Chapter Text
The team that had taken it out hadn’t cared what would happen to it. They had been young, and foolish, the son of so-and-so along with his sadistic friends, given power beyond what they had earned.
They are toying with it and not letting it do its job of keeping the area secure, and when they are compromised and it takes a bullet to the gut protecting them, they opt to leave it behind.
It sees the team flee, the tires of the jeep kicking up dust and gravel in the night. It thinks about how it will be punished once it is retrieved. The organization that had bought it recently is rarely pleased with it.
It could be peaceful to bleed out like this. The pain is almost nothing compared to the process of entering or waking from cryo, and it takes a hand away from its abdomen and looks at the dark, shiny blood on its fingertips—the literal life draining out of it and a promise of rest.
“Fuck, it’s—! Why is he—”
“—our intel didn’t say—”
“Stay back! It could be a trap—”
It begins to think—hope—it has lost enough blood that even the serum won’t save it. It can’t help but smile a little at that. People don’t like it when it does stuff like smile. Too human, they say. They don’t like it when it seems human, when it isn’t.
The boys that took it out today had thought it was funny when it cried, and they especially thought it was funny when it screamed like a “wounded mutt”.
The noises and faces surrounding it now are blurring. There might have been the muzzle of a gun pressed against its head at some point, and then some more yelling.
Why haven’t they pulled the trigger? If these people are really its enemy, they should pull it.
“—but why would thugs like them have access to—”
“—it was Cesare, his son—”
“—they’ll want him back.”
Please, pull it. Pull the trigger, please.
“Those injuries… what were they doing to—”
Its eyelids grow heavy. It feels a warm hand on its face before it blacks out.
It wakes up in a cold, sterile room that is empty and silent. It tries not to groan as it sits up to look at its abdomen. Its weapons and mask are gone and it has been changed into loose, light clothing. It lifts up its shirt and looks underneath it. Its wound has been cleaned up and its torso tightly bandaged.
Another day to serve.
It is painful and itchy as the wounded flesh stitches itself together, but it ignores it. There is always pain and there is always discomfort. It is important to ignore it. It is important to stay quiet.
There is a surveillance camera overlooking the room and a long glass mirror along the wall. It slides off the cot and stiffly gets onto its knees, its hands behind its back, its head down low. Even if there is no one in the room with it, it is likely being observed. Now that it is awake, it needs to wait for its next orders. It will rest when it is told to.
A door in the corner of the room abruptly opens. A large man approaches with brisk steps, another man and a light-footed woman following close behind.
“Steve, I don’t think you should—”
The large man stops in front of it.
“Do you know me?”
It carefully glances up. It doesn’t risk meeting the speaker’s eye.
It doesn’t recognize this man. It hasn’t been given any orders related to this particular person, so it looks back down at the floor and stays silent.
“Soldat. Answer the question. That is an order,” the woman says in Russian.
It looks up in surprise. It is no longer in Russia, it had been bought by Americans. Has it been brought—or stolen—back?
“You heard your Kapitan. Answer the question,” the woman says.
Its Captain?
It looks nervously at the man who had addressed it before. The man’s intensity and stature clearly indicate he is the highest rank among the three people in the room.
Authority usually means pain.
“It does not recognize the Kapitan,” it responds, head down.
“Speak English here,” the woman says.
It bows its head lower. “I-it… it does not recognize the Captain.”
Out of the corner of its eye, it can see the man’s right hand curl into a fist. It braces itself.
“‘It’? What the hell… what is he saying?”
“Steve—”
“The hell did they do to him this time—why would he—!”
The woman takes a step forward, closer to the large man.
“There are processes to… wipe him, make him obedient. It makes sense that he would go through these after a transfer.”
“And I suppose the rest of it was just a part of breaking him in—!”
“Steve.”
The man storms out of the room. The entire wall rattles as he slams the door closed. The two others remain behind.
“Look up at me,” the woman says to the Asset. It raises its head.
“Do you know where you are?” the woman asks. It looks over the room and then shakes its head.
“This is a recovery room in a facility belonging to the Avengers.”
She looks at its face carefully, as if to gauge for a reaction. Maybe the Avengers had been related to one of its previous missions, but it cannot recall. It is only ever given what it needs for its current mission.
“You are now under the custody of the Avengers. You will not be returning to the cartel. Do you understand?”
So it was stolen by these people. It wants to scoff a little. The cartel didn’t know what it was capable of, they had wasted its potential, and now they had lost it. The fools. Maybe these so-called Avengers will understand how to use it.
“Understood,” it says.
“We will keep you safe, but if you harm anyone in this facility, or attempt to escape, you will be dealt with accordingly. Do you understand?”
Keep it safe? The idea of protecting it, instead of it doing the protecting, sounds odd to it.
“Understood. Who is to be its new handler?”
“Your new handler is the man who was here before, Captain Steven Rogers. I am your second handler, Natasha Romanov. If you are given conflicting orders, the Captain’s orders are to override mine.”
The remaining man takes a step forward. “Nat, are you sure Steve is fit to—”
The woman raises a hand, silencing the man. She looks over the Asset carefully, searching for something in its face. It looks back at her.
“It will be okay. Steve will do what he needs to,” she says.
The man sighs and shakes his head. “This doesn’t feel right.”
“There’s nothing right about this, Sam,” the woman says. She turns her attention back to the Asset. “Are we understood, Soldat?”
“Understood. What are its current orders?”
“Rest so you can heal. Await further instruction from Rogers. Carry on.”
It relaxes its hands from behind its back. The woman looks over it with what looks like a faint—gentle?—smile and gives a small nod. The two leave without glancing back and it hears the door click closed.
It gets up off its knees and sits back on the cot. It must adapt quickly to this new organization, follow orders, do well, and prove itself.
It is alone in the room but it feels like it is still being observed. It glances over at the camera and the mirror. A brief image of blue eyes with flecks of green flashes in its mind.
It runs a hand over the shirt it is wearing. It is soft and smells familiar—comforting. It gently pinches and rubs the fabric between its metal fingers, trying to feel it with its sensors. It gets a faint signal of “soft” and “smooth”, but not much else.
It smooths over the fabric of its shirt, lies down, and closes its eyes.