Chapter Twenty-One: 492
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"You do know conducting business in a warehouse is such a bad guy cliche, right?" Tony asked as he was steered between shipping crates. "I mean, you know it's cliche when I know it's cliche." Surly Goon Number 4 jabbed him in the back with the muzzle of his gun and Tony decided to take the hint to close his mouth.
He had just wanted some sesame chicken and an egg roll. Honestly, it didn't seem like a lot to ask. As it turned out, someone decided that his favorite takeout restaurant was the perfect place to grab him. They weren't wrong; especially when they went so far as to subtly threaten to harm the nice family who ran the restaurant. Tony went without a fight. The Huangs and the other patrons never knew they were in danger.
As they moved along, Tony constructed a mental map of the building's layout. A row of offices lined at least one wall of the building, the remaining "walls" and walkways being made up of that industrial shelving that was ubiquitous to warehouses everywhere. This particular building was obviously in somewhat regular use, judging by the general lack of dust.
After several minutes of weaving around between shelving, Goon Numbers 1 through 5 (Goon Number 6 and Goon Sunday Driver had remained to guard the door leading in) brought him into a large room at the far end of the building. It was empty save for a chair in the middle and a table against one wall whose apparent use was for the goons to put down their weapons and menacingly clean and reload them.
Had he mentioned the cliche thing, yet?
"You, sit," Goon Prime told him, gesturing to the chair with his weapon.
"I'm good, thanks. I'd much rather stand," Tony said. His gracious refusal was met with two of the goons shoving him roughly down into the chair, a heavy hand resting on each of his shoulders. "You know what, you're right. I could really take a load off, after all."
"Shut up," snapped Head Goon, before turning to one of his cohorts, "Go call the professor."
Tony felt a thrill of unease that he did his best to quell. "Professor Braun is involved in all this?" he asked. "That tracks, I guess. You do seem to be a bit better prepared than the last guy, let me tell you."
The man gave a derisive snarl. "I thought I told you to shut up!"
A beat, then, "I'm sorry, does that mean the professor is involved or not?"
For a moment, Tony was sure he was about to get pistol-whipped as the group's leader took a menacing step towards him, gun arm raised. Tony flinched back despite himself, which seemed to appease the man well enough that he subsided. He turned towards the table to pick up a small blue book that had been sitting on the far corner.
"Since you won't willingly shut up, I'll make you," Goon Leader declared, shooting Tony a smug look.
Tony quirked a brow at him. "With a book?" he questioned doubtfully. "Are you going to beat me over the head with it?" And really, where had his self-preservation gotten to? Surely, it was better than this.
Rather than answer directly, the Hydra agent thumbed through the book to find the correct page. It looked like one of those handwritten journals a person could get from most any store, the blue cover unmarked and void of any sort of title. Which meant that whatever was in said book might not even be among any of Hydra's digital files. That, in turn, meant Tony had no idea just what it might contain. Although, something about it did seem familiar…
As Tony tried to piece together what exactly about the scenario felt so familiar, the man found the page he was looking for with a satisfied sort of grunt. Then, he said aloud, "подношение."
Which… wasn't at all what Tony was expecting. He knew Russian––of course he did––but, "Offering?" he repeated aloud. "Is that supposed to mean something?"
"Cradle," the man said next, making even less sense, before adding after that, "twenty-nine."
That was when he figured out why the scenario seemed so familiar. The color of the book was wrong and the words were different, but Tony had stood by, just once as a small boy, as one of the Asset's handlers read his control words from a hand-written red book.
"Spy."
Except Tony didn't have control words. It was impossible, he thought, even as the nerves prickled along his spine.
"Lonely."
The only way Tony could have control words was if he'd been put in the chair. He would've had to have been programmed. But he had never been in the chair. They barely let him in the room except when he was working on the Asset's arm. Tony would remember if he had––
"Dreamer."
Wouldn't he? Or would he?
There were gaps in his memory. He could recall details about a person that would escape others, remember things he had seen and read years before, but there were minutes, hours, days in his life that were blank going back farther than he was comfortable admitting to himself.
"Genius."
"No," Tony whispered, struggling against the hands on his shoulders, equal parts denial and protest. Because Yinsen had known to call him Mechanic. Tony hadn't been the one to tell him that. Except that Tony was the only one who could have shared that information. Which meant…
"Five."
There was something inside of him. Tony had felt it before and he felt it now: another awareness seeming to rise from his center, a coiled mass of anger and rage, of determination and resolve… self-assurance. 'Let me,' it whispered.
"Songbird."
'Let me,' the other insisted. Tony could almost feel as it reached out, settling into his body like a hand sliding into a well-worn glove. 'Let go, Anthony. Let me.'
Tony dragged in a breath.
"Child," the Hydra agent concluded, looking up from the blue book. "492?"
Tony wasn't the one who calmly breathed back out.
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It was always an odd sort of feeling, settling behind the wheel, as it were. Although, it had been a long time since they were brought forth with the command sequence. Coming aware when there wasn't an immediate need for action was quite a novel experience, indeed.
They took stock of the body. The arc reactor was a heavy, uncomfortable weight in the chest accompanied by a not-unexpected but wholly manageable low-level pain-much improved over the last time they'd taken control. No matter, they had no intention of being hit in the chest, anyway. All other parts seemed to be in good repair and working under acceptable parameters.
Overall, the current situation was favorable.
To themself, anyhow.
"492?" the handler prompted again.
Nix that, they thought as they lifted their gaze: would-be handler. The man was clearly an overeager upstart. "Oh, were you wanting a response?" 492 replied. "I thought tools were meant to be quiet. My apologies."
The agents on either side of the asset shuffled uneasily, one of the men tightening his hold painfully on their shoulder. The leader stared warily at them and 492 smirked back, amused.
"The professor didn't send you, did he?" they asked knowingly. "You're trying to show him up. Prove that you can bring in the runaway asset that he has failed to recapture all these years. You obviously didn't read all his notes if you believed the command sequence was the way to ensure your success."
"What are you talking about? Why are you talking at all?" the agent demanded. "You're supposed to obey anyone who says the command sequence––that's how it works!"
"You're thinking of the Soldier and his words. But see, if you had done all your homework, you would know that my programming was not only modified from that of the Winter Soldier but also deemed a failure," they informed the man. "Or did you think I was unutilized because Hydra couldn't find four reasonably competent people to do Anthony's work in his stead?"
The handler (self-appointed though he may be) stared at them, mouth opening and closing as he cast about for a response. They watched impassively, more interested in the nervous inattention of the agent on their left and the insubstantial hold he had on his sidearm. Likely because the man was obviously right-handed.
Honestly, where did Hydra find these dullards?
"It doesn't matter," the handler finally settled upon. "You're here, now, and you're outnumbered and unarmed with no escape. Even if you weren't, I've got the book. You will obey me."
A beat, then, "Or what?"
"Huh?"
"I will obey you or what? "
"There's no what, you have to obey! You belong to Hydra. It's not like you can hurt us-that's been ingrained in your programming," the man declared.
492 ducked their head to conceal a brief smirk before looking up again. "I have a few… rebuttals," they said.
In the next instant, their left elbow slammed into the nervous agent's gut, snatching the gun from his hand and raising it to shoot him in the face. They followed it up with a shot directly to the other agent's heart even as they lunged out of the chair at the handler. With calm efficiency, they knocked the man's arm aside, sending the shot he'd fired wide before snapping the man's wrist with a brutal twist and wrenching his arm behind his back.
All this before the two agents waiting outside the room rushed inside with their weapons raised. The asset waggled the gun they had at the leader's head in greeting, almost casually holding the man in front of them as a human shield. Not that there was anything casual in the secure hold they had on the agent.
"You won't escape––backup is coming!" the handler bit out, letting out a pained cry when 492 pressed the hot muzzle to his ear.
"No, no," they told him, "it's still my turn to speak. I had a few rebuttals, you'll recall."
"Sir, what do you want us to do?" one of the other agents asked, trying to shift around for a clear shot. The asset ignored her.
"Firstly, I may be outnumbered, but I am far from outmatched," they informed the man in their hold. "Secondly, as a highly trained human weapon, I am never unarmed. Thirdly, I not only can, but I will hurt you."
"Keep 492 from leaving at all costs," the lead agent commanded, "he mustn't escape!"
492 sighed, the sound almost disappointed, before pulling the man closer to speak almost conspiratorially into his ear, although they spoke at a normal volume. "Bonus argument, as so plainly illustrated by your cohorts' reluctance to shoot at me: I am infinitely more valuable to Hydra than… well, whoever you were."
With two rapid-fired headshots and a double tap to their captor-turned-captive's back, 492 dropped the body. Since the pistol was nearly spent, anyway, they set it aside in favor of taking the weapons off of the expired agents, pausing only a moment before snatching up the blue book and tucking it into the back of their pants.
"Well, gentlemen," they declared to the quiet room as they fastened a thigh harness into place, "and lady, of course. It's been fun, but I must be leaving now. Things to do, people to see, Hail Hydra, you know the drill. Busy, busy."
Zipping up the tac vest they'd claimed for themself, 492 paused once more to place a radio conspicuously in the center of the table then left the room. The last two agents who had comprised the retrieval team were dispatched with laughable ease. Clearly, Hydra was only sending incompetents after them.
They settled in to wait in a secure corner, passing the radio they'd brought with them from hand to hand. In the end, they were not disappointed, as a familiar voice came through the speaker.
"Anthony?"
492 shook their head before responding. "Wrong, Professor. You're speaking with the other one. But you know that already, don't you?"
"492," Braun said.
"Ding, ding, give him a prize. Not beatings or solitary confinement today," they quipped. "Though really, Professor, you know I prefer the Mechanic."
"I still fail to understand your need to differentiate yourself. You are Anthony, Anthony is you," the professor replied.
"See, I might think you actually believed that if you weren't the one to break Anthony in the first place," the Mechanic told him. "Do you suppose the Soldier is like me? A protective personality for whatever poor sod is actually in there?
"Nevermind. I'll ask myself when we meet. And it is when, Professor. Hydra doesn't get to keep the Winter Soldier. Anthony will find a way to free him from you."
There was a moment's pause before Braun's voice came over the radio again, "Why don't you tell me where you are, Mechanic? Then, you and the Soldier can meet all the sooner. You can't expect me to believe that playing body double for a spoiled rich boy is all that satisfying for you."
"Nice try, Professor, but I didn't stick around to talk in order to negotiate my return," the asset scorned.
"Then, why are we talking, 492?"
"So that I could hear your voice and remember how much I loathe you," they told him. "Oh, and also to suggest that if you stopped trying to keep secrets, then maybe your precious Hydra would stop needing to use their idiots for fodder."
Without awaiting further response, the Mechanic dropped the radio and smashed it under their heel. They'd wasted enough time on Hydra and its rejects. It was time to get somewhere secure and let Anthony take over again.
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To be continued...