–January 1945–
THE AGENTS CROWDED AROUND SOLDAT. All of them were holding batons and tasers, their hands clenched around the weapons for dear life. One of them ran at Soldat, hitting them in the back with the baton, leaving a deep crimson bruise below the hydra branding. At this, Soldat quickly turned around, grabbing the agent's arm and twisting it until the shoulder popped out of the socket, the agent screaming as he fell down onto one knee. He looks at Soldat, breathing heavily. The other agents, most of which are covered in their own blood, or nursing broken bones. One was laying on the ground, unmoving.
"Солдат (Russian: soldier)." A voice calls from behind them. Soldat turns quickly, standing straight up, sweat and blood dripping down their body. The sweat was theirs, the blood was not. The man, Zola, walks over to Soldat, taking her wrist, feeling her pulse. He smiles. "72." He replies, he doesn't sound proud, but he doesn't show any anger this time. He drops her arm, letting it hang back down by her side. He looks Soldat in the eyes, her eyes are cold and calculating, distant, as if she wasn't full there with them. He walks around her, glancing up and down, taking every aspect of her in.
He takes a step back, his hand on his holster. "Status?" He asks, his voice firm. Soldat doesn't react, her eyes glazed over. He stands closer, back-handing her harshly in the face, her head turns back to face him, her eyes slightly disoriented, confused. "Status?" He repeats, his voice deep and foreboding, filled with anger, he grabs her chin roughly, forcing her to look at him. "You will answer me when I talk to you. If I ask a question, you will answer, always."
Soldat looks at him, her eyes meeting his, with a slight recognition in them. "Optimal." She replies, her voice even, lacking any emotion at all. "10 targets neutralised, 1 exterminated." She lists, and Zola smiles slightly.
"Flank me." He replies, his voice back to the cold demeanour, his smile wiped off his face. Soldat quickly walks behind him, her movements perfect, almost to perfect. Almost. Zola does not notice the slight miscalculations in her steps, and if he does, he does not inform her of it, instead he only silently observes as she walks behind him, as her feet gracefully run along the stone floor. In a month, he notices, she has definitely changed from what she was, if she could tell what was happening, he knows that she would be proud of herself, it's a pity that she doesn't.
They quickly walk along the maze of hallways until they get to a small office. Zola opens the door and Soldat walks inside, standing in wait against the wall, her head facing forward, looking just like the perfect soldier Zola had always wanted. Zola walks over to the desk near the window and sits down on the plush armchair before looking up at Soldat, examining her features for any weakness. "Your training is going very well, so I'd like to start a new regime of training for you to go through." He answers, looking at her for a reaction. There isn't one.
"We've put you through all sorts of hand-to-hand, ammunition, the tough training you went through in the military, with some things added in. You are excelling in all of it, so we need to up our game so to speak." He tells her. He leans forward slightly, his elbows leaning against the table as he stares up at her. "Something was stolen from me." His voice is bitter. "I want you to get it, and return it to me."
She looks at him, her eyes cold and calculating. Zola places a file on the table, opening it and showing a picture of a man. The man has short hair, obviously cut by himself. He is slightly thin, looking exhausted, but has a soft smile on his face. "Who is this man?" She asks softly, and Zola's eyes thin at the sudden question. Her face falls, recognising her mistake. "Sorry, sir." She mumbles, looking down, unable to look in his eyes.
Zola stands up before walking over to her, anger growing. "Weapons do not question orders." He replies sternly. "Weapons do not speak unless spoken to." He grabs her arm tightly, causing it to go red. Her face flinches in pain, looking at him, looking broken. "Weapons do not feel pain. Weapons do not feel emotions." He replies, his voice harsh and venomous. "Now, you will do as I say. I am giving you this mission, I expect you not to slip up because weapons don't make mistakes. If you fail, or if you make a mistake, I won't give you these freedoms. So unless you want to be sitting back in the chair—" Her face becomes more fearful. "—you will do exactly as I say."
She nods quickly, gulping. Zola smiles slightly before opening the door to the office. "Get ready." He orders. "Full gear. Mission priority is extraction of the asset with minimal injuries. Eliminate witnesses if possible." He explains. "Make it seem as though the asset had died when extracting in order to stop the possibility of being tracked."
"Understood." Soldat replies quickly, her voice betraying a slight amount of emotion. Zola points to the door and she quickly exits. Soldat walks down the hallway quickly, the hallways dark but not bothering for her enhanced eyesight. She walks with precision, swift. Agents step to the side, leaving a path in the middle to walk down, too scared to get in her way, too scared of the power that they know she holds. She enters into a small room with a single dingy light, glowing a dull red.
The room is basic, with a single old bed with a ratty blanket and a bucket in the corner. On the bottom of the bed is a clean set of clothes folded neatly, fresh and ready for her to put on. She quickly changes into the gear, making sure it is on properly. An agent stands by the door, watching her every move to make sure she doesn't try anything. "Солдат (Russian: soldier)." They say coldly. "Торопиться. Вы бы не хотели, чтобы вертолет улетел без вас. У вас есть только небольшое окно возможностей. (Russian: Hurry up. You wouldn't want the helicopter to leave without you. You only have a small window of opportunity)."
Soldat huffs slightly before following the agent out of the room and back down the winding hallways. She glances at him now and then, but is too scared to say anything, trying to keep up with her expressionless persona that Zola wanted her to have. They walk into a large hangar, a small aircraft is sitting there with the hydra logo on the side, the paint is chipped slightly but Soldat's mind doesn't linger on the thought for any longer than necessary.
Back in Zola's office, the man is watching Soldat as she walks into the aircraft, noticing each micro movement that shouldn't be there. The minor changes in facial expression, the slight hint of fear and hope in her eyes. Zola leans back slightly, his face intoned with a scowl. He switches the view on the screen, showing the inside of a train carriage, looking at the object inside of it. He leans forward, waiting. As he does so, he picks up a different folder he had handed to Soldat, the file still open.. He quickly reads through the key information shown in it.
"Sargeant." He says softly, placing his hand on it. "You can't run from me forever, and you won't. I've sent a little friend to come and greet you and your little team." He smiles slightly, proud of himself. He glances back at the camera, showing a figure gland in black standing in the shadows, ready and waiting, her gun held tightly in her hand. "And old friend." He says to himself.
He looks back at the file, looking at the face staring back at him. He quickly closes it over, the yellow cover showing a red star at the top, and the words: Subject 7 below it. He smirks, standing up and dusting himself off taking a sip of vodka sitting on the table, having been brought to him only moments before. He quickly exits the room and locks the door behind him, going to get something ready for when Soldat arrives back with the asset he had gotten her to receive.