Echoes

Benign

The men surrounding the soldier appeared to be... pleased. They handed the soldier a gun and pointed to a man in the corner, tied up and eyes wild with fear. "Kill him."

The soldier got up from the chair, expressionless. He raised the gun. A small voice in his head pleaded, screamed at him not to shoot. Yet he could not do anything but obey the command he was given.

His arm did not shake nor did his aim falter. Boom. Boom. One shot to kill, one shot to slow down the nervous system. A proper assassin's double shot, ensuring death. Ensuring murder. Inside the soldier's mind, the small part of him that was still there was shocked.

The soldier was no longer a man, but a machine with a helpless conscience along for the ride. He could no longer control his own deeds.  He was a passenger in his own body. It seemed as if the rest of his mind were under a mental quarantine. It was both frustrating, terrifying and absurd at the same time.

The men surrounding the soldier did not seem to know or care if the soldier was still human. If his mind was still human. And if it was, how long would it stay human before turning onto a monster? 

Hydra had no such concerns. They needed only a vessel, a vessel to carry out their deeds. Deeds to shape the future. 

For now, Hydra had an attack dog to train. A weapon. The men surrounding the soldier, pleased with his work, put him back into his casket. And the soldier slept. Slept like a dead man only to wake upon Hydra's to wreak havoc. 

He obeyed their every command. But at even the slightest hesitation to obey his orders, he was beaten and starved like a dog. No food for a bad pet. With each Wipe, the small voice in the soldier's mind grew smaller and smaller. Drowned out by orders and commands. Drowned out by fear.

The soldier's spirit had been broken long before the first Wipe. He could not remember it, of course. He could not even remember his own identity. For after each Wipe, his memories floated away along with the echoes of his screams. 

As he lay there, panting for breath, the words went through his mind again, each syllable a bullet. "Ready to comply," he gasped.

The command was predictable, but the soldier could not remember anything long enough to predict it. "Kill him."

This time he has given neither firearm nor blade. He was given no weapon. The soldier could not hesitate. Every second that flew by with no action was a second against him. It was time recorded as empathy, regret. And the soldier was not allowed to feel this. The soldier was not allowed to feel anything at all. 

The soldier left his chair and advanced towards the hostage. This time the hostage had no gag, and the soldier was hit with his heartbreaking cries. But the soldier could not hesitate. No, for Hydra could not tolerate hesitation. 

The hostage was scrawny and underfed, and his eyes seemed to bulge out of his head. The soldier's metal fingers gripped his neck and lifted him into the air with ease. The hostage's eyes seemed to bulge out of his head even more as he uselessly kicked in the air. The soldier's cold grasp tightened and he mercilessly watched as the life drained out of the hostage's eyes. The body landed on the floor with a thud. 

"Good work soldier."

You are a weapon.