Bucky raises his fist and begins to smash away at the glass as well. It splinters on the first impact, sending shards flying. His stump rests against the side of the container to steady him as he winds up for a second. Blood stains the glass inside and drains down through the sleeve, but he continues for a third and fourth hit. However, on the fifth, something entirely different happens. When his fist makes contact, electricity sparks from his right fist to the stump of his left. Burning through the delicate electronics of the data cabinet is easy enough, but the current bursts from the overloaded circuits and floods the glass with an electric field that sends a shower of glass raining on all of them.

Behind mental walls, only the weapon survives and it pushes more electricity through the plates to guarantee their destruction. Its skin bubbles and boils in places along its fingers and the remaining metal of its left shoulder superheats to melting the synthesized fabric pinned there. No one will stop it. The weapon does not fail its missions. Pain is temporary and unimportant, though uncomfortable.

The weapon screams in frustration at that pain as more glass pops around its hand. Glass frosted over with heat flies in dangerous fleets, some catching on his sleeve, some tinkering against the other data cabinets, others flying well overhead into the rest of the office proper.