[ it isn't the thoughts that are any kind of new to andyr. it's the lack of fight. since his second year in hapsburg, since he'd given up the person he was and decided to turn himself into something else, this sort of thing had been fuel to him. the more they did to him, the more certain he was that he wouldn't be getting out, the more hope that was crushed for ever being anything but in pain and suffering, that more fiercely it burned in him to create a nightmare. spill blood and make anyone who passed his cell shake as they met his eyes. even with what lack of self-preservation he'd had, it'd kept andyr able to endure, pick himself up, and throw himself at that steel wall a few more times. he'd understand that in bucky - you don't have to be happy, or even believe you'll reach a future that's any kind of better to continue living. after all, as much as andyr bitched at people like miray for giving up on fighting back, andyr'd never believed he'd be free of this place himself.
what this pool has done is sapped that from him - the pure fury in him that would burn like it's own life force, to push him up and take his hands to another throat, to cruelly twist. left him as that seventeen year old, bleeding and broken and violated, curled up under foreign sheets and unable to comprehend how he could possibly draw another breath in a place like this, or what the point of it would even be. hope is something he'd lost a long time ago. what he's lacking now is the rage he uses in place of it.
thus, his hands don't go to bucky's throat, no fight left in him, when he's lying on the ground, aware of the towel draped over him but ignoring it. instead, he's just watching him, distantly, and knows, somewhere in his mind, that this must be the one steve and alva told him about. the clone that isn't a clone. but looking at him now, the sorrow in his eyes, the metal arm burned into his shoulder, skin melded to grotesque tech, he looks just the same as any of the other military augmented iterations of himself he'd seen produced. another piece of him dragged out from under his skin and turned into another mindless weapon. ]
The fuck do you know about what's me? [ andyr's pushing out, through a throat rasped from coughing up water, though making no move to be any more combative than that, rolling onto his stomach to start pushing himself up, enough to crawl back to the pile of clothes he'd left not far away. ] If you had half a brain left to know what's coming, you'd be down there with me.
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what this pool has done is sapped that from him - the pure fury in him that would burn like it's own life force, to push him up and take his hands to another throat, to cruelly twist. left him as that seventeen year old, bleeding and broken and violated, curled up under foreign sheets and unable to comprehend how he could possibly draw another breath in a place like this, or what the point of it would even be. hope is something he'd lost a long time ago. what he's lacking now is the rage he uses in place of it.
thus, his hands don't go to bucky's throat, no fight left in him, when he's lying on the ground, aware of the towel draped over him but ignoring it. instead, he's just watching him, distantly, and knows, somewhere in his mind, that this must be the one steve and alva told him about. the clone that isn't a clone. but looking at him now, the sorrow in his eyes, the metal arm burned into his shoulder, skin melded to grotesque tech, he looks just the same as any of the other military augmented iterations of himself he'd seen produced. another piece of him dragged out from under his skin and turned into another mindless weapon. ]
The fuck do you know about what's me? [ andyr's pushing out, through a throat rasped from coughing up water, though making no move to be any more combative than that, rolling onto his stomach to start pushing himself up, enough to crawl back to the pile of clothes he'd left not far away. ] If you had half a brain left to know what's coming, you'd be down there with me.