[Rumlow himself stayed exactly where he was, still and mostly silent. He had walked in the memories of a few people before this, had been thankful his own damning ones hadn't shown up, but now he was trapped in one that was very damning. He knew what was coming, knew how this lesson ended for him and for Rollins. The other two men - boys at that time - were long dead now, killed on missions but they too had learned the important lessons here. They had never betrayed who and what they were.
And here he was trapped between old memories and the storm that would surely kill him if he ventured out into. He chose the logical choice: he stayed with his memory, aware that it would damn him on some levels.
Yet, the beating continued because Rollins at that time had been an angry thug, willing to punch a man to death if he had to. He was less so interested in that kind of physical show; at that age, he liked knives and guns more. He certainly could hold his own in a fight, but he preferred the blood. This entire exercise had been a surprise them all, thrown on them when they had been about to head out for the weekend. Instead, this was how they had spent it.
Her question cut into him, and he twitched where he lay, eyes fixed on the man swinging from the chains. There were others in the room; this was the 'interrogation' room for a reason.] ...two days after my twentieth birthday. We were going to go to celebrate...
[It was more information than he normally would volunteer, but the scene sent him right back there. Young, fresh-faced and eager, but he wasn't all obedient either. He had grown up rough, had always questioned what he couldn't control, and the chip on his shoulder hadn't entirely been knocked off yet. This had been a day when he had learned a very, very important lesson on hierarchy and on the order that came with pain. He had been given a very firm lesson on it.
Young Rumlow gulped when he was indicated for the next session of a beating. Again, he wasn't opposed, but it seemed... unnecessary. Their traitorous victim was unconscious. So he dared to question. "Are you certain, sir? He's not conscious anymore."
Rollins shot him a withering look, like he didn't have the balls to beat an unconscious man. However, their mentor turned to regard him, considered his question for a moment in a calmness that hid below it the deeply sadistic man he was. "You are correct. He's unconscious, and there is still so many people to deal with in regards to his transgressions. We will have to wait until he is awake."
Young Rumlow hid his triumph with a sharp nod, but he wasn't so experienced at it when he was twenty. That would come later.
"Remove your jacket and shirt, Private Rumlow," his mentor said blandly, as if disinterested. He hesitated for only a second, but it was a second too long. His mentor snarled, shifting from passive to aggressive in an instance. "NOW, PRIVATE!"
He was out of his jacket and shirt in record time, but it was still too long. Within seconds, his mentor backhanded him across the face, sending him to the floor. "Cuff him up in front of the traitor. Each of you learns a lesson today," his mentor said. Rollins cuffed him and the combined effort of all three hauled him up to hand. His cheek was already swelling from the blow, but he snarled like a feral dog.
His mentor cooed low and soft, as if taming the wild beast. "Easy, now. I'm going to teach you a lesson you can understand, Rumlow. Feral street boy that you are, there are rules, are there not?" His mentor walked away to pick up long piece of metal, clearly an old metal coat hanger and set it to a fire's embers. "Pimps can't damage their goods, so they use very specific tools to teach lessons. You know them, yes?"
"...yes, sir."
"Good. I'm going to teach you a very simple principle: order in pain."
Rumlow touched Ava on the arm, clearing his throat a little. She probably shouldn't watch this, even if he knew she had been through Hell herself.] ...you should cover your ears. This... ain't pretty.
no subject
And here he was trapped between old memories and the storm that would surely kill him if he ventured out into. He chose the logical choice: he stayed with his memory, aware that it would damn him on some levels.
Yet, the beating continued because Rollins at that time had been an angry thug, willing to punch a man to death if he had to. He was less so interested in that kind of physical show; at that age, he liked knives and guns more. He certainly could hold his own in a fight, but he preferred the blood. This entire exercise had been a surprise them all, thrown on them when they had been about to head out for the weekend. Instead, this was how they had spent it.
Her question cut into him, and he twitched where he lay, eyes fixed on the man swinging from the chains. There were others in the room; this was the 'interrogation' room for a reason.] ...two days after my twentieth birthday. We were going to go to celebrate...
[It was more information than he normally would volunteer, but the scene sent him right back there. Young, fresh-faced and eager, but he wasn't all obedient either. He had grown up rough, had always questioned what he couldn't control, and the chip on his shoulder hadn't entirely been knocked off yet. This had been a day when he had learned a very, very important lesson on hierarchy and on the order that came with pain. He had been given a very firm lesson on it.
Young Rumlow gulped when he was indicated for the next session of a beating. Again, he wasn't opposed, but it seemed... unnecessary. Their traitorous victim was unconscious. So he dared to question. "Are you certain, sir? He's not conscious anymore."
Rollins shot him a withering look, like he didn't have the balls to beat an unconscious man. However, their mentor turned to regard him, considered his question for a moment in a calmness that hid below it the deeply sadistic man he was. "You are correct. He's unconscious, and there is still so many people to deal with in regards to his transgressions. We will have to wait until he is awake."
Young Rumlow hid his triumph with a sharp nod, but he wasn't so experienced at it when he was twenty. That would come later.
"Remove your jacket and shirt, Private Rumlow," his mentor said blandly, as if disinterested. He hesitated for only a second, but it was a second too long. His mentor snarled, shifting from passive to aggressive in an instance. "NOW, PRIVATE!"
He was out of his jacket and shirt in record time, but it was still too long. Within seconds, his mentor backhanded him across the face, sending him to the floor. "Cuff him up in front of the traitor. Each of you learns a lesson today," his mentor said. Rollins cuffed him and the combined effort of all three hauled him up to hand. His cheek was already swelling from the blow, but he snarled like a feral dog.
His mentor cooed low and soft, as if taming the wild beast. "Easy, now. I'm going to teach you a lesson you can understand, Rumlow. Feral street boy that you are, there are rules, are there not?" His mentor walked away to pick up long piece of metal, clearly an old metal coat hanger and set it to a fire's embers. "Pimps can't damage their goods, so they use very specific tools to teach lessons. You know them, yes?"
"...yes, sir."
"Good. I'm going to teach you a very simple principle: order in pain."
Rumlow touched Ava on the arm, clearing his throat a little. She probably shouldn't watch this, even if he knew she had been through Hell herself.] ...you should cover your ears. This... ain't pretty.