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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.
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.
no subject
Date: 2021-05-18 02:58 pm (UTC)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?
no subject
Date: 2021-05-27 11:52 am (UTC)[ 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?