𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋 | 𝐚 𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐥 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲

𝟎𝟔. 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐦

𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇 the dust that filled the air was minimal, Rumlow felt like he was suffocating when the ceiling had collapsed. His eyes played tricks on him as all the walls caved in and suddenly he was back on the forty-first floor of the Triskelion, rapidly falling back toward ground level. He could feel the phantom weight of his ribs cracking under the weight of the concrete crushing his chest.

He could hear the last words he'd spoken just before the incident, ringing through his head like a sign of bad karma. "This is gonna hurt. There are no prisoners with HYDRA, just order, and order only comes through pain. Are you ready for yours?" The word 'pain' was repeated over and over again in his mind, ringing against his skull. His eyelids were closed tight, but it did nothing to block out the sound of his thoughts.

His breathing grew rapid and thin, making it even harder to breathe. His hands gravitated towards his throat, pulling at the collar of his shirt as if it were strangling him. He needed a way out, so when the dust cleared and he saw an opening, he took it.

It sounded like he escaped the prison block just in the knick of time as a tumultuous roar shook the very ground he stood on. Although he had yet to meet the Hulk in person, he'd heard enough rumors to know it was better if he never did.

His feet carried him backward even though his mind screamed at him to stop being such a coward. He only stopped moving when he met a force that interrupted his own. He turned around, scrambling for an explanation, but it was the helmet held in his superior's hands that kept his mouth sealed shut.

The Skull hadn't shown his face to anyone within the organization aside from his own family. Whispers had filtered through the air of what the man might look like beneath his mask. Rumlow least of all expected to find a distinguished gentleman; however, the sick grin the formed on the Skull's face made him rethink the description 'distinguished'. He'd too easily allowed his darker side to show as he motioned for Rumlow to follow, aiding in the abandonment of their own troops.

"Our agents—"

"Are capable of handling themselves," the Skull interrupted, barely casting a glance back over his shoulder. It was clear the Skull had no intention of turning back, nor did he encourage Rumlow to do so either. Realizing his options were courage and survival, he elected to live by the latter. He'd tried the first option and the scars on his face revealed how that had gone.

The walk was silent between the two, but his thoughts were loud enough to compensate for the lack of conversation. However, it was unbearable and he risked his superior's wrath, implicitly pleading for another voice aside from his own. "Where are we headed?"

"The Red Queen has arranged for our relocation," the Skull casually explained. Considering the mask was still at his side, rather than covering his face, Rumlow assumed that something had changed. The Skull seemed to notice the inquisitive look on the soldier's face and answered the unspoken question. "I knew there was something special about you from the moment I saw your mangled face."

Rumlow frowned, assuming the statement had been an insult. The Skull shook his head to correct the misunderstanding. "I've been told you had quite the complexion before the accident... But I'm more a fan of what followed. There was this deep-seated anger contained within your very soul."

"My soul, huh?" Rumlow scoffed, muttering under his breath. He was quickly losing respect for the man beside him, seeing him as just that: a man.

The Skull nodded his head. "Your screams of agony tore through the medical ward during the first week, but something changed. Your anguish was suddenly more than just pain. I could see a desire in you for revenge. Now that is the kind of man that I can work with, and man that knows what he wants. So tell me, Agent Rumlow..."