Chapter Text
Steve steps out of the quinjet and into the inky dark of early morning. After a particularly grueling three-day mission, he’s filthy and aching and tired enough to sleep for the next three days. Everything in him seems to unwind as his boots hit the tarmac, the mission-oriented frame of mind he dons for ops dropping away, folding back into the headspace set aside for the ‘Captain’.
In most cases, as soon as a mission is over Steve cannot wait to get back to his apartment. When necessary, he’ll delay long enough to change out of the more conspicuous layers of his tac gear, shower on-site if he absolutely has to, but then he’s heading home, toward the privacy of his own apartment and a home-cooked meal.
Sometimes, though, Steve comes off a mission so worn down that taking advantage of SHIELD’s on-site amenities, including the quarters that remain reserved for him in Housing, becomes the more appealing option. Even if his cooking does far surpass SHIELD’s, the cafeteria’s meals are more readily accessible; quick to grab and filling enough to sate even his appetite. On top of that—too soft mattress aside—the bed waiting for him in Housing is a lot closer than the one at home. When he’s this near to total shut-down, practically falling asleep on his feet, SHIELD housing is as far as he’s going to make it anyhow.
Unsurprisingly, at this ungodly hour the communal showers remain deserted as Steve scrubs down, sloughing off three days worth of sweat, muck, and grime. The hot water works wonders on his sore everything, leaving him that much closer to sleep as he drags on one of the generic SHIELD-issue uniforms stored in his locker.
At least he doesn’t need the medic, he thinks, slamming shut the metal door.
Despite maybe getting a tiny bit crushed beneath a falling building, by now most of his injuries have healed. Those that haven’t have settled into that familiar bone-deep ache that will only be mended by time.
Steve blinks heavily, scrubbing his towel through his damp hair. Honestly he wants nothing more than to head straight to bed. He knows better, though. Scraping by on mission rations for days on end never does him any favors. But healing from the kinds of injuries he sustained, at the rate the serum does, demands an incredible amount of calories. If Steve doesn’t supply those calories now, he’s going to feel like absolute shit when he finally does wake up.
Steve sighs, tossing his damp towel into the laundry chute and heading for the mess. At least the cafeteria never closes—one benefit of working for an organization that literally never sleeps. Whatever he decides to order will, at least, be fresh, hot, and filling.
Fifteen minutes later, scraping up the remains of his chicken gravy mashed potatoes, Steve spots Maria across the cafeteria and suddenly remembers the appointment he’d made—and missed—days ago.
Waving a hand gains her attention, Maria clocking the movement and returning it with a small nod before she finishes preparing her coffee and heads over.
“Debrief is at 1000,” she says, glancing pointedly at her watch as she settles across from him.
“I know,” Steve says. “I just realized: I missed my appointment. With the— The Soldier. I set it up days ago, but then I got the mission and...” He shrugs.
Maria waves a hand. “Handled.” The hand drops back to the spoon in her coffee and she stirs, adding, “The Soldier was informed. You can reschedule, now that you’re back.” She tilts her head, pinning him with shrewd eyes, and taking a delicate sip from her cup. “You look like shit, Rogers.”
Steve quirks a wry smile, dragging a weary hand over the back of his neck. “Well. I might’ve had a building dropped on me.”
Maria raises a sardonic eyebrow, as close as she’ll get to actually rolling her eyes. “I suppose I’ll hear all about how you managed that in—” she looks back at her watch “—about eight hours. I’m sure you have some very convincing arguments about how ending up beneath a collapsed building was absolutely crucial to mission success.”
Steve manages to bristle—barely—opening his mouth in protest. “There’s a perfectly good explanation—”
“Save it,” Maria cuts in, shaking her head. “Seriously, Rogers.”
Steve shuts his mouth, frowning, and Maria stands, slanting him another quickly assessing gaze. “Get some sleep. You look about two seconds from passing out.”
And well, she’s not wrong. So Steve doesn’t protest as she grabs her coffee and makes her way out of the cafeteria, just stacks his empty trays and heads to the drop-off area near the front counter.
Sleep. Sleep is exactly where he’s headed next.
*
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: Ongoing Communication
Captain Rogers,
As I’m sure you know, Director Fury has asked that I keep you apprised of my work with Soldier. While I realize that Soldier’s are unique circumstances, I hope that you can understand that my priorities lie with my patient, and that his mental and emotional well-being must take precedence over any information I may provide to you. Therefore, while I maintain every intention of informing you in such an event as I believe Soldier to be a danger to himself or to others, I also maintain that any information I relay to you outside of the aforementioned parameters will be both limited, and hinged upon the guidelines related to doctor-patient confidentiality.
As regards keeping you apprised: I will simply inform you that currently, Soldier and I are working through intel that SHIELD believes may, in whole or in part, pertain to Soldier’s former missions, (see attached), and that at present, I do not believe Soldier to be a danger to himself or to others.
I have attached the following documents only as per my responsibility to comply with the directives imposed upon me by SHIELD via Director Fury.
Please keep in mind that Soldier’s involvement in such matters has not yet been confirmed and, as such, is not being utilized for reasons of prosecution. Therefore, it is my sincere hope that should you decide to view it, you will not allow it to color your judgment and actions in relation to Soldier.
Regards,
A. Hartman
*
“I want you to try to remember.”
The asset retches. A dry heave that brings up nothing, not even bile, because by now there is nothing left for his body to purge.
“This is a safe place, Soldier.” Doctor Hartman has kind eyes. A soft voice.
“I’m here to help you. I know it’s uncomfortable. But sometimes we need to be uncomfortable to make progress.”
He curls into himself. Sweaty forehead to bent knees. Body shaking and shaking and shaking.
“Sometimes it helps to remind yourself: this is for the greater good.”
“Try to remember.”
[Row, row, row your boat,
Gently down the—]
The asset does not want to remember.
“Michigan, 1977," Doctor Hartman reads. “A Mr. Arnold Miller told the police that his wife committed suicide in his study late one August evening while he and his daughter were asleep. The sound of the gunshot woke them both. They came running into the room—”
That’s not how it happened, though, is it?
[“Oh god. Oh god, Mirabelle. You killed her. You killed her—”]
Blood. Pooled on the floor. Soaked into the knees of Arnold Miller’s cotton pajamas as he knelt beside his wife’s cooling body, face pale with horror and grief.
[The asset tosses his portable transmitter-receiver to Miller. Keeps the gun aimed steadily in his direction.
Static crackles across the connection.
“Speak,” the asset orders.
Miller raises the rectangular box to his ear, hands white-knuckled and shaking.
“Hello?”
The voice that comes through the radio is calm, almost soothing. “Mr. Miller. I’m sorry it had to come to this. Your wife seemed like a lovely woman. I trust, however, that you now understand how serious we are about having your support.”
Miller snarls, red-faced and furious, “What makes you think I would ever support you after this! I’ll go to the police. I’ll tell them everything. You’ll never get away with this!”
A soft rustle on the other end of the line. A sigh.
“You have a lovely daughter, Mr. Miller. ”
The speaker’s casual intonation hasn’t changed, Miller’s threat little more than a waste of hot air, but Miller goes from sheet white to grey in an instant.
“Angela, isn’t it? Six years old. They’re so impressionable at that age. Perhaps I should have the Asset bring her in. Pull her from her warm little bed. Show her what happens when her father disappoints powerful people.”
“No,” Miller breathes.
The asset, still as death, waits for the command.
“Asset. Bring the girl.”
“No!” Miller shrieks. “Don’t hurt her. Don’t—”
But the asset is already moving down the hall. Ghosting into the little girl’s room. Lifting her small body into his arms even as she wakes; begins to struggle. Eyes huge and terrified.
Row, row, row your boat—
The child’s panicked attempts to escape hardly register as the asset carries her back down the hall. Into her father’s study.
—gently down the stream—
She screams when she sees her mother.
—Merrily, merrily,
merrily, merrily—
The asset sets her, sobbing, onto her feet, metal arm clamped down tight around one shoulder, keeping her right where he’s put her.]
Small, bare toes, sticky with blood.
[Miller sniffles , tears tracking down his own sallow cheeks, shoulders slumped in defeat.
“Please,” he begs into the radio. “Please. I’ll do whatever you want.”
“Very good, Mr. Miller. I’m so glad you’ve come to see things our way.”
—life is but a dream.]
*
Someone is knocking on the door.
The asset registers this in slow increments. Registers himself: curled up on S310’s bathroom floor; breathing shallow, mouth dry. Thoughts muddled and disjointed.
The knocking continues.
The asset must— he must. Answer the door.
He drags himself to unsteady feet. Stumbles. Accidentally rams his flesh shoulder into the doorframe on his way through. The pain sharpens his senses for one bright instant, leaving him teetering on the edge between here and not here. The asset shakes his head—a sharp jerk that does little to dispel the cloudy fog creeping along the edges of his consciousness—and pushes forward, one foot in front of the other.
He’s not halfway across the room before the knob begins to turn— Because whoever’s on the other side is free to enter, the knocking no more than a polite veneer of civility. Because his door doesn’t lock. Except from the outside. Except if they want to lock him in.
The door begins to open, and the walls close in around him, his heart jolting in his chest. He is not ready, yet. He is not in position. He is not—
The asset throws himself into position, right where he’s at: Feet apart. Hands open at his sides. Head down. No eye-contact.
When not on his knees, or otherwise directed, the asset is—was—is always to maintain this position in the presence of his handlers. Slipping into it is as automatic as breathing.
The man who steps into the room is— Big. Tall. Bigger and taller, both, than the asset, his heavy muscles visibly shifting beneath the black, SHIELD-issue shirt he is wearing. His hair is blond and his eyes are blue and the asset knows this even though he studiously keeps his gaze averted because—
Because he’s met this man before.
Weeks and weeks ago, in a dark basement where he’d been left as bait. Left in hopes that the people hunting the asset and his handlers would be satisfied with the asset, alone.
It was this man who’d leveled his gun at the space between the asset’s eyes, jaw tight, expression hard as stone. It was this man, also, who’d suddenly changed his mind, hostility softening to calm control; a steady voice; hands that helped instead of hurt.
The asset has heard others refer to him as “Captain”.
He’s Dominant. Strikingly. Undeniably. It pours off of him like a scent—permeating the air around him, slamming into the asset with a force that is impossible to ignore.
He stiffens, locking knees gone suddenly weak, forcing himself to stay on his feet instead of hitting the floor. It takes all of his strength to keep himself upright, muscles clenched so tightly he shivers all over, a barely-perceivable tremor.
“Hey,” the Captain says, quiet, if not gentle.
The asset grinds his teeth, makes himself focus on dragging in sawing breaths—in and out, again and again—because he’s too close to the precipice, teetering on the edge of losing control—of dropping right where he stands—and he doesn’t want to know what will happen if he can’t keep it together.
Kneeling is a choice, he’s been told countless times since SHIELD acquired him. Submitting is a conscious decision. You submit when you choose to submit. You kneel because you want to.
The words make as little sense now as the first time he’d heard them, but his lack of understanding doesn’t negate the fact that—unlike his last handlers—these new ones don’t want him on his knees. Not, at least, as a matter of course; an automatic, unthinking action. They want him to choose it. To want it. (He’s never wanted it. But that doesn’t mean SHIELD doesn’t have ways to make him want it. Make him choose it. He would, he knows, if the choosing saved him from something else. Something worse.)
[“Me or the box , Soldier. What’s it gonna be?”]
Fighting the conditioning that has been ingrained in him for as long as he can remember feels like fighting himself. All his instincts, his natural inclinations, everything he’s been trained to do in these situations must now be second-guessed, carefully examined, and modified as necessary to fit his new handlers’ expectations. It’s a constant battle. It’s exhausting.
“I can see you’re struggling,” the Captain tells him, low voice cutting through the asset’s chaotic thoughts. “I know it isn’t...easy, changing the way you’re used to behaving. But I hope you understand it’s for the best.”
Silence stretches between them. The asset’s jaw aches, tension radiating through his gritted teeth. He clenches his fingers. Unclenches them.
(Clenched fists are a sign of aggression.)
Slowly, exhaustion begins to creep in, the spike of adrenaline finally beginning to taper off, because the body can only sustain this level of hyper-arousal for so long.
The Captain’s gaze skewers the asset, rapt and unwavering. “Why don’t you go ahead and sit on the bed.” It’s not quite an order, but it certainly isn’t a suggestion and the asset knows he’s expected to obey.
He forces himself to action, moving blindly toward the bed he’s never slept on—never touched—perching himself on its edge. He’s shaking again—can’t quite help it—faint vibrations running up and down his frame and—
Боже. О, Боже. Is he about to be punished?
He doesn’t know—
He’d thought he was being good—
He hears the ragged gasp of harsh breathing—registers, distantly, that it’s himself—as he stares dizzily into his lap. At his hands, fingers clamped tight around his knees.
“Good,” the Captain says from across the room, the word reverberating through the asset like the resonant toll of a struck bell, and the asset tries not to shudder in response because he knows he’s not supposed to. His eyes dart toward the Captain, a sidelong peek through the dark curtain of his hair, attempting to see without being noticed—but the Captain is staring right at him. Shrewd blue eyes lock with his own, capturing the asset’s gaze for an agonizingly long split-second before he tears his eyes away again.
Looking away doesn’t keep the asset from registering what he’d seen, though: Captain Rogers, hip braced against the edge of S310’s pitiful little desk, arms crossed, brows drawn together in a faint frown. And nothing, absolutely nothing in his expression even hinting at being pleased.
“You’re doing fine,” the Captain says, but his voice is neutral, almost toneless, and it feels like the opposite of ‘fine’ but— The asset is running on empty. Worn thin from panic and remembering and fighting not to do the one thing—fall into the one pattern that’s been ingrained in him deeper than anything else, he’s running on empty, and he can’t muster enough energy to fuel the burst of anxiety the Captain’s obvious dissatisfaction raises in his chest.
He sits. Breathing; waiting; and the Captain lets him progress from ragged pants to something quieter—wearier—before he speaks again.
“I don’t know how much you...remember. If you remember meeting me at all. Around SHIELD I go by Captain Rogers, so I’d prefer it if you address me as such.”
Adapting to directives as they fluctuate between handlers is a skill at which the asset has become thoroughly adept. Transfers always come with new designations, rules, expectations. A lot of times, he’s presented with slight alterations on older rules. In all cases, though, there are certain things that never change. Like ‘never attack your handlers’. Like ‘don’t ask questions’. Like ‘comply’. The Captain’s chosen form of address is one more among many, and the asset tucks the information away, assimilating it for future use.
“The doctors say you haven’t given them your name. That you don’t remember it.” Captain Rogers continues. “But we’re going to be working together a lot in the future and I’m going to have to call you something. Is there...a name you want me to use? Something you’d like to be called until you remember your real name?”
The asset doesn’t remember a name because there is no name to remember. He is a weapon—a tool of war—and people do not name tools.
The Captain lets the quiet extend, awaiting an answer the asset cannot supply. When it becomes clear that no answer is forthcoming, he tries again.
“The people you were with last. What did they call you?”
They called him many things. Asset. Soldier. Weapon. Subject. Семнадцать.
Worthless. Stupid. Шлюха. Creepy fucker. Broken brain-dead wind-up doll...
Eyes focused on S310’s paper-thin industrial carpeting, the asset dutifully begins relaying the designations. Lets them crawl up his throat; spill out into the air. His voice is flat; a continual, monotonous buzz that slowly fades as his mind starts to drift, detaching from the present.
“Stop.”
The asset’s mouth snaps shut so fast his teeth catch the tip of his tongue. Pain bursts through the detachment, jerking his attention sharply back to the present. Warm copper spills across his taste buds.
Captain Rogers’ gaze travels the room, expression giving nothing away. He doesn’t look at the asset as he draws a slow breath. Holds it. Releases it quietly.
“Everyone’s been calling you Soldier.” He says finally, voice low. Measured. “So, until you come up with something you’d like better, I’ll stick with that.”
It is not—has never been—the asset’s place to name himself, nor his place to care what they call him. Names are for persons, and he is not that. Soldier and asset. Sweetheart and slut. In function, one label is the same as any other, and the asset has responded to all of them.
But Captain Rogers looks straight at him, and the asset knows to acknowledge the decision, and so. He dips his head; as if his opinion matters. As if the Captain needs his assent.
He doesn’t. Though, obviously, he expects it.
Captain Rogers returns the nod, crisp and professional, and moves on.
“I’ve spoken with Director Fury. I’m sure you are aware that SHIELD is looking to give you a contract. That’s still down the line, and it isn’t a guarantee. You’ll have to meet certain qualifications. Demonstrate that you are a worthwhile investment. That you are willing to be an asset for SHIELD, despite your past dealings with Hydra.”
The asset is familiar with contracts. Passed from handler to handler, his own contract provides detailed instructions regarding his utilization and maintenance. How to prep him for reset and recalibration. Put him into and remove him from storage. Repair the metal arm.
There are, also, specifications regarding the body’s pain thresholds; Its rate of healing in various circumstances, against various stressors; How it reacts to blood loss, broken bones, starvation, sleep deprivation, poisons and drugs.
But if SHIELD wants to create their own contract, that means they’ll want to do their own tests. Gather their own data.
(It makes sense. Hydra is SHIELD’s enemy. Of course SHIELD isn’t willing to rely on intel derived from the enemy.)
It's a grim prospect. And there doesn’t seem to be any way around it. There is a silver lining, though. A contract means SHIELD plans to use him in the field. They want a soldier. A weapon. If he can demonstrate his value as an operative, SHIELD might never consider using him for anything else.
It offers a measure of protection, slight though it may be. But—
It isn’t a guarantee, Captain Rogers said. Not yet. The asset will have to earn it.
“Being an asset for SHIELD,” the Captain tells him, “means being capable of yielding to SHIELD’s authority and working alongside their agents. Director Fury has given me the job of overseeing your progress. That means I’ll be putting you through your qualifications. But I’ll also be making a judgment-call based upon your behavior. If SHIELD is where you want to stay, I’m going to be looking for you to demonstrate that that’s the case, understand?”
The asset swallows. Nods. “Yes, sir, Captain Rogers.”
Captain Rogers shifts, and the asset tenses—muscles bowstring tight, sweat blooming across the back of his neck despite the internal chill that never seems to leave him anything other than too cold—but the Captain only resettles, not coming any closer, not moving away from the desk at all. “Alright, then. Before we start working together there are a few things I want to go over.”
The first thing is a rule: The asset is not permitted to hurt anyone.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” Captain Rogers explains, “but if you attack anyone, there will be consequences.” He touches a small device; affixed to the belt around his hips, easily accessible. “Those cuffs you’re wearing are there as a precaution, but it won’t be pleasant for you if I’m forced to activate them. Do you understand?”
The asset understands.
The devices SHIELD has affixed to the body to enforce punishment in the case of non-compliance may be unique to these handlers, but standard protocol has always forbidden the asset from harming anyone without strict authorization. The purpose of this protocol—to keep him vulnerable and compliant—is also standard. Familiar. It means that if someone wants to hurt him he is not allowed to stop them. He is not allowed to resist or defend himself. Doing so could cause potential harm, and Captain Rogers did not say that minor or even accidental harm will result in any less of a punishment.
“That's the most important thing,” Captain Rogers says, watching the asset closely. “But a couple of other things should be addressed. For one, the doctors have some concerns about you losing weight. Getting you back into the field requires that you meet specific physical standards. I’m not going to tell you what or when to eat, but keeping healthy is important. SHIELD won't authorize you for active duty otherwise.”
The underlying threat in Captain Rogers’ words is also familiar.
A broken weapon is worthless. An asset that is not mission-ready, just as worthless. If he does not qualify for active-duty, there is little reason not to decommission him. And if the asset is decommissioned—
A decommissioned weapon would be disposed of. It would be discarded, forgotten, replaced.
But the asset is not just a weapon. He is more than a sum of steel and bullets. He is also a body.
A body can be useful for more than fighting. It can have other functions. Secondary functions.
The memories—the specifics—surrounding the asset’s secondary functions are hazy. But a certain level of awareness is ingrained.
He knows, for example, that his enhancements and advanced healing factor make him a perfect subject for medical experimentation. He knows that the doctors always clamor for time with him.
Sometimes, they are denied: When the asset needs to be in peak physical condition for an upcoming mission, he is to remain unspoiled. Nobody is allowed to get overly rough with him. He is—safe. If only temporarily.
But all bets are off following mission completion. The asset becomes free-game. It no longer matters if he bleeds beneath the doctors’ scalpels. Screams himself hoarse at the hands of his handlers. If he can’t walk right when they are done with him, or speak in anything more comprehensive than mindless, disjointed begging.
[“...lease...please...no more. Please. Больше не надо. Пожалуйста.”
“He’s been crying like that for the last half- hour. Can't get him to shut up. Not all there, if you ask me. Gone
right outta his mind.”
“Get him up. It’s time for a hard reset anyway. Makes him forget all about it.”
“Turn him off and back on again, eh?”
“Works on all kinds of machines.”]
After mission-complete, they don’t need him to be anything more than— Alive. Breathing. Because when they finish with him, he goes back into the cold. Sealed up and left to time, the body eventually mends itself. He always wakes up in one piece. Knit back together with only the faintest of silvery scars to evince past injuries.
This understanding returns to him in flashes; broken-off bits of hazy, remembered terror, but it is enough to convince him that being an asset is far preferable to the alternative.
SHIELD wants him to be their asset. Their weapon. But if he can’t maintain mission-readiness, they may just find other uses for him.
His memories of fulfilling his secondary function may not be clear-cut—certain scents, sounds, indistinct, blurry fragments coming to him in vague, sporadic bursts—but the memories don’t have to be crystal clear to keep him desperate. To make him willing to do anything to avoid provoking the birth of new ones.
The asset resolves to meet every expectation SHIELD raises. He will comply with every demand. Follow every order.
If he does that, if he can keep SHIELD satisfied with his performance as a weapon— Maybe they won’t have time to consider other ways he could satisfy them.
It’s a possibility. A hope, tiny and vulnerable and the asset should know better—he does know better—but he holds on to it anyway. (Maybe things will be different this time. Maybe, if he’s good enough— If he doesn’t ruin it for himself like he always ends up doing—)
[“You cry so pretty for me, sweetheart. You know I wouldn’t be half as interested if you didn’t, but you just can’t
seem to help yourself can you? Hold still now. This is gonna hurt.”]
'Quit begging, Soldier. You brought this on yourself.'
“Another thing,” Captain Rogers goes on. “Before you can be cleared for field work, you’re going to have to pass a psych-eval. Doctor Hartman will be in charge of that, so I don’t recommend you miss any of those appointments. Obviously, it’s important that you make progress in that area as well, which means you should be complying with whatever directives and exercises you’re given. As your Supervising Officer, I’ll be checking in with the doctor every so often to monitor your progress. Lastly,”
The Captain taps the cover of a file sitting innocuously atop the desk beside him. The asset hadn’t seen him carry it in, but then, he’d been...preoccupied.
“Standard intake procedure requires that you fill out an aptitude assessment. It will measure your strengths and potential as a field operative, and also assess basic knowledge in general areas like language, mathematics, and science. It shouldn’t take much more than an hour for you to complete, and since you have no other appointments scheduled for today, I’m going to ask you to have it ready by tomorrow morning. That gives you the rest of today and this evening to work on it.”
The asset stares at the file, dread knotting in his stomach. It’s clear that the assessment is a written one. Letters and words and sentences and the asset can already feel the impending strain of frustrated confusion tightening the muscles along his neck. There’s a reason they called him stupid.
“Do you have any questions for me?”
None. Because the asset can’t think beyond wondering what is going to happen when the Captain realizes he’s too stupid to complete a simple written assessment.
He shakes his head numbly. He couldn’t ask anything anyway, even if he had anything to ask, because anxiety has closed his throat, locking him into dumb silence.
“Okay.” Captain Rogers straightens—the asset doesn’t look, doesn’t move, barely breathes—and tucks his hands into his pockets. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning then.”
He leaves. Closes the door quietly behind him.
The absence of him feels like a release—a tight band around the asset’s ribs going suddenly loose—allowing the asset to breathe freely for the first time in half an hour.
Shakily, the asset stands. Lurches over to the desk to settle heavily into the chair.
There’s a set of dull pencils tucked into one of the desk drawers.
He pulls them out.
Flips open the cover of the file containing the assessment.
—