The moon is a fixation of his.
On long missions, when weariness crept into the bones and the target seemed less and less likely to make an appearance, he would look into the sky and find the moon. Stark against the black sky, the heavenly body brought forth feelings of peace and comfort. Such feelings were foreign to him, different from the usual feeling of endless numb nothing.
He would look at the moon, abandoning the scope of the rifle, and soak up the silver-white light that it offered. The feeling of looking at the moon was worth the mission failure. Worth a thousand mission failures.
The moon brought feelings of comfort and peace. Brought feelings of fear and crushing loneliness. Brought agony and euphoria and nothing and everything.
The moon made him feel alive.
It did not last.
The goggles dig into the skin around its eyes and pull at its hair. The lenses defuse light.
When the Asset looks at the moon, it feels indifferent.
–––
The Asset adjusts its grip on the rifle. It has been waiting for its target for 96 hours. It estimates another 100 before it is no longer functional.
The cabin its target would be visiting is large. A ski lodge. Its handlers had said that the target would arrive on the 6th of December. By its calculations, it is now the 8th, and there has yet to be any sign of its target.
The goggles defuse the sunlight reflected off of the snow. The scope, trained on the lodge, allows it to see the guests that walk by the windows.
Still no sign of the target.
Hours pass, and the Asset remains stationary. The branch it's perched on is concealed enough for it to see without being seen. It is an ideal nest.
The lodge grows dark along with the sky, save for a few yellow lights that shine through the windows. It peers into each window, carefully taking note of the residents. There, three floors above the lobby, stands its target, looking out his window at the mountainscape.
The Asset lines up the shot.
A yelp rings through the air and the Asset hesitates. It looks down at the ground and finds a pack of wolves running through the snow. It watches them yip and chase one another and nip at fleeing heels. He watches them pant and roll around in the snow, their tails wagging happily.
Watching them, a void of acid-hot edges opens up in its chest. It feels an odd sensation around its eyes, hot and stinging, and The Asset tears its goggles off unthinkingly, going against protocol and guaranteeing punishment, raises its flesh hand up to it its eyes. Its fingers come back wet, the liquid soon freezing in the cold air. Its cheeks are wet, too, and the void has turned to a vice and it hurts and he doesn't know what's happening or where he is. Where, where.
Where is Steve? (Who is Steve?) What is happening?
Why is it so cold?
–––
Blood fascinates it.
Like all weapons, Its existence is paved with blood and gore and death. Violence is what it's made for, what defines it.
Weapons are impartial. They do not think or feel or speak.
Blood fascinates it. Fascination is a feeling. If the Asset feels, then is it a weapon? If it thinks, then is it a person?
It does not know.
... It feels like it should.
What it does know is that blood fascinates it.
Blood, inky red, sticky, clinging to its skin, the edge of its blade, the strands of its hair.
Blood, drooling out of a wound, catching on skin and hair and clinging and clotting and drying into an orange-red stain.
Blood, on the skin of its hand, glinting under the light of the moon. Like hot pennies on its tongue.
The Asset is fascinated by blood.
The stuttering bubble of a freshly slit throat. The gurgle and sputter of a punctured lung. The cavern of gore and splatter of red and grey of a bullet to the head.
Blood, warm on its skin. Warm, warm, warm. The scent of blood makes it &feel& warm.
It does not know why.
... It feels like it should.
–––
Its handlers call them 'vampires'.
The Asset calls them 'parasites'.
Not in front of the handlers. But to itself, alone in its mind, it calls them parasites.
–––
Its handlers call them 'crafters'.
The Asset calls them 'witches'.
Not in front of the handlers. But to itself, alone in its mind, it calls them witches.
–––
Its handlers call them 'werewolves'.
When given the file, the Asset tips its head to the side and asks, "Carnivores?"
Seeing the tick of its handler's jaw is all it needs to know it had made a mistake.
The file is snatched out of its hands. "Wipe it," Its handler snaps.
"Sir, doing that now that could irrevocably damage–"
"Did I fucking stutter?"
White-hot pain. Blank nothingness.
...
"Ready to comply."
Twitching and lethargic, the Asset takes the file with trembling fingers. It reads the debrief quickly.
Its handler smiles, slow and tar-like. "Good. What is your mission, Soldat?"
"Eliminate the werewolves."
In its head, in the sanctity of its mind, the Asset calls them 'carnivores'.
It does not know why.
... It thinks it should.
–––
The file its handler gives it is paper-thin. Its only contents are a picture and a name. The mission is stamped across the paper in red ink.
Captain Steven Grant Rogers. Eliminate.
The Asset looks at the picture and tastes pennies on its tongue and feels moonlight on its skin and sunshine in its stomach.
It does not know why.
... It should.
–––
Water streaming off of his uniform, aching shoulder, the water stained pink. His mission, sprawled against the riverbank, hacking up water.
His mission in his head, repeating one phrase over and over and over again.
'I'm with you 'till the end of the line.'
Faces and scattered memories, whispers of recollection. Hundreds of faces, thousands of eyes glazed over, blood pooling like a halo around their heads.
Blood, like pennies in his mouth. Blood, drip, drip, dripping down delicate fingers. Blood, staining a grinning mouth, split by a fist. Blood. Blood. Blood blood blood bloodbloodbloo–
The pistol a solid weight in his hand, shifting stance, barrel pointed between two eyes that are closed but also blue, silver, blue. Shaking hand.
'Your name is James Buchanan Barnes, you're my... You're my human."
He is not human. His mission... Is...
Shaking hand, lowing the pistol. Blue eyes. No, silver. Blue? Human. Human? Eyes, bluesilverblue.
No...
Carnivore.
Silver blood, moonlight eyes, hacking up pinkish-silverish-blackish water.
My Carnivore.
He shakes his head. Takes a step back.
And another.
And another.
He turns. Holsters his pistol. Stumbles over rocks and roots, into the tress.