#axe!sol

Sol was still walking through the town. They took note of the blood coating and caking them. Their hair, their skin, their clothes. Normally, they would be trying to get the blood off of them as soon as possible. They typically valued cleanliness, especially when it came to blood. That was why they tended to use guns more, as less blood got on them that way. They also took note of the axe. Perhaps that was why people were still rushing into buildings, locking doors, and the police were taking a shamefully long time. . No matter, that wouldn’t be important, as they noticed someone looking at them with… concern? Not fear. Not necessarily. Not fear of them, at least, but fear for them.

They couldn’t remember many times when someone looked at them with actual care.

Their mother, her face blurred in their memory, The Nameless Woman, must have. All mothers cared for and worried for their children (the good ones, at least, and Sol remembered the warmth their mother had, the care). Especially in the situation the two had been in. Even dead, even with that memory faded, Sol felt the hole their mother’s death had left in the very fabric of their being. It always seemed to ache somewhere deep inside.

Maybe Tanya had. Tanya had cared, sure, had freed them from Hydra, but the woman hadn’t stuck with them for long. She seemed to only have a vendetta against organizations similar to the Red Room, not that Sol could blame her. Tanya likely hadn’t wanted the burden of a traumatized 12 year old to take care of, to raise, to nurture. Sol couldn’t blame her. Nobody would want to deal with a child with that much blood already on their hands.

Their interactions with their own father had been sparing. Not that they could really blame the man, either. He hadn’t asked for them to be born, hadn’t asked for an heir to the Winter name. Hadn’t asked for this disaster, this excuse for a child.

They set the jars on the empty spots on their bookshelves. If anyone came into the apartment they’d probably think they were crazy. They weren’t. They just collected trophies now. Doesn’t everyone, after a success?

They had written dates and names on the tops of said jars. They hum as they set them up in chronological order based on when it had happened. They shot the Old Scientists jar a smug look. They’d won, and now his tongue would rest on their bookshelf for eternity. Who won now?

The tongue seemed to whisper the things the old man had; them being a poor excuse for an asset, other asshole things. They rolled their eyes. “Pfft. Listen, old man, you’re dead now. Who’s useless in this situation? The severed tongue, or the tongue-severer?” Maybe talking to a tongue in a jar wasn’t a sign of mental stability, but god, insulting it was satisfying.

After they had ripped out the man’s tongue, after they had ripped him apart, they had picked the tongue back up. The man had been the one to steal their voice, so they’d steal the closest thing he would have to a voice, considering his new situation of being dead.

They’d found ways to preserve body parts, had gotten many pickle jars and filled them with formaldehyde, which would stop the tongues from decaying, or at least slow it by a lot.

It remained extremely satisfying, and they plopped down onto their couch after returning everything to its rightful place, flicking on the news to double check that the murders truly had died down.

They fell asleep like that. A rare feeling of peace and content falling over them. This had all been worth it.

[A Few Hours Later]

They startled and jerked awake when they heard a knock at their door. The surprise was quickly washed away by irritation, rage.

“What?” They snap, turning towards the door of the safehouse. Their voice certainly had changed during their time away. Not deeper, like puberty, but harsher, without that sense of wry humor they had had before. “And if you’re selling something, I’m not buying!” They add, just in case it was one of those annoying door to door salesmen. It was more likely some type of authority, like the cops - though they weren’t sure who would be so foolish as to send normal men after a mad supersoldier - or, more threateningly, a superhero. They’d be fine, though. They just had to be careful and smart. No hesitation.

“Okay.” Sighed Traveler, as they had dubbed themself to the others. “Let’s all go over where our timelines diverged. You-“ they snap their fingers (the metal makes a grating sound) and point towards where ‘Sib’, as the youngest Sol in the room called them, and the youngest were standing. “-you start us off.”

“Oh. I traveled back in time. Grabbed our siblings, and got us all back in the future.” Sib looks a little guilty, remembering how they had killed said children they now care for and would kill for.

“Mhm! Summer, Autumn, Eclipse, Spring and I all live with Big Sib now!” Confirms Winter, the youngest in the room. They sound happy.

Everyone, except for the one with the axe and the one with lighter metal hands looked guilty, surprised, and jealous. Alongside a fondness for a version of themselves far more innocent than they are.

“Okay.” Traveler says after a long pause. That answered that question. “You.” They point towards Prime. “You’re the Prime Sol, right?” They’d learned a bit about primes. The way this one seemed so confused and… normal (normal as a Sol can be, at least).

“I don’t know.” They mumble, looking around the room, clearly in shock at seeing all of these other thems. Traveler gives them an unimpressed look.

The one with the axe scoffs. “You’re all pathetic. I killed the scientist that did all this-“ they wave their metal hands around scornfully, gesturing to each Sol as well. “-to us.” They snarl.

“You killed him?” The one with the lighter metal arms snaps to attention. “You imbecile. You fool.”

‘Axe’, everyone decides to call them, glowers at them. “What do you mean?” Their eyes narrow. Traveler senses a fight, but decides not to intervene. (Yet).

“He rescued us! Taught us how to do experiments!” Retorts the other.

Traveler sighs, mutters something under their breath, the spell for Far Step, teleporting behind Axe and grabbing them before they could lunge at the Scientist.

“Relax.” They mutter into Axe’s ear, but only get elbowed in the stomach for their trouble. They wince and Axe breaks out of their hold, the bullet scar that remained from an earlier incident stinging. And the fact that it was where metal met flesh hurt like hell.

“You work with that freak?” Axe asks, incredulous. They drew their weapon, the metal of the axe (at the end, at least) matching the color of the Scientists’ own arms.

“Yes. Of course.” The Scientist rolls their eyes. Traveler narrows their eyes at them, in fact, everyone does.

“Do you do experiments?” The one with the burns asks, talking for pretty much the first time, their voice quiet and dangerous. Despite their injuries, they were still an emotionally stunted assassin.

“Of course. Idiots.” Sci scoffs at them. “And you called *us* pathetic.” They jab a finger at Axe, who immediately held the axe over their head, bringing it down, aiming for Sci’s head-

-only for it to ping off from a forcefield.

Everyone stares. Axe starts to bring down the axe over and over until they can’t anymore, panting and gasping for air. Traveler raises an eyebrow.

At this point, everyone has surrounded Sci, who is smirking. “Guess this place doesn’t let you kill me.” They shrug.

“I’ll find a way.” Retorts Axe, who is glaring and snarling at the other, impassive Sol. They sound and look like a rabid animal.

Everyone is glaring at Sci, at this point, who sighs, and asks Traveler: “you seem to know this place. How do you leave? I have an experiment-“ they put emphasis on the word, and everyone in the room flinches. Salt in the wound. “-I need to get back to.”

Almost all of the Sol’s in the room are trembling with anger and the urge to murder this stupid scientist. They vaguely look like angry chihuahuas. Especially Axe.

Traveler is gritting their teeth. Sci gives them an expectant look before realizing something. “Oh! You must be the one that fox mutie adopted.” They comment, purposely trying to get under their skin. It’s the closest they can get to dissection in this realm.

It works. Traveler snarls, their calmer front to even the chaos among the Sols immediately torn down. “don’t you dare go there. When did you meet Па- Hemlock?” Their eyes narrow.

“Oh. I had him in my lab. He gave me the same book you have, it seems.” They look smug. “Far Step, for the teleporting, right?”

Traveler twitches, tempted to smack this bastard, or at the very least rip out their jugular with their teeth (Axe wants to rip out Sci’s tongue and keep it as a trophy, and all of the other Sol’s, barring little Winter, felt violent in some other way). The other Sols exchange glances once the red that overtook their vision eased (except for Prime, who looks even more confused). They’d met Hemlock, at some time or another.

Traveler takes deep breaths. They’d talk to Hemlock about giving the worst version of them magic, of all things. If once the man stopped avoiding them. They shoved away the thought of him thinking they’re weak, and biding his time to get rid of them. That was HYDRA-talk. Not Hemlock. They need to focus on this evil version of themself.

Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. Imagine you’re sniping Sci. They remind themself.

“Back in the lobby. The exit door. Just walk through.”

Sci waves as they walk out of the room, and Traveler decides not to tell them that leaving would wipe their memory. Pettiness, and all that.

Axe turns to glare at them. “What the hell? Why you just let them leave?” The claws of their metal arms come out, digging into the wood of their axe. They look ready to rip their claws into Traveler.

“Relax. When you leave this place it wipes your memory of being here.” They snap their fingers, in a way that gave off ‘catch up’. Everyone winces at the grating sound of metal meeting metal. This only serves to make Axe bristle, and their eyes narrow further.

“We- I think Winter and I should get back to our siblings.” Sib says eventually, still shaking. What else could you do when you learn that one version of yourself became the very thing that caused you to become a monster? They’re keeping a wary eye on Axe, whom was probably making things worse by the second.

Prime holds out a hand. “Wait. What? First of all, time travel?” They give Sib a pointed look. “Second of all, multiverses?” They turn this look towards Traveler, who fidgets uncomfortably.

“Yeah. I slipped through a time portal, used the opportunity.” Sib says, gently. “At least I spared them from our… lives.” They hesitate, wrapping an arm around Winter, who was only a bit shorter than them. Damned stunted growth.

The Burnt Sol finally chimes in again. “Wait. We were comparing our- our timeline divergences.” They’re fidgeting uncomfortably. They feel far inferior to these other Sol’s (aside from Sci. Fuck Sci).

“Okay.” Sib softens. They seem like the kindest among them, aside from the youngest at their side. “Go ahead.”

“…I’m nothing special.” murmurs Burn. “Just an idiot who forgot that grenades exist.”

That gave everyone in the room enough information to assume what had happened, according to all of their collective winces (including little Winter, whom had had training like the rest of them, though significantly less). Why there was an eyepatch on Burn’s right eye, the burns.

“I’m sorry.” Prime says quietly, resting a hand on their scarred versions’ shoulder.

“It’s fine. I’m alive, am I not?” Everyone winces. Wasn’t that the truth, the thing they always reminded themselves of to make sure they didn’t give up on everything.

They all turn to Traveler, the only one that hadn’t explained. “Right. The base we were kept frozen at collapsed, and I got out just in time. Met Hemlock-“ -everyone (except Prime, who, later, had the fox man explained to them by Burn) nods, and they’re relieved they don’t have to explain who he is- “-and he adopted me.” They smile softly, a rare genuine one. “I have a sibling, Misty, and a grandmother. And a lot of other family members, apparently. Now I travel the multiverse.” They twitch again. If Hemlock didn’t disown- stop. They remind themself. Stop. He wouldn’t do that.

“Lucky bastard.” Mutters Axe. Everyone gives Axe a look of displeasure. (Despite how jealous most of them are, except for Sib and Winter, whom wouldn’t have met their siblings had they done the same. They hated how much longer they had stayed in HYDRA, that hellish place).

“Yeah.” They nod. Their fingers tap at their sides. “…we haven’t been talking recently, though.” Under their breath. The rest of them exchange glances but don’t comment.

“You said we lose our memories if we leave this place?” Asks Burn.

“Yes. But I mean, you can write some things down. Then take it with you. You’ll be confused, but you’ll know about all of-“

They gesture around. “-this.” They take out a few journals from their backpack, tearing out used pages and handing a journal to each Sol. (Except Winter and Sib, they’d share). Traveler was suddenly grateful for their (albeit limited) knowledge of the place.

Winter whispers what to write to Sib, who simply nods and writes both of their thoughts down. Burn is silent as they write, squinting their good eye down at the page. Axe scoffs, putting their axe back and beginning to write, scowling when they know they’ve written something incorrectly while not being sure how to correct it. Prime is writing diligently, trying to mark down every detail, ignoring their writing and spelling, just getting as many ideas on the page as possible.

Traveler sighs, simply writing ‘tell Hemlock to restore my memories when I get back. Other versions of me.’ and ‘He gave an evil asshole magic.’ Into the journal they had originally used when they first came to the hotel. They always held onto it.

Eventually, Winter and Sib leave, saying their calm and excited, respectively, goodbyes. They walk out, hand in hand, and Winter murmurs excitedly about telling the other siblings about their adventure, a bounce in their step.

That left four. Traveler sighed, sitting on the floor tiredly. How had Hemlock managed to never kill any of his other versions?

Axe was pacing, muttering angrily to themself. ‘Kill someone’ was scrawled onto one of their pages in large writing. They’d need a stress reliever after relearning what the scientist version of themself was like.

Burn sighed, resigned to returning home, to being the most useless version of themself. This had only served to show them how much better (barring Sci) their other versions were. The only good thing they’d done here was giving Prime an explanation on things they didn’t know as well.

Prime was in the corner, still writing rapidly as they listened to Burn’s explanation. They need information like a fish needs water.

Burn and Prime both leave next, leaving the angriest and the most knowledgeable Sols to their own devices. A bad idea, probably.

Axe is still snarling and muttering under their breath, pacing like a caged tiger. Traveler has taken to curling up in a tight ball like a fox in winter. They have to make sure Axe leaves without picking a fight with one of their many deities that they knew stayed in this hotel. They didn’t want a version of themself getting hurt. Except for Sci. Fuck Sci.

Axe glares down at them, eventually. They open a previously closed eye and stare back.

Axe simply scoffs. “Pathetic.” They mutter, before finally leaving the hotel. They’d written their other versions of being pathetic, and assholes.

Traveler had fallen asleep. The day had been exhausting. They woke up with a jolt, still curled into a tight ball. They sighed, wrote down a few other things (mainly saying Axe was irritating, Sci was evil and needed to be taken down, Burn needed therapy, and how Prime and Sib seemed the nicest. Winter was naive.). They pull themself to their feet with all of the grace of a drunk kitten.

That’s irrelevant. They have someone - they can’t remember if they’re ex or current HYDRA, an agent or an asset or a superior, but they don’t particularly care - tied to a chair and gagged in their chosen safehouse.

They’re currently in an attached but somewhat separate room, leaning against a wall or counter, a ways away from their captive but both are in sight and sort of earshot of the other. They’re muttering to themself quietly.

The day has been strange. Familiar faces in place of those of strangers, weird sounds that aren’t really there, familiar (impossible) voices whispering indistinctly… They’ve seen someone in particular at the corner of their vision recently. A flash of graying red hair, a short glimpse of green eyes, a face that mirrors their own in some ways. An impossible person to see.

They shake their head to clear it, then look up and see the face that has been peeking at the edge of their vision all day. They jump, grabbing a knife and pointing it at the intruder.

Their ma Motya (they never did learn her last name, no matter how many files they scraped through) stares back at them, looks towards the captive, then back.

“What are you doing?”

Her voice is warped, but Sol doesn’t really notice it. Not like they could really confirm if it was truly the woman’s voice. They could barely remember her face, let alone her voice.

They scowl at her. “You’re not really here.”

She looks so sad about that, with her wispy sort of face that makes it hard to make out most features. Sol almost feels bad… but they shake their head to clear it. She’s just a memory, a ghost, something made up by their mind because of sleep deprivation. “what are you doing?” She questions again.

“Killing this piece of scum.” They gesture to the captive, still in the chair.

“But-“

“They killed you first! What, you want me to forgive and forget? Are you supposed to be my conscience? Do you remember what they did to you? To me?… not an option.” Sol retorts before she can get the rest of her words out. “Besides, I’m practically being merciful. I’ll give them a chance to pick how they die. As long as they stay in the chair.”

“No one wants to die tied to a chair.”

“Well, you’d know.”

“…”

They won’t say sorry this time. “This piece of trash is far too slippery to let out of their binds. What I’m giving them is far more than they deserve. So step aside, Jiminy. I’m not going to become a real boy no matter how much you whine at me.”

She looks sad again, her wispy form disappearing for now. They scowl. They don’t miss that apparition, something fake trying to sway them from their mission. They turn back to their captive.

//your character can be the captive (ex or current HYDRA, preferably… they might get beaten up or killed if you give me permission to have Sol do that (I will ask first dw), btw), someone here to rescue them, or, hell, someone that caused this hallucination to appear somehow. I don’t mind.//

Sol held the axe in their metal hands, impressed with the balance from what seems so crude a weapon. They could work with this.

They were out in the middle of the woods, in the home of a lumberjack. Not just a lumberjack, but the son of the man who had been the main scientist on Sols… case. The main scientist on the Winter Solstice project. The one who had developed the programming so deeply engrained in their brain.

He was dead now. After the painstaking process of ripping the axe through dismembering each limb.

First, they had ripped out his tongue with their metal hands, ripping the claws in the fingertips in for good measure. Couldn’t risk allowing him to trigger their programming, after all.

Then, the legs. Their supersoldier strength, the very idea the man had come up with equipping them with making quick work of the legs and arms.

Somehow, he hadn’t bled out by the time they had sliced through the neck, but the terror in his eyes had sent some strange feeling of exhilaration and ecstasy throughout them.

So there they sat, axe resting perfectly in their hands, in the armchair they had shoved the old man off of to rip him apart on the floor like the shark from Jaws.

They had a wide, wry, psychotic grin on their face. They just had to wait for the lumberjack to get back. His wife, his kids.

After all, his father was the man who had decided that for Sol to be the perfect weapon, they had to murder their own family. How dare this man live as a white picket grandfather while Sol had been left alone? Living through a hell of the man’s design? This was the closest they could get to causing the same sort of family massacre they had to drag themself through for that wretched scientist.

The door opened, the lights were off, and when they turned on, the family was greeted with this sight:

An unfamiliar teenager, a wide, uncanny smile on their face (like someone whom had never smiled before, trying their hardest to mimic the joy they saw on others faces. Almost like the Cheshire Cat from Alice in Wonderland, with how unnatural it looked). They were covered in blood, smudged on their clothes, their face, their hair caked in it like hair gel. They held an axe in their hands, and the intent look they stared at the family with conveyed their intentions plenty well. This was a killer, and they would do what they had been trained for.

The small family hadn’t lasted long. The closest thing to mercy that Sol had granted being making sure the children’s deaths were swift. The screams echoed into the woods, no ears close enough to hear (the old man had moved as far away from society, so as not to be found by any seeking vengeance. He had forgotten that he had forged a creature that hunted humans as its prey).

Sol walked back to the nearest town, an almost joyful skip in their step.

They felt full of energy, better than they had felt… ever. They were still caked in that sticky blood, but it felt natural to them. They kept the axe in their grip, having grown oddly attached to the weapon. They were far more comfortable with the axe than they had ever felt wielding their guns and knives, the weapons forced upon them by Hydra. Hydra had never had them learn how to wield an axe like this. It felt freeing, refreshing.