The Hollows Series

A post Captain America: The Winter Soldier canon divergence series, about recovery, forgiveness, and not being the person you thought you were.

Part 1 - Unquiet
Part 2 - Wake
Part 3 - Hereafter (incomplete)
Part 4 - To lose sight of the shore

Please mind the ratings. This series is very dark and will include throughout: violence, brainwashing, depression, food Issues, swearing, mental health issues, PTSD, Identity Issues, Panic Attacks, Suicidal Thoughts/Ideation, Blood and Injury, Dissociation, Self-Harm, Speech Disorders, Selective Mutism, and Anxiety Disorders. Please take care of your own wellbeing.


Book 1 - Unquiet


Asset

The Soldier's programming has failed.

The clear, precise orders the Soldier should be following are little more than white noise in its head now, broken strings of unfinished coding. The Asset puts its back to the burning wrecks sinking into the river and walks away. It doesn't look back. Why would it? It follows the riverbank. Walks. Doesn't think. There is a complaint of malfunction from the metal arm, and in the torso. Right knee. Flesh shoulder. Maintenance required. Med tech required. The Asset slams the flesh shoulder into a tree trunk and the joint pops back into place. Minimal function is restored.

It reaches a road. No Handlers appear. They are supposed to take it to a base for processing. The Soldier needs orders.

It waits in the tree line. No Handlers appear.

It has lost all of its firearms and only has two blades left. The arm needs maintenance. The Asset must be debriefed. Maintained. Repaired. Retrained. Punished if necessary for any behavioural abnormalities - it is highly likely that this will be considered necessary. Then, at last, it will be returned to the ice. The Asset is ready but no-one comes.

Old programming comes online. Default protocols. In the event of loss of all Handlers, the Asset will report to the nearest high-ranking HYDRA personnel. The Asset was taken to see Secretary Pierce in a residence in this city; that much information slips through the wipe. But not the location. That is gone. It can't find Secretary Pierce's house without coordinates, an address, landmarks.

Cars with blue lights scream by. Law enforcement. Fire trucks. Dark green military vehicles. Sirens pulse nauseatingly; overhead is the throbbing whir of helicopter blades. The Soldier is too exposed here. There's no cover here so no Handlers will come. Another protocol initiates in the Soldier's brain – a list of safe houses. It had heard the Handlers being told not to return the Asset to the Base 52C7, the base in Washington. The next nearest safe house is B5274, on the outskirts of a city called Philadelphia. It will go there.

The Asset moves north and east on foot, travelling by night, evading the blue lights and the military vehicles. Keeping to the shadows and roofs in the towns and then, when the houses fade away, to the fields.

It keeps moving for three more nights, seeking out deep cover during the day. The safehouse is still a long way off and the Asset is slowing down. The need for maintenance is increasing; the body it wears feels strange, uncoordinated. It needs the Handlers.

A civilian vehicle is parked at the edge of the dark highway. Figure standing at the side of the tarmac, back to the road. Urinating. Another figure in the driver's seat, looking at a handheld communications device, drinking from a bottle. It's the work of a moment to incapacitate the standing man; he's untrained, distracted, blind to the Soldier stepping out of the shadows behind him. The man falls to the ground silently. The one in the car doesn't even look up. The Soldier pulls him out of the car and punches him until he stops moving. The Soldier drags the men out into the fields and leaves them in a ditch. It gets into the driver's seat of the car and that's when it feels something. A fleeting sensation for the first time. Panic. The vehicle is full of gadgets, lights, buttons. It can't remember if it knows how to drive.

The Asset looks down. Sees the handheld device, a cell phone, and a container in the footwell; the civilian had been drinking from it. The Soldier knows this body requires sustenance. It has experienced several unexpected shutdowns since its Handlers disappeared which indicates it has been several days since it received any nutrition. There is a cramping pain in its stomach and limbs; a distant memory tells it fluids may help. It drinks the entire bottle; the brown liquid tastes of sickly sweet chemicals and tingles oddly in the mouth. The Soldier feels clearer. It lets its hands move and doesn't think. Metal fingers fumble the keys but the car starts and the Soldier finds that it does know how to operate the vehicle after all, even if it does not remember that.

The small computer in the dashboard gives the Soldier its orders. It follows them, driving slowly and carefully. In 2.3 hours the Soldier arrives in the city. It abandons the car in the city outskirts when it runs out of fuel and takes to the rooftops. It locates Safe House B5274 somehow, and scouts it out from an adjacent rooftop for 10 hours and forty-seven minutes. Both its hands itch for a rifle. There's no activity.

When it's fully dark, the Asset goes in. No Handlers are there to meet it, no Secretary Pierce and no STRIKE teams. The place is evacuated, cleared out. Just dust and echoes. The Asset searches the building top to bottom but there is nothing left. The location must have been compromised. The low treacherous thrum of panic is back and the Soldier feels its lung function decrease. It breathes slowly, and on a slow exhale remembers a secure place – there is a wall on the second floor that can be broken. The metal fist makes piecemeal of the plasterboard, and in the void behind is a box. The box contains a SIG-Sauer P220ST with three clips, a radio, a set of passports with no photos, and two tracking dots that can be operated by cell phone. Nothing else. The radio is dead when the Soldier tries it.

The Asset takes the gun and the tracking dots and abandons the safe house. Leaves the city and goes to ground in an empty factory on the outskirts. Then the Soldier just stops. The orders have run out. No Handlers have come. It has reported to the nearest safe house and no-one was there to receive it. The orders have run out.

The Asset goes into another unscheduled shutdown and when it reboots, it is lying on the hardwood floor and there is daylight outside the boarded up windows. It has been in low power mode for hours. Vulnerable. Anything could have happened. The building it is hiding inside is still empty, however; the factory must be abandoned. The Asset stands up to go to the window, but black specks swarm across its vision and without warning it shuts down again. This time the restart takes only a few seconds but it is disconcerting. Alarming. There is pain in the body. Throbbing in its head. Heavy and crushing in its chest beneath the arm, sparking with electricity up the metal limb. Cramping and urgent in its belly, throat, mouth. The flesh limbs shake. The Soldier finds a hose connected to a tap that still operates and drinks water until it is sick, and then drinks some more. The ache in its head and throat lessens but the stomach cramps remain. It is the body's warning klaxon, reminding the Asset that it still needs nutrients to function. Water alone is not enough - the body requires significant caloric intake to sustain activity over such a long period of time if it is not to be returned to the ice. But the Asset doesn't eat. It has never eaten. It is a machine. On missions it drinks nutrients from a bottle that a Handler gives it. When it is at a base, the Med techs recharge its biological systems with tubes into its nose or stomach. But now there is no one to connect up the feeding tube. There is no feeding tube. There is no food.

It was last fed at Base 52C7. The Ideal Federal Savings Bank; those words had been set into the floor in polished stone. The Asset had heard the Handlers being told not to bring it back to Base 52C7. The Handlers and agents often talk about the Asset while it is present, as if it is incapable of understanding them. As if they can shut it down with their inattention. But they trained it to infiltrate and record. To remember. It is not incapable of understanding, and when they let it, it remembers. The order not to return to Base 52C7 was an order for the Handlers, not for the Asset. The Asset can return there and not technically be in violation of an order. Then the body can be fed.

That conclusion makes the Soldier's brain feel odd, like what the fizzy brown liquid did to its tongue. Even if it isn't disobeying, this course of action still feels like defiance. The threat of punishment hangs over its head. Its heart beats faster and its breath gathers in close at the base of the throat.

It can do this. Go back to Washington. The Soldier thinks of the sirens and the tanks and helicopters it left behind. Law enforcement and military. They might be searching for the Asset and there may be pictures of the face now it had fought without a mask. That is a tactical problem. The Soldier does not want to be seen. The combat gear is no longer conducive to that goal. Now it must fully infiltrate into the populace, pass unseen amongst the regular civilians, if it is to reach Base 52C7 without assistance.

The Soldier searches the abandoned building and finds a room full of lockers. There are some clothes. A fluorescent yellow vest with reflective patches, dark blue overalls, brown boots. They smell of dust and old places. The overalls are large and they go on over its combat gear and the tac harness. The arm barely fits. If the Soldier has to fight, movement will be compromised. There are no gloves to hide the metal hand but in another locker there is a box labelled First Aid . Inside is a roll of bandage, yellowed with age. The Asset winds the strip of cloth down from the elbow to the wrist and around metal fingers. That will also compromise the limb's dexterity but at the moment concealment is more important to survival. The Asset is uncertain about the vest; it looks as if it will draw attention. But it is part of this uniform so perhaps omitting it will draw more attention still. It puts the vest on. It leaves the boots.

Even if the Asset could recall where it left the car it used, it would be too risky to go back there again. The vehicle was a recent model; no doubt it had a tracker installed. No use to it now. Instead, it goes out into the street and walks into the city, following the flow of civilians towards a rail station.

The Soldier is accustomed to looks of terror on the faces of its missions when they first see it, but no-one gives it a glance now. Even in the bright vest, it seems to be invisible. Despite that, the Soldier despises the crowd, too alert and tense under the potential scrutiny of so many people. There had been no mask in the workman's locker, nor hat to shade its face. Anyone might see it. The Asset keeps its head low. It has observed three law enforcement vehicles in the streets already, passing by. Outside the rail station itself are eight men in uniforms emblazoned with the letters PPD; all are armed with Glock handguns. Police. The Asset puts its head down and slips past them. None of the police look up.

The station itself is tactically unsound. Too many exits and access routes. Bad sightlines. Too many civilians. The echo of loud speakers and screech of machinery. The Asset has to stand in a shadowed corner for a while and just concentrate on levelling out the buzz of noise in its skull, on its erratic breathing, before it can proceed. The body is failing. It's been out of the ice too long.

There is a barrier across the walkway to the platforms blocked by small gates. The Soldier observes the other civilians using small cards to pass through. Tickets. The barriers are ineffective; the Asset could just as easily tear the gates off as jump the barrier. But the armed men, the PPD, are watching, and it does not want to draw any attention. It keeps the metal hand in its pocket, around the barrel of the gun.

The Soldier needs a ticket. It watches a civilian using a credit card to get a ticket using an automated machine. It lifts the wallet and cellphone out of the civilian's coat as he passes; the man doesn't even notice the Asset and walks away, ignorant of the theft. The Soldier is briefly baffled by the ticket machine. It has a flat screen with no buttons and is full of flashing, glaring lights and colours and coded orders that don't make sense. A voice nearby says;

"Hey. You wanna hurry up? Some of us got places to be."

It is a female civilian. 52kg, 1.58m, blue hair, piercings, tattoos. Not armed. Standing with weight all on the front leg, not combat trained. She would offer no difficulties; the Asset could kill her so silently that even the crowds around them would not see her fall. The metal hand hidden in the Asset's pocket scrunches into a fist. The Asset stares and then looks back to the machine.

"You need some help?" The female asks. Her voice is now softer, the Asset is not sure why. There was a question; it is supposed to respond to questions.

"The machine." The Soldier says. The voice that comes out is rough, barely audible, but it thinks the language is right. "I need...ticket. I don't..."

"Here," The civilian says, and leans in. The Soldier freezes. She is not the mission and it is not under orders to initiate civilian casualties this time. Steven Rogers. Natalia Alianovna Romanova. That is the mission. The Soldier is required to defend itself; it is a valuable asset. But the female is not combat trained. She is not armed. She is not a threat. She-

The female takes the card from its hand. The Soldier allows her to push past, although the servos in the metal arm whir and buzz. The Soldier forces the limb still. She is not the mission.

"Let's see now...Did you prepay?"

The Asset doesn't know what that means so it shakes its head.

The female says, "Ah, well, you can't get a ticket here, then. This is collection only. Gotta go to the window over there. I guess this is all tricky if you're not, you know, from here. What's that accent, anyway? Polish?"

The Soldier makes an uncertain humming noise. The female seems to take this as an affirmation.

"Right," she says, "Come on." The female continues to talk as she beckons the Soldier to follow her. "So where you headed? New York? Baltimore? Washington?"

"Washington," says the Asset, and adds; "End of the line."

"One way? You should get the Greyhound, slower but cheaper...No? Suit yourself, buddy."

The female leads the Asset to a line of people. They wait a short while and then the female goes up to a small window and talks to someone on the other side. She hands over the credit card and then receives it back with a piece of card. Then she takes a card out of her own pocket and goes through the process again. The Soldier waits in silence to one side until the female leaves the window. She comes over and holds out the ticket and the credit card.

"Here," she says, and the Asset takes the items. She smiles at it. "Well, I gotta head out, my train's about to leave. Good luck, James."

The civilian trots off into the crowd and has gone before the Asset recovers from the sound of that word. That name , the one that it is not allowed to even think of. It echoes inside the hollows that fill the Soldier like the voids in bone marrow.

It is only later it sees the name on the stolen credit card reads Dr. James Novak. The Asset is not aware of the concept of coincidence.

The Asset boards the train, keeps the body small and still, keeps the head down. One or two civilians glance at it, but no-one pays it any attention. The clothes make it invisible. It grips the gun tightly inside its pocket with its metal hand and folds itself into a seat. The flesh limbs are shaking again and the shuddering, clattering jerk of the train makes it feel nauseous and dizzy. Afraid. The lights from the window wash over it in silence.

The Soldier gets off the train in Washington. It knows that returning here will be dangerous. There will be enemies everywhere, watching the streets, the cameras. Workmen, such as its clothing suggests, are seldom paid much attention but there are others who can become utterly invisible in populated places. The Soldier finds the right kind of dingy alley, finds a bundle of discarded clothes wedged under a pile of cardboard boxes. It disposes of the workman's overalls, the vest and the stolen wallet, and puts on the clothes it finds over its combat gear. Layers of ragged cloth, stiff and stinking. A long shapeless coat to go over it all. And there's a hat, at last, scratchy grey wool that shadows its face. The Soldier leaves the alley and sets off on foot towards the base. Slow, shuffling. Head down. Now, no-one looks at it at all. Civilians, law enforcement, soldiers - they all pass by without a glance. Now, it is completely invisible.

It looks up to the sky, expecting smoke but there is none. Yes, of course. That was days ago. The fires will have burned out. Instead it sees its target's face, fluttering in the wind. There are words beneath: CAPTAIN AMERICA: THE LIVING LEGEND AND SYMBOL OF COURAGE. There is the word Smithsonian. Red, white and blue, a kaleidoscope of stars. The mission is pervasive. His name and his symbols have infected this land. The Asset sees them everywhere.

The Asset arrives at the Base 52C7 but the Ideal Federal Savings Bank building stands in the middle of a busy intersection. Trying to enter during daylight hours will attract attention. Bases must be protected at all costs. The Asset finds a doorway opposite the bank. It is not difficult to scare off the ragged civilian occupying the space and the Asset doesn't even need to draw a weapon; one look at the Asset's eyes and the man flees. The Asset takes his place, squatting down amongst sheets of cardboard and stained blankets. It waits.

Its eyes close briefly and the next thing the Soldier can be sure of is that it is night time. The roads are quiet. It is time to move out. The Asset crosses the road, moves down an alley that runs beside the base. There is a door; solid grey metal. Electronic keypad. The Soldier punches the lock mechanism until there is only a sparking hole in the wall and the door clicks open. It enters the base. There is lightness and darkness. Flickering shadows, full of ghosts and torn wisps of memory. Paper swirls through the still air. There's a room that makes its thoughts go numb. There should be a Chair, but this place is empty. It too has been emptied and then abandoned. Discarded. There should be a Chair. There should-

A hand on the flesh arm. The Soldier lurches back, ready to strike. A voice says:

"MPD! Stop right there! Don't move, pal."

Pal. The Asset stops, frozen in place. Bright beams of light are burning into its eyes, and it holds up an arm, blinking, turning away.

"What are you doing in here?" says one of the men. There are two of them. They wear police uniforms. That is bad; the Asset must not be seen. Law enforcement will interfere with its missions. It must not be seen or captured by law enforcement. The Soldier sees a gun then and the metal arm is starting to move on its own. No. No. Not the mission. These men are not the mission. But it must not be seen.

It could kill them both, in under two seconds. It should. There are no witnesses and it must stay hidden. A ghost. But, suddenly, it finds it doesn't want to kill them. Even when it is not sure what 'want' means. It is afraid.

"Hey! Didn't you hear me? I said, what are you doing here?" The tone is aggressive, dangerous. The gun is still drawn.

"Doug, leave off," says the second male, His voice is tired. "He's just a junkie."

The Soldier has yet to answer the question. It is still shielding its eyes from the flashlights, night vision burned away, tense and trembling and torn apart between opposing forces.

"I don't want to hurt anyone," it hears its own mouth say. "I'm looking for...It's empty."

"Jesus," mutters the second cop.

"Empty or not, this is private property," says the first male, the one with the callsign Doug , and then the man sighs and puts his gun away. "You have to go somewhere else to shoot up. Understand? Come on, get out."

The cop makes a sharp gesture towards the door, but he doesn't touch the Asset. The Asset stumbles anyway but makes it to the corridor. Up the stairs, and then out into the alley. The cops follow it out. The Asset keeps its chin low, doesn't look in their eyes.

"Now get lost. Don't come back here, alright?" says the cop called Doug.

"Yes, sir," says the Asset, and goes to turn away.

"Wait a second," says the other cop. He holds his torch up, shining the light bright in the Asset's eyes, looking at it's face. The Asset stands still, tense. The cop says; "You a vet? A soldier?"

"Yes, sir," says the Soldier.

The cop nods. "Yeah, thought so. My brother, he served. Iraq."

The Asset doesn't respond. The male leans forward holding its hand out. He is holding a bank note with the number 20 on it.

"Here," he says. "Look like you could use a bit of help."

The Asset takes the money in silence. It can't recall the word it ought to say.

"You need a medic for that hand?" The cop says. The Asset glances down and sees the bank note clutched in its left hand. The metal is still hidden beneath the bandages.

The Soldier shakes his head.

"Get yourself something to eat." The man says. "And there's a shelter two blocks over. Tell them Alan sent you. There's people who want to help. It might feel like it sometimes, but remember you're not alone, okay?"

"Now scram," says the cop called Doug, "and don't let us see you back here again, understand?"

The Soldier nods again. As it walks away it hears the man say: "You are such a sucker, you know that, right?"

The Soldier leaves. It walks. Its systems are continuing to fail. And this time its brain does not seem to be functioning either. The safe house was empty. The base was empty. Its Handlers have gone. It has been abandoned. Its work has been a gift to mankind, and yet it has been left behind.

An order. Someone had given it an order. Get yourself something to eat. The twenty crinkles in its metal fingers. The Asset finds a late night store – it takes cans off the shelves, bottles of water. Walks away. The money is gone. It thinks it paid for them.

It walks. Finds a ladder and climbs. Up on the roofs, amidst hissing ventilation pipes, fire escapes and the gleam of scattered light from frosted skylights the Soldier finally feels some comfort. It finds another abandoned building and hunkers down into a corner, walls at its back and side, the edge ahead and the cold of night settling into borrowed bones. But the fleeting glimpse of security the vantage offers is not enough to hold back the tide that is cresting over it. Its programming has failed. Its mission has failed. Now it's breathing fails too, chest constricted; its eyes malfunction and its fists are flying out, striking at nothing. Pain sparks up the metal arm like wildfire and across its back and into its lungs and a shutdown follows, hard and uncontrolled.

When it reboots, the Asset's face has had time to dry.

It has failed its mission. The man on the bridge. I'm not gonna fight you. The echo of a voice says Good luck, James . The very name makes the Asset nauseous, clammy cold sweat. Skin tingling in expectation of the stun batons. You know me , says another voice. Your name is James Buchanan Barnes. The Asset knows what James Barnes was. An American soldier, a criminal. The Asset knows what Barnes is now. Little shreds of ephemeral memory that get tangled up sometimes in its programming, like weeds in a net. James Barnes is dead. He is nothing more than a will-o'-the-wisp. A ghost.

The food cans are still lying by its foot. Eating the food was an implied sub-directive within the cop's order, so the Asset cuts the top of the cans off with its knife. The smell of the first can makes it retch before the food is even on its tongue. The Asset eats and waits. It is not long before its stomach is cramping, hard and painful, twisting like a knife blade under its ribs. The food comes spewing up, splattering the floor by its boots. It opens the second can, eats that. It shuts down for an hour this time before the body rejects the food once more. When daylight comes the third can goes the same way.

The water, at least, stays inside.

The Asset can barely feel the skin it wears so loosely now, wrapped over its bones like a body bag. Cold has seeped into the limbs, numbing its fingers, stiffening joints. Pain throbs with every breath, drawn in deep inside like it has swallowed knives. It has been abandoned.

It followed its orders until they ran out. Without orders, without Handlers, without weapons...It's programming turns through erratic, uncertain spirals. It has no Handlers. They did not come back. The Soldier failed its mission (it has never failed a mission). The Handlers take it away when its mission is completed. Take it away, tuck it safely back into the ice. Remove any requirement for thought. Neutralise the need for anything but safe, simple compliance.

Ready to comply.

It has never failed a mission. The man on the bridge. I want confirmed death in 10 hours . When Captain America is dead, the mission will be complete. When the mission is complete, the Handlers will return. They will fix the arm and take the hunger away. The Soldier can go back to the ice, where it can sleep. Where it belongs.

It will follow its programming. The Soldier has orders. It will see this mission through.

For that, it needs intel. Captain America, the Asset thinks. The living legend and symbol of courage.

The Smithsonian.