warning: flashbacks, recovery from injuries and mindcontrol, minor character death, violence, implied/referenced suicide

enjoy


Near the Potomac River

Washington DC

April 4, 2014

"People are going to die, Nik. I can't let that happen…. Please don't make me do this."

"You know me."

"Nik, you've known me your whole life. Your name is Niklaus Ansel Mikaelson."

"I'm not going to fight you. You're my friend."

"You're my mission. You're my mission."

"Then finish it. Cause I'm with you to the end of the line."

The Asset drops the Captain's waterlogged body on the banks of the Potomac River, both of them barely visible among the scraggly trees lining the shore.

The Captain's head lolls against the scratchy grass, damp hair tangling amongst the weeds, water gushing from his gaping mouth. Between the garishly-colored armor of his uniform, his chest rises and falls, barely. His face, carved from marble, is wan, a nasty scar running along the right side of his face.

The Asset glances down at Captain's body, stepping away from him slowly and with caution. As it eyes the Captain's prominent nose and proud chin and closed eyelids covering what it somehow knows to be cornflower-blue gaze, there is a warm sensation in the Asset's chest, one that causes it to flinch.

Because it knows that with that warm sensation comes the crackle of electricity around its head, pain pain pain, mingling with the sharp odor of ozone in the air. And the screams screams screams.

The Asset startles away from the Captain's body, retreating into the tree line.

It has failed.

In an incredibly rare circumstance in all of the years spent as HYDRA's Asset, it has failed its mission.

It is to be expected to report back to its handlers, and they shall handle it and its failure as they deem accordingly.

As the Asset moves to trudge away from the shore, a glint of light draws its attention, and it turns to see the Captain's drying hair glinting gold in the midday sunlight.

Gold

-under the bright, hazy summer sun, shaggy, covering the earnest cornflower-blue gaze of the pale, delicate boy whose familiar laughter breaks off into scratchy wheezing and shortness of breath, waving the concerned older boy besides him, saying, "I'm fine, Nik."

"Fine?" repeats an incredulous, accented voice, "I suppose you were fine after the O'Connell boys beat you bloody in an alley last week when you ran your mouth at them."

"They were askin' for it, you jerk," the boy tells him playfully before sobering. "They were glancin' up some dame's skirt!"

"You never will change, will ya, punk?" The older boy shakes his head in disbelief. As the other boy's coughing persists, he glances at him worriedly. "C'mon, your ma will know what to do for ya, mate."

Gold

-sliding through his fingers of his human hand, all silky-smooth and curling, face burrowing in an expanse of soft, creamy skin as he trails tender kisses down her navel, her breathy gasps sounding above him.

"Nik!"

Gold

-slipping through his narrow fingers as they catch on rough tangles and lumps, brush snagging clumps of blonde.

"Ow! Nik!" hisses the little blond girl by his feet in a proud accent as he sits above on the ratty couch, two human hands moving quickly over her hair. "Be gentle!"

"Gentle, Bekah?" the brother snorts. "I have to meet Steve. I am braiding your hair as quickly as I can."

"Please, Nik, do it gentler?" she asks, demand phrased as a sincere request, her blue eyes large and beseeching.

There is wetness gathering at the corners of the Asset's eyes, unfamiliar dampness trailing down its cheeks.

It frowns. Brings a fingertip of its organic hand to swipe at liquid and places the finger in its open mouth, against its tongue.

The wetness taste salty, but it is simply water.

The Asset's frown becomes more pronounced.

This is not optimal.

The wetness is leaking faster and faster from its eyes, falling down its face in more alarming quantity. The Asset's chest begins to heave, sighs and inhuman sounds ripping from its mouth. There is a hand clamping down on its heart.

Despite all of this, the Asset is confused. It has never experienced this, this experience before.

"It needs maintenance. The Asset is experiencing malfunctions. It is not in optimal condition," the Asset says tonelessly aloud with practiced patience.

XX

Ideal Federal Savings Bank

Washington DC

April 4, 2014

Clearing the lobby of the abandoned bank in minutes, the Asset is able to navigate its way to the underground vault on instinct; it has done this several times before, not that it remembers, but it knows.

It finds, from the dozens of crews always present during his mission prep and recovery, only two technicians.

They are working frantically, dismantling the Chair as quickly as they seem to be able to. The older technician, mid-forties, Hispanic, with bags under his eyes and dressed in an olive uniform, is using a lever twice the width of his skinny wrist to pry the Chair from where it is bolted securely to the ground. They appear too much in a panic and rush to notice the Asset.

The Asset takes his position near the open door to the vault. The technicians are currently preoccupied with their task; when they are done, they will attend to the Asset.

The time taken for the technicians to notice the Asset is longer than the Asset would like, but it is use to such delay. It knows this fact like it knows certain others; the Asset's condition is secondary to all other HYDRA-related tasks, unless the mission will be compromised or affected by its state of being.

435 seconds later, the younger technician, Caucasian, dark hair, early thirties, finally spots the Asset and leaps away from the Chair in surprise, shouting loudly, "What the fuck?"

The other technician whirls around, lever in hand, gaze travelling wildly around the vault. When his dark eyes eventually settle on the Asset, they dilate with terror. "It's the Asset!" he tells his companion.

"No fucking duh!" the younger technician replies, mouth tensing as he sneaks a glance at the Asset. It doesn't need to hear the technicians' rapidly-beating hearts; it can sense their obvious panic and terror.

"What?" The older technician stiffens, attempting to put on a show of confidence in front of the Asset. He meets the Asset's steely gaze, unable to hide his trembling stance.

The Asset is confused; the question is not specific enough for it to answer. It is too used to direct questions and orders.

Some of its confusion must evidently show on its face, because the younger technician rolls his eyes, visibly gaining his composure before the Asset. "It can't answer that; Rumlow and the rest of STRIKE never asked it such vague questions." He faces the Asset, addressing it as one would their disobedient dog. "What do you need?"

This is not optimal. These technicians are not used to interacting with the Asset, but, either way, the Asset needs assistance.

"The Asset needs maintenance. It is not in optimal condition for missions. It is malfunctioning," the Asset tells the technicians in a simple, practiced monotone.

The older technician evidently considers his possible choices about facing the Asset before simply indulging his own curiosity. "How is the Asset malfunctioning?"

"The Asset is experiencing tightness in its chest. Earlier, it experienced a leakage in the form of dampness from the eyes," the Asset recites dutifully.

Both technicians react differently from as the Asset's usual handlers would. The younger technician gapes at the Asset; the older technician looks on at the Asset with an expression of what it identifies to be pity.

The older technician steps towards the Asset carefully, hands held out in a placating manner. Gently, he says, "It sounds as if you were experiencing grief or sadness. You were crying."

"Crying?" the Asset repeats, dumbfounded.

The younger technician swallows roughly, whispering to the older technician, "This is fucked up. It doesn't even know that it was crying." He seems unaware that the Asset's enhanced senses allow it to overhear the hushed conversation. Turning back to the Asset with sympathy in his eyes, he tells the Asset, "You're free, man. HYDRA's gone; Pierce's dead. STRIKE is displaced across the city, most arrested. Rumlow's in the hospital; Rogers will take him into custody soon."

"The Asset requires assistance," the Asset declares with more force in his tone.

The older technician turns sharply to face the Asset. "HYDRA is gone, dead, over. You don't need to serve them anymore. Get your life back. We've gotta to take this place apart anyways before SHIELD can sweep in. The less evidence for them, the better."

The Asset frowns; this is not ideal, not ideal at all. It still requires maintenance. It tells the technicians so.

"Poor SOB," the younger technician whispers into the hushed silence of the room. "I don't think he knows who he used to be; that's fucked up. He's been wiped too many times."

The Asset is displeased by the technicians' ineffectiveness. With one swift move, it slides a gun from the holster strapped to its right thigh and shoots the younger technician in the head, replacing the gun to the holster.

Before the older technician can blink at his companion's body, the Asset locks him into a chokehold, hissing into his ear, "The Asset requires maintenance. You are unable to give that maintenance. Per to HYDRA policy, you are to be eliminated."

"HYDRA doesn't exist anymore," the older technician chokes out in reply, tugging at the unyielding weight of the Asset's metal arm on his throat. "You have no orders, no policies."

The Asset tightens its hold on the older technician's throat.

The technician is beginning to gasp, body growing pliant as the Asset drags him backwards, body at an angle.

"Wait, wait," the technician whimpers. "Please, don't. I'm married. I have a family; I have a daughter."

Something that statement gives the Asset pause. Its metal arm loosens from around the technician's throat, and the technician's body drops to the floor.

The technician scrambles to his feet and flees the vault in a blur of olive-grey.

The Asset's gaze travels around the bank vault, focusing on the remains of the damaged Chair.

It requires maintenance, but it will not find it here.

The Asset must wait.

XX

Washington DC

April 5, 2014

The Asset has been on its own for 34 hours; it has never been without HYDRA or supervision from its handlers for so long.

Or so it thinks.

HYDRA has not come after it, and the Asset doesn't think they will it. For the supposed fist of HYDRA, the Asset does not seem to be very high on the organization's list of priorities.

It had, of course, followed all the precautions drilled into its subconscious.

They are:

In case of a compromised mission, report to the HYDRA base.

Otherwise, report to the designated HYDRA safe house.

If all else fails, procure a disguise and shelter and wait to be found.

The Asset had reported to the HYDRA base (the bank vault) and found no personnel except for the technicians.

Hence, that precaution had failed.

Next, the Asset had proceeded to the designated HYDRA safe house (a warehouse on the edge of the city) and found it empty.

That precaution had also failed.

The Asset is on its third precaution, having procured a disguise (denim trousers, a long-sleeved shirt, a hooded jacket, and gloves to hide its inorganic hand) and supplies (a backpack to contain its HYDRA uniform, a week worth of MREs, bottled water, and currency from three different countries besides the United States dollar) and shelter (an empty alley behind an abandoned building).

The Asset is to wait for 96 hours after a compromised mission if extraction or backup never comes before performing the final precaution:

Death. Induced by, in worst case scenarios, the cyanide pill hidden in a panel in the Asset's metal thumb.

The Asset is a weapon, and a weapon could fall into the wrong hands.

HYDRA will find the Asset.

XX

Washington DC

April 6, 2014

It has now been 50 hours.

The Asset is not sure if HYDRA is coming.

As the deadline of 96 hours grows closer, the Asset grows twitchier and twitchier.

It has not moved from its spot in the alley for over 24 hours. The week worth of MREs has now dwindled down to enough for two days' supply.

It is evident that the organizer of the supply of MREs did account for them to be eaten by someone with an enhanced biology similar to the Asset's. The organizer also did not account for the Asset's inability to keep solid food down for the first 28 hours.

As the Asset waits in the alley, it ponders what the technicians had told it.

HYDRA is gone; the Asset is free?

What is freedom?

XX

Washington DC

April 7, 2014

Freedom, the Asset decides, is the ability to choose by oneself.

The Asset learns the definition of freedom when it runs out of MREs.

For the first time in 48 hours, it leaves its spot in the alley and wanders the streets, never straying further than several miles of its alley, in pursuit of nourishment.

It finds a cart selling something soft and creamy and cold in a cone, and, unable to find another option, it decides that that something soft and creamy and cold is what the Asset needs for nourishment.

The Asset watches two young women, hands clasped tightly together, order a serving of that something soft and creamy and cold.

When they leave, the Asset approaches the vendor in the manner it had observed the women do earlier. "One scoop," it says in a raspy voice.

"What flavor?" the vendor asks, attention focused on his cart.

The Asset is dumbfounded, gaping at the vendor in confusion. "Flavor?" it repeats in confusion.

The vendor seems to take pity on the Asset, because he says gently, "Yeah. I've got strawberry, chocolate, vanilla, Neapolitan…" He lists several more flavors.

"What's Neapolitan?" the Asset asks wearily.

"It's a combination of chocolate, vanilla, and strawberry," the vendor tells it patiently.

"Neapolitan, then," the Asset decides. "One scoop." There is a sharp, not unpleasant, spark in the back of his mind, glowing warm but not hot.

"That'll be $1.50."

The Asset forks over the exact amount in cash and wanders away before tasting its ice cream.

In that moment, the Asset decides that freedom is the tartness of strawberry, the rich sweetness of chocolate, and the smoothness of vanilla.

Freedom is the taste of ice cream it chose on its tongue, the echo of pleasure, of satisfaction, in its mind.

The Asset likes freedom.

XX

Washington DC

April 9, 2014

The 96-hour mark comes and passes, the Asset using its freedom to make its largest choice yet.

The Asset chooses to ignore HYDRA's orders, HYDRA's precautions.

It pries the cyanide pill from its thumb and tosses it into the Potomac.

Freedom and choices belong to the Asset, and HYDRA will never take that away from the Asset again. The Asset will never return to HYDRA.

That is the Asset's choice.


sorry for the lack of updates, but don't expect any lengthy chapters anytime soon. updates will come, but slowly. i'm sorry.

if you enjoyed the chapter or have any comments, concerns, or suggestions, you know where to find me below (or princess-of-the-worlds on tumblr).