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She has lost enough people and thinks it is all her fault?
Disgusted at her own survival- makes her cynical somehow.
Waiting, waiting for her final chance to not survive.
Has survived a lot and pulled through. Apparently fate or whomever isn't finished yet.
Just has to wait.
[+blue Use the word 'invasion', 'invaded', 'invasive' as a triggering term for Gweniviere.
[I Invaded] by the man who stabbed her.
[I Invasion] of emotions due to this or that.
[I Invasive] feeling of lack of control over herself.]
[B ANOTHER IDEA ]
[I Lack of control is a trigger for neurotic, psychological stress? This could lead to a nervous breakdown. Gweniviere is not perfect- if you consider EVERYTHING you have put her through would make her quite unstable.]
Gweniviere would have to have had at least a couple of those.
I can imagine at least Loki would trigger one eventually.
LIKELY END would be Gweniviere having another trembling, shuddering bout and would immediately remove herself from the situation and go to her office to go sit through the nervous breakdown.
[B Dramatic Reenactment]
[I set the scene:
Board room, discussion happening. Someone says something?
All seated save for officers standing around at the walls. Gweniviere is standing. standing next to her?]
Gweniviere felt the sudden loss of the strength in her hands, one crossed across her torso and the other instinctually gripped the edge of her collar. Her breath hissed in once as she felt the tilt of her vision and her eyes stretch wide. From the conference going on Gweniviere dropped her eyes to the floor.
"[B Sind sie gut, Herr Leutnant? ]" came a distant, quiet, expectant question from someone who was seated at the table.
Gweniviere's head twitched to the side before she stopped the shake of her head, not moving her eyes from the floor. She cleared her throat quietly to prepare herself for speaking in a relatively firm tone, "[B Entschuldigen sie mich. ]" she murmured before turning and promptly ducking from the room.
Once outside she walked down the hall a few feet before stopping and planting her back to the wall. Her breathing was now uncontrolled, bordering on hyperventilation, and she pulled the respirator from her mouth. She slipped her hand over her mouth as she heard the door open again behind her and she turned to avoid the person and went to her office.
Once there she locked the door and stopped in the middle of the large, brightly lit room. Silence aside from her own breathing now stressed and wheezing more than usual, now light and barely squeaking. Gweniviere pulled her hat from her head and threw it towards the desk as if electrified and, in a growing state of neurotic overload, she pulled the mask from her throat and tossed it similarly.
She was now hyperventilating as she leaned down and leaned her hands on her knees, running her fingers through her hair as a last ditch effort to calm herself down before in the solitude of her office Gweniviere knelt down and leaned her arms on the floor, sobbing. Gasping, fearful draws broken off by a failing control of herself. She then covered her head, trying to calm down again.
She had been through this before. This wasn't new. But the shocking horror of the length of the time between now and the last one was making her panic some.
[+red Horror and reluctance at the very thought of closeness with another person? Make it someone specific? She would of course be entirely mortified at the prospect of being close to someone. Or wat? What else?]
She had a dream. It almost felt like a premonition somehow with how vivid it felt. It had awoken her with a start and the remaining heated pulsation of the emotion. The only thing she recalled was turning around and feeling cold fingers pull down her mask, a flash of an eye color she couldn’t recall and the feeling of someone pressing their lips against hers. Now awake she shot up straight in bed and caused Thomas to give her a sharp meow in protest as she disturbed him. It was a childish dream. Like the ones she used to have as a hormonal teenager when she still had fantasies about young men who would come and sweep her off her feet. That was the norm when she was an adolescent.
But now this entirely unexpected encroachment of such a dream upon her ‘older’ self was both horrifying and nervous for her. The very feeling of closeness with another person made her skin crawl neurotically. Gweniviere sighed and ran her fingers through her hair, shaking her head and rubbing her eyes. She shivered at the feeling of invasive vicinity. The emotion was still undulating like an angry mass of bees inside of her and it was making her uncomfortable. Throwing the covers aside Gweniviere got up and stretched her back, intent on finding something to distract her from this feeling and strode to the kitchen to put a kettle on.
As soon as she got into the kitchen she froze, her shoulders hunching tensely. Her bright golden eyes, widened with horror, were turned towards the floor as the flash of memory crept up inside of her mind and made shivers cascade down the back of her head and shoulders.
Thomas had followed her, expecting to be fed, and rubbed against her legs. Gweniviere twitched, taken by surprise, and picked him up, hoisting the large animal up against her chest and stuffing her face into his fur, sighing outwardly. "[B Oh god,]" she whispered, nuzzling the plaintively squirming animal. "[B Don't let it happen again.]" she murmured in her own plaintive tone, wavering softly and weakly.
Cat dander bothered her also, but the air purifying fans helped a lot- aside from Gweniviere oft cleaning the apartment for as much time as she spent away from it. She busied herself with ignoring the feeling as she made food and got dressed. Gweniviere felt fine until she was halfway dressed, buttoning up the white, collared shirt when the heavy weight of her impending day and what that ensued meant seemed to fall over her as a blanket. The soldier groaned aloud as she finished and ran her hand through her hair, shaking her head.
This can be applied to a lot of things.
But to what?
Cut the severity?
You've had dreams like this too- reread the description and rethink- is it accurate? Do you want that same feel for the soldier?
You DID say that she was hormonal before so for the sake of consistency this would be applicable IF you decide to utilize the depressive scene.
[+red POSSIBLE SCENE TO EXPLAIN THE HORROR OF 'INTEREST']
[I Possible! You must give this to someone for vetting! VET]
The man had pinned her down much like she had been bound when the serum was initially administered to her, arms to the chair, and legs to each chair leg. The bastard had been clever in binding her neck to the back of the chair with his silk tie first so that Gweniviere, despite her strength, didn’t have the leverage to move at all whatsoever, as the human body’s center of gravity was centered in their torso. A person needed to lean forwards before standing, and it was a simple feat to simply press against their head and they were unable to get up and as such with her head trapped Gweniviere was unable to move.
He hissed at her in German, spitting on her face in his anger and brandishing the knife close to her. Gweniviere pressed herself back against the chair, giving him a fearful look and shaking her head, her dirty blonde hair moving as she did so, still long in the 1940’s fashion and rolled into a mass of carefully coiffed curls at the back of her head. This only enraged the man as he caught her mouth open, preventing her from closing it by stuffing his two forefingers in between her teeth and then tilting his head as if he had an idea. Gweniviere’s eyes stretched in horror as he held the knife up and slowly inserted it into her mouth.
“I will show you what it means to speak such harsh words. Do you know how those words feel to me when you say those things, Spion Mädchen ? To know that everything you said was a lie? Everything was a lie, wasn’t it. I know it was.” Gweniviere shook her head and tried to speak but he bellowed in her face, “Don’t you lie to me you cockersnipe I know exactly what you are!” he roared, deafening Gwen with his voice in her ears. Her breathing became harsh and panicked as his touch became more forceful on the inside of her mouth where he slid the knife over to the inside of her right cheek, the tip of the blade pressing into the back of her mouth, blood dripping down her throat already from where the knife tip had sunk into the joint of her jaw.
Gweniviere shook her head, trying to speak again and to try and make him stop as she struggled against the restraints. She was only capable if she had leverage. Gweniviere was only strong if she could move! She couldn’t defend herself if she couldn’t move!! Panic swelled in her chest as he pressed the knife into the soft flesh of her cheek.
“This is what that feels like!” the man shouted as he drew the knife across the inside of her cheek, cutting it crosswise as Gweniviere cried out, her teeth biting down on his fingers. With her increased strength her teeth went through one and then the second, her teeth crunching down on the metal of the knife blade painfully. The man bellowed in agony and tore the knife from out of her mouth, cutting through the right side of Gweniviere’s mouth cleanly and bringing with it a gush of blood. Gweniviere’s voice rose in a caterwaul of agony as she strained against the bonds holding her down and spat out the man’s dirty fingers from her mouth, and shouted without hindrance now as blood filled her mouth. The spy strained against the tie at her throat and felt it close her airway, choking on some of the blood she coughed, trying to breathe as some of it went into her airway, making her strain more and worsening the problem.
The man stumbled back, screaming in agony as he gripped the nubs of his fingers. “You bitch! You whore look what you did to me?! Auuugh you fucking bitch! You goddamn bitch!” he screeched, his voice going high and strained with the pain, blood pushing out in good supply from the open wounds, yellow bone sticking out from where Gweniviere’s teeth had torn his flesh instead of cutting through the bones, the ragged ends of the fingers scattered on the floor now. The lieutenant hacked as her lungs tried desperately to rid themselves of the foreign substance.
Suddenly there was a blossom of pain in her leg as the man sunk the knife into the flesh of her left thigh. Gweniviere gave a guttural, gagging gasp of a shout and clamped her teeth together, blood coursing down the side of her face, staining her dress and flooding her mouth. She was in a haze of pandemonium with everything going on and suddenly being flooded with another sensation.
“F-f-fuck!” she coughed as he pulled the knife out and went at her strapped arms, stabbing her repeatedly in his blind, wounded wrath. Gweniviere scraped her throat raw with coughing and cries of pain. Finally she had cleared her airways just as the man shoved her backwards onto the floor. The lieutenant’s head hit the floor with a solid crack and she coughed again, her teeth clenched tight as blood again started filling her mouth with the angle she was at now, knocking over a lamp to the floor, the light now sharply illuminating the ceiling. She swallowed but knew that if she got enough in her stomach she would get sick. Gweniviere needed out of this situation fast.
The man stepped over her, straddling Gweniviere’s frame from where she was on the floor and pursed his lips into a tight frown. He had a handkerchief wrapped tightly around his finger nubs and the knife in his other hand. “I’ll teach you yet.” there was the obvious glisten of tears in his eyes, either from the pain or from some other reason, the light shown harshly on his face as he crouched down and pushed her skirt up her legs.
Gweniviere’s eyes stretched wide in horror and the feeling of invasion. She made a whimper, trying to block the blood from entering her mouth, but it was leaking through her teeth. She swallowed again as he forcefully cut away the garters to her stockings. Gweniviere shook her head, “No, no!” he then gave her a brief glance before he lowered himself closer, the knife still in his hands.
“No? Do you really mean that? No? Should I stop?” the man asked her, his greasy hair in his face, anger and revenge in his eyes. “Alright. I won’t- but you need to learn somehow that men don’t take little fucking liars well and you need to learn your lesson!! You need to know who holds the power here, woman!” He shouted, voice raising to a bellow once again as he wielded the knife and before Gweniviere knew it, it wasn’t his flesh that entered her it was the knife’s metal blade. It flashed in and out of her thrice before he let it sink and stay one last time.
Gweniviere’s jaw stretched as she screamed at the highest her voice could allow, throwing her head back against the floor as her body writhed to get free of the bonds that held her down, her legs, forced apart by the man’s body, flinched inwards at the burning, wracking pain that exploded within her. Her throat scraped raw already burnt more as she pulled stronger against the binds of her wrists and ankles and throat. Tears stung her eyes as she shrieked louder, her voice breaking finally with the strain and leaving her with a bare breath of a ghostly shriek left as she hit her head against the floorboards as her voice rose in a sharp crescendo into another wailing shriek as the man seemed to realize what he had done and got off of her, backing away. Gweniviere pulled harder against the bonds on her and finally slipped one loose of the arm of the chair, her arm coming up and jerking her body with the force.
Tears blinded her at the unbelievable pain as he seemed to have left the knife in and she clawed at the floor. Her screaming only stretched the wound at the corner of her mouth. Soon enough Gweniviere got a hold of herself long enough to reach over and pull off the other looped rope from her other arm, trying to get past what she was feeling. She needed a hospital, Gweniviere had already lost a lot of blood. Her arms went to the binding of her throat, she needed to remove that to reach the ones around her ankles. But the knot was behind her head and her head was against the floor. She couldn’t tear the woven silk tie herself and needed a blade- she needed the blade. She needed the blade in her. Now she would bleed out for sure.
Gweniviere’s hands went to cover her eyes, pressing in as hard as she could stand as she bit her lip hard enough to make it bleed as well. She sobbed brokenly, adrenalin keeping her going now with a shiver of horror. Somehow she was still thinking somewhat clearly despite the horrendous pain in all places. Her right arm was weak due to the wounds in it, and Gweniviere needed to take the blade out from between her legs. It was going to hurt worse.
She took a shaky, preparatory breath and held it, fortifying herself and then reached down, but stopped and pulled back. Gweniviere couldn’t do it. But she had to! She had to do it eventually or she would die here! So reaching blindly down and straining against the strap binding her neck to the back of the chair Gweniviere felt for the handle of the blade, sobbing heavily as she tried not to hit it and move it if she could. Finding it with her fingers their movement sent a shockwave of more red hot, blinding pain up through her and made her open her mouth to cry again. She turned her head to the side, blood already on the floor soaking into her hair and staining the side of her head as the lieutenant tried to distract herself from the situation as her slender fingers wrapped around the knife handle in her body and she squeezed her eyes shut as tightly as they would go as Gweniviere tried to keep her legs apart and safe from collateral.
Sobs shook her as she sucked in a breath and wiggled the knife a little. Pain was the answer and she stopped, opening her mouth to emit another hoarse, weak sounding, pitiful cry as she finally just pulled the knife out. More excruciating pain tore through her as Gweniviere immediately let go of the bloodied knife, dropping it on her torso, and twisted to the side, her legs coming together as if they would stifle the pain somehow and she wailed louder with the inundation of more pain than she thought could come after such an agonizing first insertion.
But the panicking thought of bleeding out made her draw in a ragged breath and find the knife again. She shakily put it up to her head, tilting it to the side to expose the silken tie to be cut and gently slid it between the cloth and her skin. The tip pricked her jaw and she hesitated, then braced the blade’s sharp edge against the tie’s surface and started to saw with trembling hands until it snapped and Gweniviere’s head was freed. Her head hurt massively from the forceful crying and the use of abdominal strength to lift herself to reach her ankles was almost too much, pulling at interior muscles near the epicenter of the pain. A shrike, weak squeak was wrenched from her throbbing throat as she pursed her bleeding, cracked lips and leaned to reach for her ankles. The stretch put more strain on her wounds and fresh tears boiled at the corners of her eyes and her vision blurred, the throbbing pain in the front of her head distracting her as she sawed at the rope, then blindly and desperately tore at the severed ropes binding her until she was freed entirely.
As soon as that happened Gweniviere’s body went limp for a few seconds, laying back on the floor with exhaustion before tensing up again with the pain. She turned to her side and curled into a tight ball, stuffing her arms between her legs as if it were to stifle the pain- blood soaking her sleeves. Gwenivere lay, whimpering for a little bit before she gathered the strength to try and think again. Her bleary, bloodshot, reddened eyes travelled around the apartment she was in. Due to the quiet the man had apparently fled. her eyes fluttered closed briefly, Gweniviere exhaling. At least she had that. At least she had her solitude in her humiliating, agonizing situation.
Her dry, cracked lips trembled as she opened her eyes again to try and seek out a telephone. There was no way she was going to make it to the hospital like this on foot. Taking a shuddering breath the soldier peeled her arms from her body and she reached out to try and pull herself forwards towards the table by a stuffed chair. Maybe. Just maybe. It had a lamp and wires hanging from it so it had a phone, right? She pulled herself slowly towards the table and chair along the floor.
Reaching the table Gweniviere pulled herself upright against the chair and reached a trembling hand towards the table. She could see the telephone. It was right there. The lieutenant needed to stretch to get it, pain chewing at her from her lower abdomen as she did so. Her eyes briefly glanced at the trail of blood she had drug across the floor as her hand found the receiver of the telephone. Pulling it to her Gweniviere pulled the phone base and dialed the first number that came to mind. It was Elena’s number, a fellow super-soldier.
Fresh tears filled her eyes as it rang and no one answered. So she tried again, this time using Hilda’s number, finally Hilda picked up and Gweniviere’s cheeks warmed with painful tears. “Hilda. Hilda help me! I- I’m bleeding,”
“What? Gweniviere where are you?! What happened?! Where are you?!”
Gweniviere had to think now, her voice weak and squeaky as she tried to speak intelligibly, “Th-the Kaiser apartment complex on Fourteenth. I’m on the third floor. Please. I need to go to the hospital. Get someone please…” she felt herself coming off of the adrenalin high and let her head loll back against the chair, “Please hurry…” and the phone dropped from her hand. Gweniviere was too tired to hold it and things were getting progressively hazy the longer it took.
She never found the man responsible afterwards. He had apparently fled after stabbing Gweniviere in the abdomen, which had allowed for her to act as she had been and was probably the reason she was still alive. The man had lost two fingers and no hospital record of anyone coming in with that problem were found. So Lieutenant Nietzsche assumed he had died from either loss of blood eventually or infection. She hoped it was the latter.
The whole ordeal had started when the man had expressed ‘interest’ in Gweniviere and that interest led to some sort of twisted affection. That was the stem of the horror the super-soldier had taken at Loki’s ‘intrigue’. That was what had chilled her so deeply after being invaded as she had been with the alien instrument. She had been left with extensive surgeries, stitches, and trauma of men and intimacy. Hydra was so close to deeming her mentally insane and just shooting her in the head if it weren’t for the others and Gweniviere’s forceful stifling of her problems and keeping up in her work and eventually ignoring her feelings for so long that they eventually faded to a manageable distance.
The vague, mentally resurrected memory of the feeling made Gweniviere twitch bodily in almost a defensive manner as the reminiscent sting seemed to flow through the scars on her mouth, all over her forearms and in her abdomen. The nerves no longer worked properly, now that the scar tissue had healed, but yet the areas seemed to respond to ghostly nerve signals whenever she thought about it
Today was the day. Lieutenant Gweniviere Nietzsche was going to the courthouse to stand in front of a bunch of Americans to plead her case on why she shouldn’t be hanged for war crimes committed. It was because Germany had lost the war. Anger welled in her eyes and spilt over her face as she dismissed the nurse and finished pulling her uniform pants on. Screw the Americans she was wearing her uniform. Frankly he had nothing else anymore that she could wear. She was offered a dress, she was even offered a nurse’s uniform by the little young woman who had become somewhat both her dearest friend, her interpreter and her shoulder to cry on for no expressable reason, for Gweniviere’s throat was still shredded and healing but she had refused. She no longer was able to stand for wearing skirts and things. It was a page in her life she had passed. She was no longer able to be a young woman. She was a soldier. She was just The Lieutenant. Lieutenant Nietzsche. Nothing more. Nothing less. She couldn’t be a civilian anymore.
The Russians were apparently in control of most of Berlin now. The newly formed United Nations had cut the country in two and Russia had taken part. Those bastards! They had once again taken her freedom and her country from her, for Gweniviere had given her body to her country and now they were one and the same. Germany was now divided in two and she was going to be stuck on the Russian side logistically it seemed, it was still up in the air, if she appealed and survived in the first place. She pulled her boots on with fingers tensed by frustration. They had taken her hostage! But the frustration was short lived by the inundation of deep, dark melancholy. What did it matter anyways? Gweniviere had given herself body and soul to become an appendage of the German, Hydra war machine and now she was just a broken piece. Just something useless and alone, left to rust because with her affiliation; she was to either be a relic of a past war, or a name and head hung on the chest of whatever presiding ‘officer’ was going to loom imperiously over her head at the judges podium.
Gweniviere paused in front of the mirror, looking at the patchwork trails of soon-to-be scars all across her throat and chest. She had removed the bandages to clean and replace them and now looked upon them with new eyes. They looked like miniature railroads all traced deeply across her skin with the staples all deeply entrenched into her flesh. Her brows arched in slight abhorration of what she saw, having last seen herself clear and average and unbroken. The super soldier’s lips almost trembled before she clenched them harshly to stop the show of weakness. This was what branded her a survivor when Hilda wasn’t so fortunate, if that was an appropriate thing. Her last sister taken by Russian soldiers. Raped and shot and left in the street. By men. And now those Russian pigs were controlling half of Germany and half of Gweniviere.
Gweniviere drew a sharp breath, it hissing through the hole between her collar bones while her nose and mouth remained unused and without the ability to express the writhing twist of guilt that tore at the staples and stitches and sent searing pain through what nerves seemed to still function. Oddly enough, when the rest did not respond, pain almost spitefully remained intact. It was a survival thing, of course, if she really thought about it but in the frazzled state of exhaustion and grief, Gweniviere was prepared to blame nerve endings if it gave her a reason to put blame on anything or anyone but herself so desperate was she to alleviate the pain she was feeling.
Letting that breath out slowly she set the worn bandages aside and took the roll of clean ones. Her eyes followed her hands through the mirror, the lieutenant glancing at her face once. Her lips were pursed with what would soon become a familiar, well-and-oft-worn look of stoic resignation, steeling her eyes and hardening her young expression. her eyes returned to the pale, ghostly gauze wraps she was putting around her throat and wrapping under her arms and over her chest, slowly concealing the marks that now made Gweniviere feel like she was a real soldier. It seemed somehow that you had to lose something to become a soldier. That was how people respected you, it seemed. If you enlisted and saw death and destruction you were a hero. But if you lost someone, or suffered from something you were a soldier. You were something austere and put up on a pedestal, treated carefully and delicately just in case you were going to fall back in that pit of despair. But that reverence was slighted. If you lost the war you were a villain. If you lost the war you were ‘served right’ by losing all of your comrades and being wounded, if you were. You weren’t respected as a soldier anymore, nor were you a hero for answering the call of your country. You were a villain.
Apparently Gweniviere was a villain. That’s what everyone said now. Lieutenant gweniviere Nietzsche, who had given herself body and soul to her country, was a villain. She was evil. This was running through her mind as she slipped on the shirt over her bandages. Apparently Gweniviere was evil. Americans had done something similar; the experimentations, the segregation, everything. But they had won the war. That was why they were vindicated.
Cut the trial?
Villainy is a good idea, good job *applause for self*
BUT does the existence of the trial subtract from the impact of the rest of it?
REREAD THIS TOMORROW!!
As a child she was required to keep her emotions to herself?
Her father could have been a lieutenant and as an officer's family they were required to make it seem like nothing affected them deeply.
The reason she kept the rank of Lieutenant was in remembrance of her father?
Father- military officer, killed in WW2 when Germany called for the elder and children to fight when they were running out of troops? Served in WW1 as an officer, retired but reinstated in W2?
Elder sister- killed in the streets? Lived a full life? She could have fled- Gwen never see her again? ???
Elder brother- served Germany/Hydra as an enlisted soldier- KIA?
Fights so fiercely for Hydra despite her misgivings because its existence is the only thing keeping her comrades graves intact and marked?
People who explain themselves yearn for trust.
Development Note- 1
Gweniviere lost someone and she was incapable of screaming because the plug to her tracheotomy was out.
Horror and consuming grief amplified by the lack of ability to express.
PHILOSOPHY NOTE AS A RESULT:
Human beings are taught and have an instinctual nature to express themselves- most all disorders and psychological diseases are stemmed from an inability to do so.
Gweniviere now knows her own limits and tries to get past them without losing control of herself- remembers the feeling and helplessness in being unable to express- feels that ignoring the need to express oneself in the first place and placing a mask over the self is the only way to stay intact and avoid that feeling from before.
Obviously this causes more problems than solutions: I.E. Near breakdown via Loki stargaze visit. Adds to character by explaining her obsession over her own composure .
Emotional bottling? No... More like feeling them but making a conscious effort not to show it? Is that the same thing?
Gweniviere that night had had a dream that had settled the heavy weight of grief and loneliness of Hilda- the last 'sister' she had known- her death, settling over Gwen like heavy fog. She awoke with a dark depression that seemed to press her down from the ceiling and make her body heavy and lethargic. That meant that the day would be passed in a haze of disinterest, apathy towards whomever she would come across and an introverted resignation to dwell on her melancholy and it's source if it were attainable. As soon as she opened her eyes Gweniviere felt the stifling, cloying desire to ignore the day and stay at home to avoid all things human. It was a familiar feeling and in its familiarity Gweniviere mechanically forced herself up as usual.
Due to the procedure to introduce the serum into her body Gweniviere had now the hormonal imbalance and fluctuations of a teenage girl from day to day. It was yet another thing that had added to the stamp of failure as an experiment on her forehead. With this coupled with her long, overexposure to warfare and related things- if ever Gweniviere were to take a mental health test she would be deemed criminally insane for her thoughts and feelings most likely as a result of severe PTSD or would be deemed at least as a risk bordering on psychotic. If it were not for her stoic, rigid control of herself Gweniviere would most likely be deemed a similar label through simple, social notice from others. So to combat this she took a behavioral stimulant for such a thing- and had been on it for almost twenty years and thought nothing of it, never once questioning it- it didn't ever feel like it ever worked but the soldier had a slight placebo of assurance that now she was in check and could go on with the day with safety in herself and for others.
But even mechanically following her morning routine, or starting it, was difficult. Lucky for Gweniviere her mind crept back to the mess of a cooperation she had with Loki and the Baron. Her weak breath sucked in; she couldn't let those two, one an idiot and the other a narcissistic zealot for whatever it was that drove him, be left to their own devices. However Gweniviere's melancholy was fighting her fears and suggesting that she not bother what could she honestly do after all? She had stayed in Berlin and gotten Hilda and almost herself killed what could she honestly do? She had left Elena at the hands of the Americans because she couldn't do anything. The weight replaced the space her concern had occupied and she sighed and stood to go take the behavioral medication.
The soldier paused at the mirror, looking at herself for a few moments.
She had barely changed at all the whole length of her existence. Well, save for her hair, the delicate paleness of her skin and the obvious accumulation of scars. Gweniviere's golden eyes went to her throat to see the patchwork and chaos of lines across her throat. Putting her fingers to it and felt little, the nerves damaged so badly she could hardly register the stimulant of touch aside from through her own fingertips. That was what she had gotten for staying in Berlin, for letting Hilda stay in. Berlin. Gweniviere drew a shaky breath as tears quietly swamped her vision. The soldier pulled down the collar of the tank top she had slept in and looked at the rest of the damage. 'Pig' was scrawled across her skin in Russian, matched with further damage to nerves and muscle underneath. I wasn't enough. She should have died from those wounds she was looking at now. It wasn't natural. She should have died. Finally frustrated a tear fell and she grabbed the bottle of medication again and took another pill.
Weakness. This was nothing but weakness she was showing, she had a job to do and this was unacceptable! Throwing the bottle back onto the shelf Gweniviere left and shut the door firmly. She then got dressed: distractions. The lieutenant needed distractions.
With that done she took the packaged syringe for the opposing, self-prescribed medication if she needed it; a stimulant of another nature that was technically straight adrenalin. She took this with her because there had been the occasions she could recall in which she would have cared better had she had it on her person- so the lieutenant had made it a habit to keep one with her if ever it happened again. The world was an unexplainable place and she never knew when next she would be thrown into the maw of pandemonium during an attack of some sort either on her person or a warlike outbreak of any sort within the civilian population. Or someone else might need it who knew. Maybe she would finally save someone.
With the added obligation to 'save the world' as she put it in her head, from the two children she was working with she made it out the door and towards Hydra, a cup of tea in her hand and her respirator over her arm.
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