Asset

The Asset reboots, retching.

It takes a moment to determine that it is seated in The Chair. That brings an odd sensation bubbling up its chest that the Asset cannot compute. The Chair is what it needs, the Asset knows this. But it's always the mission report first, then maintenance, then the chair. Then, after everything is done, the blissful, agonising cool nothing of the ice. But never the Chair first...they haven't debriefed it yet. The Asset has never failed a mission, that's what they tell it. Captain America is still alive, so the mission is not over. They shouldn't wipe it before the mission is complete.

But it has been a long time since the last wipe. Too long. The Asset is unstable. Erratic. It needs this. The Asset would beg for the wipe now, if it was allowed to beg. If it was allowed words. It would plead for them to scour the Soldier clean, from the inside out. To scrub away the endless whispers of James Barnes echoing around inside its head. To be cleansed, unpolluted of that unquiet spirit, no matter how painful.

There is something else though. Its situational awareness isn't usually so slow to come online but...the restraints are wrong. Its arms are in the wrong place. The band over its chest is too tight; it is crushing the air out of its lungs. The Asset's hands clench up; it feels a tremor passing up the arm and into Barnes' body. The skin burns and crawls over its bones. The Soldier's breath stutters, and the air is like fire. There's a voice somewhere. Secretary Pierce? Field Handler Rumlow? The voice says, Bucky, please. And it says Breathe. You're safe. The Asset doesn't know what that means. Someone touches its shoulders, its face. It takes 4.5 minutes for the oxygen saturation in Barnes' body to fall below minimum operational levels. The Soldier shuts down.

Next time it reboots, the Soldier recognises that it is seated in just a chair, and not in The Chair. For one thing, the Asset's hands are bound tight behind the chair back and not on the usual arm rests at its sides. There is no halo of wires over Barnes' head. The med techs and laboratory staff are not there. Secretary Pierce is not there. The Mission is not there. There is a black man in a dark jacket sitting on a red couch across the room, well out of arm's reach. He is not holding a weapon that the Asset can see, but there is a telltale crease to the jacket.. Shoulder holster on the right. Maybe left too.

The Asset keeps its head lowered while its eyes quickly scan the room. There are two doors, both internal; one shut, one open. Sight of a hallway beyond. Plain, wood-beam ceiling. A window, shuttered closed. Fireplace, not lit. Weapons: a lamp with around two metres of cable, some sticks of furniture, a table. Glass fronted picture frames on the walls. Their bootlaces. His arm.

The Mission is nearby. The Asset can hear him breathing. He's through the open door, perhaps, out of sight, but watchful. Listening.

All this adds up to one conclusion. The Asset has been captured. The Asset has failed its mission. Acid burns into its stomach at the realisation, skin crawls and heart stutters, uncomfortably. Pain in the shoulder, back, leg - a minor bullet wound. The body requires repair.

"Hey," says the black man. His voice is quiet, artificially mild. Controlled. "You're awake."

The Asset waits, staring at the floor. There have been no instructions issued. It cannot comply.

"We haven't been properly introduced," the man continues. "Although you might remember the time you shredded my wing and kicked me off a roof. Ring any bells?"

There is a touch of dry sharpness to the man's tone. The Asset observes that, files it away. But it does not remember the incident the man spoke of, so it does not issue a response.

"Anyway," the man continues. "No hard feelings, I guess. I can let bygones be bygones, provided you stop trying to kill us. Think there's any chance of that?"

The man has still not given an order that the Asset understands, so it again does nothing. But the Soldier's mind is whirring. It is waiting for orders on instinct, but if it has fought this man then he surely must be an enemy. He is not a Mission, but he is also not a Handler or STRIKE or a med tech. His status in the chain of command is uncertain at this time.

"Okay, well let's pretend you didn't blank me and instead said a hearty 'yes' to that. So, moving on." The man is continuing to talk. "Here we go, clean slate, like we're meeting for the first time. My name is Sam, Sam Wilson. What is your name?"

The Asset feels surprise. The Soldier is always known. Its victims, if they are given the chance to see the Winter Soldier approaching; they know. They see the Asset and they know that they are looking at their death. And its masters know, of course, better than the Soldier does itself. They are the ones who tell the Soldier what it is when it has just crawled blank and empty from the ice. It is the Winter Soldier. The Cold Death. The Ghost. No one asks.

There has been a long silence. Sam Wilson sits forward. "You know my name now, so it's only fair," he is saying. "You must have a name. Come on, tell me what people call you."

An order. A strange order from an unknown agent, but, at this time, it will be easier to obey. It's always easier to obey.

"Cолдат."

Sam Wilson does not move but his eyes widen a little as if he is surprised that the Asset spoke, even though he ordered it to. Then his eyes narrow again, and he is speaking, even as he pulls out a cellphone and taps the screen a few times.

"Look, man, I don't speak Russian but even I can figure that one out. I am not calling you 'Soldat'. Might as well go the whole nine yards and call you 'Mister Fist-of-HYDRA'. Pick something else."

"Aктив."

Sam Wilson frowns down at the phone, which must be translating. "'Asset'? Jesus. Nope. Try again."

"Призрак," The Asset says, but Sam Wilson shakes his head. When the Asset glances up it sees his mouth is turned down but he doesn't look angry.

"How do you feel about Barnes?" Sam Wilson asks, slowly. "Or James. I thought you might want to-"

The Asset throws itself forward, wrenching on its bound arms. It does not get free, but the chair tips a little and there is the sound of grinding metal in its shoulder. Sam Wilson jerks back.

"Hет." The Soldier spits out through the blinding pain shooting down its side. "No."

Not that, never that. The correction required for such a breach of behaviour would be...extreme. The Asset does not say that name, even if it sometimes thinks of it. This is a test.

"Okay, take it easy," Sam Wilson says, and his voice is calm and level again. "Okay. Not that. I'm not trying to upset you or force you to do anything you don't want. I'll just call you Winter Soldier for now, and you let me know if you think of another name you would prefer. You've been pretty sick over the last few hours, so you must be hungry and dehydrated. Want to try eating something?"

The Asset returns to its silence. It still isn't sure what 'want' means.

Sam Wilson stands up and goes to the open door. "So, Winter Soldier," he is saying. He comes back carrying a plastic bowl and a spoon. "Can't let you out of those cuffs, I'm afraid. Not while Ste- Not until we can be sure where your head is at. So I'll feed you; might be humiliating but hey, you get to eat. I swear I won't make airplane sounds."

But the Asset doesn't eat. It has never eaten. Sam Wilson cannot be a Handler if he doesn't know that. Unless this is another test. A punishment. It failed its mission, after all. Captain Rogers is still alive and failure must always be punished.

Sam Wilson pulls up a chair and sits down right in front of the Soldier, holding the bowl out. If it had its hands free, the Asset could kill Sam Wilson eleven different ways without even using the spoon. As it is, its hands might be bound, but the Asset's head isn't restrained and its mask is gone. When this Sam Wilson leans forward, the Asset could rip his throat out using its teeth. Or it could smash its forehead into Sam Wilson's face, and force shards of broken nose up into his brain. It could throw its weight backwards, smash the chair against the floor, drive a shard of the wood through Sam Wilson's eye socket...

"They used to eat this kind of crap all the time back in your day, I'm told," Sam Wilson is saying. "So it's something that might be familiar at least. Open wide."

The Asset's programming obeys the order and the spoon is shoved in. The Asset's mouth is filled up with a slurry of lukewarm mush, a coating of off-white slime with small, soft lumps pressed against its tongue. The Asset freezes, holding the stuff between its teeth, and looks down at the bowl. White, like pus, with small, bloated maggot bodies floating to the congealed surface. The Soldier suddenly remembers a girl it once saw in a humid rainforest, only a week dead but swelled up in the heat. A Handler had nudged the corpse with his boot, and the swollen skin had split and maggots and filth had poured out and spilled onto the ground. Now they're sitting innocently in that bowl.

"I know plain porridge is possibly the most bland, boring foodstuff in the world," Sam Wilson is saying. "But I have no idea how messed up the drugs and sedatives have left you, and you've gotta eat something man. It's not going to do you any good to just sit there with your mouth full. Come on, swallow."

The Asset complies, and the pus slides down Barnes's throat. Sam Wilson puts two more spoonfuls of maggots into its mouth before the Asset starts to cry. By the fifth spoonful, its stomach contorts and the maggots fill its mouth all over again. This punishment is stinking and noisy and horrible, and it doesn't want to think any more about dead girls or memories it's not supposed to have. Doesn't want to think about how it might have failed its mission, or that it is alone. The Asset finds a dark, quiet place in the back of James Barnes' mind, and it folds itself up inside and everything goes away.


Cолдат - Soldier
Aктив - Asset
Призрак - Ghost
Нет - No