was a weakness.
The Soldier cataloged it as data. Valuable. Rare. A signal of something not yet erased.
“Asset-47.” His voice didn’t echo here. The room was lined with sound-dampeners, padded walls. The kind used to silence more than acoustics. “Begin stance.”
She moved like someone who wanted to please. Too much softness in the shoulders. Not enough weight in the hips. She braced like a dancer, not a weapon.
He corrected her.
Spoke low. Precise.
Moved behind her, metal hand adjusting the crook of her elbow. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t shy. She looked up.
Smiled.
It was small. Cautious. But real.
“Thank you,” she said.
The Winter Soldier stared down at her, some strange drag in his chest, like memory trying to surface through fog.
He nodded once. That was the end of it.
Day Three
She spoke during drills.
Not with fear. Not resistance. She chatted. Asked him questions.
Did he like the snow? Did he remember music? Did the metal arm hurt when it rained?
He said nothing.
She kept talking.
The softness wasn’t bleeding out of her. Not yet.
Rumlow didn’t like that.
He showed up to observe. Said nothing. Smiled in that way wolves did before teeth. He ordered more sparring. Told the Soldier to “hit harder. She needs to learn what the world feels like.”
So he did.
Not enough to damage—just enough to remind.
But she still thanked him afterward.
Still held out her hand to help him up after he fell in a joint-lock reversal.
“You didn’t have to let me win,” she whispered once, like she believed he had. Like it made her feel guilty.
She didn’t understand.
He wasn’t letting her win. She wasn’t weak.
That’s what scared them.
Day Six
Rumlow ran her through psychological isolation. Twelve hours in sensory whiteout. Then reintroduced her to combat simulation with pain-response triggers. Her hands were shaking. But she didn’t break.
She was quiet when he entered the room. Dark bruises on her ribs. Dried blood at the corner of her mouth. She still greeted him with a nod. Still tried to match his movements when he demonstrated close-quarters disarmament.
He moved slower. Deliberate. Taught her how to breathe through pain.
“How do you know all this?” she asked.
The Soldier didn’t answer. But her voice... it didn’t accuse. Didn’t tremble. It trusted.
He wanted to tell her:
Because I was you.
Day Ten
She stopped speaking.
Rumlow was pleased.
“She’s finally catching on,” he muttered to the Soldier in the hall. “Pretty little thing like that? She’ll be perfect once we bleach the rest of that softness out.”
The Soldier said nothing.
She was broken.
But the scent of lavender still lingered.