Eyes on Fire

Russian.

Gunshots.

Cursing.

Metal.

Black.

Her eyes snapped open. Head pounding. Teeth chattering. Muscles aching.

Sheets of rain smashed against the windows. Violent winds caused the walls to quiver around her.

Where the hell was she?

A small, dim bulb flickered above her head. It wasn’t nearly enough to illuminate the room, but it gave her just enough light to see the thick nylon rope that concealed her upper arms, wrists, and ankles. They were tightly wrapped around two metal beams on either side of the scratchy, stained mattress her body had been tossed onto. The ropes dug into her fair skin, rubbing it raw.

She swallowed. Blinked. Tugged. Winced. Tugged. Hissed. Tugged. Tugged. Tugged. Tugged. Tugged.

A deep, rage-filled scream ripped through her vocal cords. She fought against the ropes viciously with protesting limbs, continuing even as blood seeped from the lacerations and dripped onto the discolored boxspring beneath her.

“You’re only making it worse.”

In the doorway, he stood, with his metal arm gleaming at her mockingly. He was dressed in the same attire as the last time she’d seen him, but he’d seemed to have showered. His hair was less greasy, his face less scruffy, and the faint scent of something musky - pine or leather, maybe? - wafted into the room.

His eyes, a steely blue, studied her.

“You’re safe here.”

Fuck you, she spat, but her mouth was unable to grasp the concept of speaking so instead, she fixed the man before her with a hostile glare, tugging sharply on the ropes once more. Searing pain stabbed her arms but she continued her struggle, fighting against the restraints fiercely.

His gaze never wavered. She figured he was waiting for her to tire out; that her own exhaustion would take over.

After a solid ten minutes, she was still attacking the ropes with as much relentlessness as before. She tried different tactics, switching between her arms and legs, even attempting to bite her way through the strands. All that had left her with was a sore jaw and a cracked tooth.

“I need information, Veronika.”

It was with sheer fury that she found her voice.

“Go fuck yourself,” She snapped and spit bloody saliva at his feet. “You Hydra piece of—”

His hand was around her throat before she could finish her insult.

“Не связывать меня с ними, Вероника,” He hissed, pressing the bionic palm into her windpipe. His knees were on either side of her hips. His other hand was crushing the bottom of her skull at the base of her neck.

One twist.

Dead.

His voice lowered. “У меня есть вопросы, которые будут ответил или вы не будете выходить отсюда живым.”

“I’m not—” She croaked beneath the weight of his hand. Save your breath, an urgent voice warned her. She refused. “—telling you anything.”

Seconds passed.

Spots blurred her vision as she clawed at his metal ligament.

Spit pooled at the corners of her lips.

Her mind was static.

Her body was numb.

She was dying.

And then it was gone.

His eyes had shut. His hands had pulled away. His shoulders had fallen.

Standing, he allowed her to recover from his constricting hold. She choked down air, wheezing as it entered her airways with slight delay, and dropped her head. She could practically feel the bruises beginning to form.

When she looked at him again, he cradled a knife in his hand.

Somber, imploring eyes met hers.

“Please don’t make me do this.”

And, in the middle of a dark room, with her body bound by ropes and some psychotic Hydra agent holding her captive, she knew that she had heard the voice of a broken man.

And then darkness consumed her.



When she woke again, the ropes were gone. In their place were white bandages, seeping with the crimson reminder of her failed escape. She rolled her wrists, wincing at the stiffness and aching in her bones. Her throat felt like it was weighted with chains, and turning her head seemed to be too difficult of a task.

Bastard.

The room had considerably brightened since her last bout of consciousness. A small, iron-plated window on the opposite wall was seeping in a faint light, but she couldn’t imagine that the sun was out. The sound of soft raindrops drumming against the roof suggested that a storm was underway.

Standing slowly, she limped on sore ankles towards the small window. The skies were a dozen different shades of gray, she observed, and the surrounding area was heavily wooded with tall grass and thick foliage.

Wherever she was, it was most definitely off the grid.

“You should rest,” His approach was quiet and his voice was deep. She felt like jumping out of her skin. “You have a mild concussion.”

Her lips twitched into a bitter smirk. “Thanks for the concern,” She turned slowly, catching sight of his studying gaze, before shuffling back to the sullied cot. She could feel his eyes on her, beating into the back of her neck and scorching the skin like a sun beam. “Where are we?”

“What does Hydra want with you?”

The questions shot out of their mouths simultaneously. His eyes narrowed, and she challenged him with a quirk of her brow. “I asked first,” She snarked, leaning against the worn bedding.

“Upstate New York.”

“What’s your arm made of?”

“Vibranium and titanium alloy,” He frowned, seemingly displeased with the fact that he let his answer slip. “What does Hydra want with you?”

She shrugged. “Are you going to kill me?”

“Answer the question and you’ll find out.”

She sighed, tauntingly. “You’re not very good at interrogating, are you?”

“No,” His lips curled into a dark grin as he stepped further into the small room. “I’m much better at torture.”

She swallowed, realizing her mistake. Regardless of how pissed she was that he’d knocked her unconscious - twice - or that she was perfectly capable of holding her own against Hydra agents, she failed to keep in mind that this man was much more than a simple agent. He was a loose-cannon; a malfunctioning machine. He was dangerous.

Seizing hold of her bruised and swollen wrist, he ripped her up from the mattress with little effort. She was dragged along, not without plenty of reluctance, through the door and into a dimly-lit hallway. She was amazed that he even fit between the walls, having such broad shoulders in such a narrow space.

“Look,” She grunted, fighting against the man’s bionic arm. He didn’t slow in the slightest. “I don’t know what Hydra wants with me, alright? You must have the wrong person.”

“Hydra doesn’t make mistakes,” He growled, eyeing her from behind a curtain of dark hair as he ambled through the hall. “They want you for a reason.”

Before she could formulate a logical response, he’d already reached what seemed to be the entrance to the house...if it even was a house. His hand shot out, twisting the knob violently, before nearly ripping the front door off its hinges. Outside, it was obvious the storm would soon be making an appearance. The rain and wind had picked up dramatically, nearly knocking the exhausted woman to her knees. What the hell did he have in mind?

“What the hell are you doing?” She yelled over the storm’s symphony, shaking loose, damp tendrils of auburn hair from her face. “I told you I don’t fucking know anything!”

Whipping around, his dark hair dripping down the front of his lips, he gazed at her with what she assumed was his most hostile expression. “Don’t fucking lie to me!” He had a knife against her throat as the last of his words died in a burst of booming thunder. “What did you do? Why do they want you?”

She blinked, freezing against the weapon.

“Either you tell me,” He spat, pressing the blade deeper against her jugular. “Or I slit your throat and leave the rain to clean up my mess.”

As the knife inched deeper into her neck, and blood seeped into the crevasse between her breasts, and the rain flowed from the sky, she contemplated which was worse: betrayal or death?

She decided death, especially by the man with dead eyes and a metal arm.

“My father,” She croaked, her eyes falling shut. “They want me because of my father.”