It’s loud even with a silencer – sharp cracks like branches breaking in winter – but not deafening. Dragomirov drops to his knees. His body balances upright for a moment, genuflecting to the ice Madonna, then tips forward onto the carpet.
“Jesus! What the fuck!” Kildare gapes at the corpse. The left side of his face is flecked with red mist, and his fear of the soldier is forgotten as he clutches it, half-hiding behind its mass. The asset is absolutely still.
Hodges and a couple of the others sober enough to react are at full alert. It won’t matter. The half dozen men take their cue from their leader, Schwartz, looking grim but not alarmed behind Brock’s shoulder, but Kildare is losing it. He just saw Dragomirov’s face explode, blossom into a red garden of exit wounds. Under the blood spray he’s a horrified white. Above him the Madonna screams and weeps in effigy.
There’s an odd twist in Brock’s chest. “He knew better than to throw in with those fucking fake contractors, to fall for easy bait,” he snaps, feeling unexpectedly bereft. “Tracked bait. Stupid. Wasteful. He knew better, goddammit. Dragomirov shed blood with us. For us. Not like you.”
Kildare’s pale face floods with understanding. “Rumlow… no, Brock, listen-”
“Shut up.” He points to Kildare with the gun. Kildare flinches, but Brock hands the pistol back to Schwartz. “I get it, kid. Hard life, easy money. And more experienced, senior agents already on the take? Well, shit. What else are you supposed to do, college boy? It’s almost enough to make you think you could fool HYDRA, or rob us. Or leave. Except,” and he can’t disguise his contempt, “you knew what this was when you picked it up.”
He turns his back on them and walks out. Schwartz is already gone.
“Liar!” Kildare sobs, furious. “Liars and bullshit doublethink artists!” They all knew what this was. No one leaves HYDRA.
As Brock steps past the reinforced door, he snuffs his cigarette against the threshold and commands, “Soldat.”
Its heavy slate-blue stare rolls to Rumlow, confused to glacial in less than a breath. Doubt crystallizes into hard fractals, and the asset goes from perfumed background furniture to the center of gravity. The monster is awake. Ready to comply.
Brock says, “Rip ‘em up.”
The soldier’s anchor tears from its base like a chain made of foil. Filigreed wallpaper erupts in discharge of splinters and Sheetrock powder. Three of the damned STRIKE agents are already at full run, but it won’t matter. It won’t matter. Brock doesn’t stay to watch, and the vault behind him seals shut on a scream.
And if, for a moment before the slaughter, the asset meets his gaze as clear and as lucid as if they were old friends mid-conversation, and its eyes narrow in a cold promise, well.
It’s something Brock can worry about later.
Whuk-whuk-whuk. His heart beats like chopper blades, keeping him suspended over the void.
Re: Up Close Ache 5.12/5+1
“Jesus! What the fuck!” Kildare gapes at the corpse. The left side of his face is flecked with red mist, and his fear of the soldier is forgotten as he clutches it, half-hiding behind its mass. The asset is absolutely still.
Hodges and a couple of the others sober enough to react are at full alert. It won’t matter. The half dozen men take their cue from their leader, Schwartz, looking grim but not alarmed behind Brock’s shoulder, but Kildare is losing it. He just saw Dragomirov’s face explode, blossom into a red garden of exit wounds. Under the blood spray he’s a horrified white. Above him the Madonna screams and weeps in effigy.
There’s an odd twist in Brock’s chest. “He knew better than to throw in with those fucking fake contractors, to fall for easy bait,” he snaps, feeling unexpectedly bereft. “Tracked bait. Stupid. Wasteful. He knew better, goddammit. Dragomirov shed blood with us. For us. Not like you.”
Kildare’s pale face floods with understanding. “Rumlow… no, Brock, listen-”
“Shut up.” He points to Kildare with the gun. Kildare flinches, but Brock hands the pistol back to Schwartz. “I get it, kid. Hard life, easy money. And more experienced, senior agents already on the take? Well, shit. What else are you supposed to do, college boy? It’s almost enough to make you think you could fool HYDRA, or rob us. Or leave. Except,” and he can’t disguise his contempt, “you knew what this was when you picked it up.”
He turns his back on them and walks out. Schwartz is already gone.
“Liar!” Kildare sobs, furious. “Liars and bullshit doublethink artists!” They all knew what this was. No one leaves HYDRA.
As Brock steps past the reinforced door, he snuffs his cigarette against the threshold and commands, “Soldat.”
Its heavy slate-blue stare rolls to Rumlow, confused to glacial in less than a breath. Doubt crystallizes into hard fractals, and the asset goes from perfumed background furniture to the center of gravity. The monster is awake. Ready to comply.
Brock says, “Rip ‘em up.”
The soldier’s anchor tears from its base like a chain made of foil. Filigreed wallpaper erupts in discharge of splinters and Sheetrock powder. Three of the damned STRIKE agents are already at full run, but it won’t matter. It won’t matter. Brock doesn’t stay to watch, and the vault behind him seals shut on a scream.
And if, for a moment before the slaughter, the asset meets his gaze as clear and as lucid as if they were old friends mid-conversation, and its eyes narrow in a cold promise, well.
It’s something Brock can worry about later.
Whuk-whuk-whuk. His heart beats like chopper blades, keeping him suspended over the void.
###
end part 5