At the end of the drop teams stint with it- to the first check-in, seventy-two hours into the mission- only twenty-two percent of the suspect area had been combed. Fox accepted it's newest update to orders- complete all objectives, collateral damage not limited- and kept it's head bowed submissively until the plane was off the ground and the Handler no longer close enough for his dominance to be applied, then immediately set off to continue the search. Calculations stated that it could increase the percentage covered to twenty-nine before sundown, thirty-six without breaks for refueling.

In the back of it's head, a small voice was whispering, tick-tock, tick-tock, I'm a clock. It wasn't familiar, the voice, or the saying, but it didn't matter. There was work to be done.

Sixty-four percent of the open wood had been put behind it with no sign of anything but the animals that lived there before it spotted the first clue. Ten days after the mission start, two more checkpoints down, and the clue is a thin, clear line stretched between two trees, one end tied tight around a trunk and the other stretching off to another tree, then to another, then finally up to a limb, seven feet off the ground, where it was connected to a six-inch line of little silver bells. A crude sort of alarm, it decided, and carefully stepped over the line so as to keep it's presence hidden. It watched everything more closely now- if the rogue had even sense of purpose to rig alarms, possibly lethal traps weren't much of a stretch.

This proved true about five yards west, where another line had been rigged, close to the ground, tied to a branch stabbed through with fifteen long nails, set so that stepping on or pushing the line would send the branch into either the head, neck, or upper chest. It was a clever set up, Fox could admit. This asset had been the best, before it went rogue, and it would take more than a keen eye to track it down.

A bit more searching made the area seem less like a perimeter and more like a gauntlet of challenges. Alarms lead to branches, branches led to a scattering of pitfalls, pitfalls led to snares and a few small explosives. At last, the traps stopped, and in a tiny clearing that was still protected from above by the thick canopy it found the Rogue's camp, but not the rogue asset. A small ring of stones around a burned hole of ashes was set in the exact center of the clearing, with a drying rack of furs to one side. A pair of branches had been set in the ground, a string between them holding a line of fish over the flames. At the northernmost edge of the camp, two massive boulders had formed a sort of lean-to with a thick tree, and that sheltered space had been lined with the tarp and tent from the survival crate it suspected the Rogue had acquired before it left New York. A stack of furs had been layered over each other towards the back, where it was most protected from the elements, with the sleeping roll- again from the crate- folded neatly at one end. A duffle bag was tucked into a corner close to the makeshift bed. It suspected that the rogue had made sure there was an escape route near the bed, in case it needed a quick out.

Though careful not to touch anything, or leave any sign it had been there, Fox got right up to the edge of the... nest, it supposed the word would do. It smelled musty, with a tang of old blood and sweat, but underneath that was a distinct human scent. Still careful not to disturb anything, it pulled the bagged scrap of fabric from the pocket it had been stored in and tore the plastic open, bringing the scrap to it's face and scenting it. The human scent was easily identified. Target acquired.

A leaf crunched beyond the edge of the tree line, and that was all the warning it could expect. Rather than wait for the Rogue to act, Fox spun and launched at the sound- and the under prepared rogue. Even after nearly two and a half weeks, the rogue's skills were top notch- it reacted to the attack quickly enough to avoid debilitating injury and throw Fox past it and into a tree. Fox rolled to it's feet and threw itself forth again, pulling a blade from it's sheath as it went, and the Rogue abandoned deflections in favor of quick dodging and quicker blows. Even moving faster, each hit packed power, and the ones Fox couldn't avoid ached, but it had been prepared for this- the mission file had stated the Rogue would not come quietly, and that it favored lethal attacks, in whatever forms were most readily available. But, even as Fox pulled out another blade for attacks, then a shock stick when the first blade was wrenched from it's grasp, the Rogue didn't cause any injures beyond bruises. Even as it calculated openings and points where it should prepare for potentially lethal attacks, the Rogue didn't take kill shots. It didn't register at first, but after the fight passed the two minute mark, it came up as a calculated varable- the rogue was actively avoiding debilitating or lethal attacks.

This was something it could use, it decided, and moved to a series of strikes that would leave no room for anything but a serious injury to counter. The calculations were right- The rogue hesitated for just a second when the opening came, and that was all it took. The shock stick came around and connected to the rogues exposed neck, and when the electricity locked it's muscles and dropped it to the dirt, Fox followed it down, keeping contact until the Rogues eyes rolled. Target disabled. Call in for extract.

Fox wound nylon ropes around the Rogue to keep it disabled once it recovered from the shock, arms locked behind it and legs pulled tight together, then directed it's attention to the optical display, preparing a message for the extraction team, only for it to display an error message. 'No Signal.' It would have to get closer to civilization to call in Extract, it decided, and with the sun already dropping towards the horizon, it wouldn't be able to navigate as effectively through the maze of traps, especially carrying the added weight of the rogue. They would have to stay in the camp until dawn.

It glanced around the camp once more, taking stock of everything around them and what weapons were lying about before focusing on the Rogue and waiting for it to recover enough to be mostly functional. It flicked it's gaze everywhere before focusing on Fox in return. Fox spoke first. "Status report."

The rogue stared. "Who are you?"

Fox narrowed it's eyes, both at the wording and the insubordination. "Relay Status report," It repeated.

The rogue twisted in it's bindings, then looked at Fox again. "How did you find me?"

Fox pursed it's mouth and glared. "Relay Status Report," it repeated in a growl, "Authorization Code- Pierce."

The rogue froze up for a moment, the wildness in it's eyes flickering away for a moment, and it opened it's mouth as if to answer before the wildness returned and it snapped it's jaw shut with a snap. "I'm not a Machine," it snarled.

Fox bared its teeth. "You are Asset File Seven, Winter Soldier Program, Asset listed as Assault and Threat Elimination Specialist. You are a weapon, and a Rogue Program, and you must be contained before harm comes to the general populace." It's voice was gritty and winded, as if it had been used little in a long time, but no less forceful and authoritative.

The Rogue sneered. "So you memorized my file? You know what they've got in yours?"

"Asset file Three, Foxhole Program, Asset listed as Strategy, Tracking and Containment Specialist. I am a weapon, low risk of programming failure or error, and must return you to Handlers As Ordered before continuing with secondary objectives. Relay Status Report, Asset. Now."

The rogue glared at it with a very human-like hate in it's eyes. Fox silently and internally determined that it's programming had erred far worse than was reported- the two of them, they were not people, and they were programmed to acknowledge that. They were weapons, and the highest quality or their kind. Rogue finally spat out, "Five hours since I last ate, ten since I last slept, Eighteen Days since I started fixing myself."

Fox stared it down. "Repairs were unauthorized and faulty. Efficiency?"

Rogue glared darker. "I could walk non-stop for about twelve hours before I had to stop. Give or take ten minutes for possible refueling."

"Damages?"

"I'm fine," Rogue hissed at Fox. "Better than I've been in years."

"Lying."

The Rogue went silent for a moment while Fox stirred the coals in the fire and added a small amount of wood. "...What?"

"You lied. I asked for damages- your arm is malfunctioning and your programming is scrambled. Mental state has declined since escape, Efficiency has deteriorated, Mission Effectiveness is failing. Unfit for deployment. Submit for maintenance." It was stated as a fact, because that was what it was, but the Rogue seemed to strongly disagree. It immediately tensed and started struggling against it's bindings again, trying to break the rope through brute strength, but the electric shock had done damage to it's mechanized arm, which was no longer responding. Fox grabbed it by the chin and turned it's face up. "Submit for maintenance or you will be disabled."

"Go to hell!" It spat, but after a few more seconds of fruitless struggling, it went limp in grudging submission. Fox wasted no time, promptly conducting a cursory search for any damages it hadn't noticed already, then moving to address the damaged arm. Fox had only been given cursory information on maintenance for the mechanics of it, enough to ensure that both assets could get to the extraction point without having to leave anything important behind, but it was enough to get the arm functional at the minimum.

The rogue didn't speak again.