thread;; one night in high town; podchinyatsya

[helmut]

[ madripoor is just as zemo remembers it: in sight and smell, in the feeling too, the charged, frenetic energy that floods the neon-lit streets, suspended like ocean between high rises, street markets, and lofts with open floor plans. it demands one's energy and one's mind, sucks in those with ambition either to build them up or spit them out.

that's what happens in a town like this. madripoor's pirates' roots are still exposed, a modern day port royal in a silicon age of piracy. it stands as some kind of relic, in defiance of god and the rule of law, where respect goes only as far as clout and money can buy.

thankfully, zemo is in a position to purchase what he needs in either currency. outfitting his companions is as enjoyable as it is useful, zemo taking his time on the hours-long flight to select each piece himself - from the smiling tiger's beaded necklace to the winter soldier's buckled harness.

ah, the harness. it's the crown jewel of james' persona, the one piece that telegraphs everything one needs to know about him: that this is a weapon whose power is deadly - and controlled by one man. it's also the first piece that comes off in sharon carter's high town penthouse. it's a shame when it does, zemo's eyes roving across james' back and shoulders, over the edge of a crystal glass. he takes a long inhale of the scotch he’s poured himself as he watches, leaned back against a wide walnut dresser, taking a sip only when james turns and catches his eye in the warm, dim light.

though they're a couple of meters apart, zemo's sure of what he sees there - the blue of the man's eyes have darkened beyond what light will naturally do. the flickers he sees as the winter soldier's coat gets shed are ones zemo knows instinctively as the roil of resentment, anger, regret.

zemo knows because he's felt that sickening wave himself before. many times, following successful operations.

he takes another pull of the scotch, lets it sit and expand on his tongue before swallowing.

in the next room, sharon and sam speak in low, neutral tones. familiar, but wary. nothing exciting yet. it means zemo has a moment here to press this sliver of an opening to see what it yields. he's unable - or unwilling - to do anything less.

he lowers his glass. ]

You gave quite an impressive performance at the bar. Violent, efficient. I would expect nothing less from a man of your abilities. [ he might sound mocking, but zemo means it honestly. he gives a small nod of appreciation and lets the fresh memory of the incident curl the corners of his mouth upward just barely. ] To watch you is a rare gift.

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[helmut]

[ there are better methods than these, surely, to soothe the mind of the savage beast. gentler methods, perhaps more nurturing ones, but zemo has seen the version of james barnes that he would rather deny exist than embrace. that is not a man that looks to be nurtured. that's one that longs to be acknowledged.

still, zemo's aim is hardly to knock the man off his feet. james's stability, while questionable, benefits them all, and to take it from him jeopardizes not only their safety, but the success of the mission.

but what he sees, in flashes of darkness and angst, is something zemo can't bear to let go of. like pulling on a loose thread, james' crisis of identity is something zemo longs to help unravel. and maybe, if he's careful, he can help james gather it back up again, form him into something new.

before he realizes what's happening, james is advancing on him, weight pitched forward, low. he's on zemo in a blink, and while generally he takes pride in his ability to school his reactions, he can't help the way his spine straightens, eyes widening in excited fear. the breaths he takes are quick, but his gaze hardens in the moment before he moves his head to very obviously give james another once over.

even if james can strike animal fear into him, zemo is still master over his own person. his chin lifts minutely and after a moment of consideration, nods. ]

I think you expected agony. The same pain that follows you into every dream and nightmare. But you did not find it, did you?

[ there's a challenge there that zemo knows is testing the limits of james' self control. if only he were capable of stopping himself. his voice grows more rough as the pupils dilate. ]

It was convenient. Too convenient. And that's what troubles you.

[podchinyatsya]

[ For the briefest of moments, Bucky's force of presence has the intended reaction and he revels in it: fear. The subtle way Zemo's muscles tighten, brain shouting to run or prepare to fight for survival; increased respiration, advancing oxygen to a body that needs clarity for speed of reaction.

Zemo keeps examining him and Bucky nearly screams to demand what the man finds lacking, what deep epiphanies he finds inscribed on a war-forged body. Bucky's lips press into a thin, angry line, one eye twitching as he struggles to maintain control over his temper. If he were a kettle, the rolling boil would be growing into a progressively louder whistle.

He clenches his fist as tightly as it can possibly allow to keep from wrapping his fingers around Zemo's throat. But he doesn't have the ability to keep from pushing further in, looming to test the man's mettle. ]

You don't know anything about me.

[ It's a lie, and he knows it when he articulates the words low and dangerous. At best it is wishful thinking, a mantra he could conjure into reality if he said it enough. But Zemo does know. He knows too much, and there's a lingering truth between them that simply cannot be given articulation: that violence, that brutality? Bucky had enjoyed it. ]

[helmut]

[ while certainly part of an act, james' size and presence exude precariousness and danger. it's enough to keep zemo's heart beating at a rapid clip, but whether that pounding comes from fear or arousal, it's hard to tell. impossible to pull the two apart now. zemo's not sure he minds.

he's also not sure he minds that james can read this, able to identify the stink of fear on him like a belgian malinois. a barely contained police dog, straining at the end of his leash, jaws snapping just short of zemo's throat.

but while zemo enjoys the rush of adrenaline that accompanies the danger of being throttled, the energy in the room could stand to turn down a degree or two. so he softens his voice, more intent on cutting to the truth rather than rattling it loose from james' mind. ]

Don't I? [ he murmurs, brows raising. ] Just as you don't know anything about me, having read whatever you could find before appearing at my cell. You have me well diagnosed, don't you? Some silver spoon dilettante, mentally and emotionally unstable after the horrors he's wrought in wartime. Unwell, crazy, even. Tell me, do I fit the profile?

[podchinyatsya]

[ Zemo is spoiled, pampered by wealth and his nobility. Perhaps not a dilettante, but someone who is used to being treated a step above other classes. But it's all a smokescreen, something flashy to distract from the hardened mercenary beneath, and Bucky's not fooled by it (even if he can enjoy the spoils of that very wealth).

A snarl that pretends to be a smile tugs at his lips, hinting at the fangs beneath. ]

You're no soft rich-boy. Unwell maybe. Crazy, definitely.

[ He rakes his own eyes finally over Zemo's frame, taking in the tailored clothing and the wrinkles in his finely-pressed shirt from where the gun holster had once sat fastened. Something pretty can be its own sort of weapon, a diversion of the eyes to offset one's guard. He won't kid himself with Zemo's flamboyance-- the man is dangerous, calculating.

And it's all the more deadly when someone has nothing left to lose. Without a family, Zemo is a one-man kamikaze, laser-focused on his target and utterly unassailable. ]

Your body count isn't as high as mine, but I know what you're capable of.

[helmut]

[ while manipulation isn't exactly his usual modus operandi, there's a certain satisfaction to be had when it's done successfully. when zemo lowers bait into the cage and the chained lion takes a lunge at it, as predicted. it happens now, as zemo makes himself seem vulnerable and seen. but even so, he can't help the knowing smirk that plays on his mouth, nodding in agreement with james' read on him.

and he'll let himself be physically seen too, james' eyes passing over him. he's being analyzed right back. james probably wants a read on his state of mind, unable to find it elsewhere. ]

I may not have lived as long as you have, but my crimes are likely as... [ here zemo rolls the wrist of his free hand, as though conjuring the phrase he's looking for, ] 'off the record' as yours are. On behalf of my country, of course.

[ but this is not the time to compare kill counts. and zemo's pride hardly lies in the number of people whose lives he's ended. likely james' pride doesn't either. only his guilt. ]

You know what that means, right? It means we have each seen things that will stay with us until we take our last breaths. That I know what it's like to cause fear. It also means that I know the look of a man who has skirted too closely to the precipice and has remembered what it feels like to be exposed.

[ zemo nods, like he's certain of the conclusion he's drawn. his voice softens. ]

There should be no shame in feeling pride in what you can do.

[podchinyatsya]

Pride?

[ The predator bares its fangs, his mind reeling at how Zemo could compare them, how he could possibly think his mercenary tactics would parallel to anything the Winter Soldier did. Nostrils flaring and eyes blazing, Bucky barely keeps his fists at his side. ]

You killed because you wanted to.

[ He didn't have that luxury, didn't have the capacity for choice. Whatever husk they made him out to be could never even conceive of disobedience. The punishment was too severe.

But here Zemo stands assured, firm on his self-righteousness, acting as if they're anything alike. As if Bucky decided to murder people wholesale. As if he furthered some noble cause.

As if the nightmares don't come for him every day. Bucky seethes, searching Zemo's face to try and discern his ulterior motives here. Is he trying to gain sympathy, or solidarity? Is he trying to ease Bucky's guilt in his own skewed way? What's the goal here? That feels more disorienting than the assessments themselves. ]

[helmut]

[ finally, something to give zemo pause.

not that james is right, because he isn't. zemo often labors under misrepresentations of who he is, and for the most part, it can work to his advantage. 'crazy.' that's a label that simply means others find him unpredictable. that his motivations are carefully concealed, all by design. but here, now, with james clearly struggling for purchase and in need of solid land to plant his feet, it isn't a classification he has any desire to argue with.

weren't they both soldiers, once? soldiers with orders, with duties to carry out. there is no arguing in the army, and moral grandstanding is grounds for discharge. or worse.

all zemo can do is shake his head, brow furrowed. ]

And did you hurt these men because you wanted to? Or because you thought I wanted you to?

[podchinyatsya]

[ Ah but it would be too convenient to pretend he was merely a pawn of his superiors, wouldn't it? Zemo must know that his personal hit squad wasn't subject to such oversight, to the whims of governments or politicians. That's likely the primary reason for its formation, in fact.

Unlike most men, Bucky knows what it is to follow orders because it's your duty, and also because you are forced. Perhaps there wasn't as much in the HYDRA literature about just how much arguing Bucky did in those early days with the Soviets, once his fractured memory started to heal. It wouldn't look as good as recording all the successes in breaking him, the lengthy process of hollowing a man. The Soviet regime was nothing if not a propagandist powerhouse.

At any rate-- ]

Did you forget the part where you told me to attack them, or am I suddenly making up the whole "act like the Winter Soldier so they let us in the bar" thing?

[helmut]

"Act like the Winter Soldier in order for us to get close to Selby," more like, but this is a distinction based on semantics and probably not worth debating.

[ he's stalling. whatever comparisons he's drawing between himself and james are too unpalatable to begin to imagine.

for months, in the dark of drab, rented flats or safehouses across europe and america, all zemo had was the work. in the unnatural blue light of his laptop screen, zemo first found a familiar target - the winter soldier - but quickly that target evolved. with every SHEILD file decrypted, every scrap of intel added to zemo's ever-growing folder, a portrait began to emerge: not a weapon, a soldier, or even a prisoner. just a man. a man who once had a home, a family and future, stripped of everything in a series of unlucky dice throws. what zemo produced from his research was a man he could connect with, one whose scant similarities felt like purposeful echoes.

both with happy childhoods. soldiers. men with families. and then all hope taken, a life upended in one moment.

james can't stand to imagine their similarities, but zemo can't bear to let them go.

it's just as well. perhaps the gulf between them will only widen throughout the mission rather than narrow as zemo anticipated. or hoped.

well. never hurts to try. even if the attempt gets him killed. he lowers his drink. ]

You never answered my question. What did it feel like to pull the shadow back on like a mask?