Work Text:
This new world was perplexing—loud, crowded, and complex. The sheer number of options that assaulted him at every task bespoke of its inefficiency. Even a simple mission such as procuring nutrition put his brain on overload.
He was not conditioned to making such decisions. The sheer number of decisions was exhausting. He was conditioned to orders, targets, and mission reports. He had no prior experience securing nutrition. That had been provided to him in sufficient quality and substance, most often in liquid form—chalky and bland but functional and practical.
As he stared at the plethora of options on the menu hung high behind the counter and the large selection of tubs in the glass case, he listened to the order of the short woman in front of him. Her curly brown hair descended to her shoulders. The roundness of her hips and girth of her waist suggested to him that whatever meals she subsisted on provided adequate caloric intake.
This place would no doubt be sufficient for his needs.
She ordered something called a chocolate sundae. The soldat watched as the uniformed woman behind the counter scooped out a brown, solid, cream-like substance from one of the many tubs in the freezer. He found the proximity to the freezer disturbing, but as he’d passed the window minutes before and looked inside, the images of the tubs and their multi-colored offerings seemed vaguely familiar somehow, almost beckoning. He found himself walking in, curious and cautious in his approach.
After a few moments, the woman moved aside with her chocolate sundae. The soldat stepped forward to the counter. He kept his right arm close to his side. The shoulder had been dislocated, the muscles and tendons damaged. His first objective after securing Rogers had been repair.
The shoulder was back in the socket. The tendons and muscles were still damaged but healing. The pain persisted but was of no consequence.
“What can I get you?” the young woman asked. She was barely a woman, more like a girl, and had dark skin and long, brown curls. Her eyes were dark, with thick, well-groomed brows. Her expression was flat, her voice equally so.
The soldat reviewed the many options. He had no idea which would provide the most efficient nutrition. He was not accustomed to making such decisions. His brain attempted to process the massive number of options before him. He short-circuited that dilemma by opting for the same substance as the woman before him. He pointed to the container with brown cream.
“Cup or cone?” the girl asked.
The soldat was unfamiliar with the terminology. Most of his nutrition came in cups or tubes. He was unsure how to respond. The parameters of his programming were orders and compliance, decision-making was limited to field options necessary to accomplish mission objectives.
“Cup or cone?” she asked again, a hesitation in her voice.
He realized his behavior was causing alarm. He needed to remain inconspicuous. He repeated the last word out of her mouth.
“Cone,” he replied flatly.
“Waffle cone, wafer cone, or sugar cone?”
The soldat was becoming overwhelmed and impatient with the number of options continually presented. They held no meaning and selection would be random at best. Again, he opted for the last item presented. He determined that selecting the last option from that point forward would be the most efficient method of response.
“Sugar cone.” Sugar was also a quick source of energy. It would suffice.
“Plain or chocolate dipped?”
His metal hand twitched. Sanction of the woman would be contrary to his mission objective. He remembered chocolate—at least, he thought he did. The word was familiar. It evoked a pleasant association in his brain. It was also the last option presented. He seized on it.
“Chocolate.”
“With nuts or no nuts?” she asked.
Do not sanction, he reminded himself as he stared hard at the woman. He had not realized that the simple act of procuring caloric intake would prove to be so complex. He again picked the last option.
“No nuts.”
If she presented him with yet another set of options, he was not certain that the glass case in front of him would survive his response.
“One scoop or two?”
He fixed her with an icy stare that had proven effective in instilling fear in his opponents and replied, “Two.”
She seemed only slightly affected by his glare, and he almost sighed with relief when she released a bored sigh and turned to complete her work. Moments later, she presented him with a towering concoction of brown balls set precariously on top of a cone.
“Seven fifty-five,” she told him.
He took the cone with his gloved left hand—it had been necessary to hide his metal arm to avoid unnecessary scrutiny—and reached into his jacket pocket carefully with his right hand for money. The pain in his shoulder grew sharp, intense. He gritted his teeth.
He’d procured the jacket from the same person from whom he’d procured the cash—the apartment of a Hydra agent, one of his rendezvous points should a mission go awry. A single bullet to the man’s heart had ended his protest. Witnesses were to be eliminated. He was uncertain whether Hydra and the others searching for him suspected he had survived the helicarrier, but he saw no reason to give them confirmation of his survival. What he had not expected was the discomfort he experienced after killing the man. He had been programmed to kill. That was often his primary objective. Something was different. Images and sensations he was not accustomed to invaded his mind.
Despite the discomfort he’d experienced, that mission had proven productive, and he’d left with fresh ammunition, an extra handgun, and $10,000 in cash from the wall safe. He put a $10 bill on the counter, turned, and walked out of the shop. He rounded the corner and found a relatively isolated place to eat. The brown substance was already beginning to drip along the sides. He lifted the thing to his mouth and studied it. He was uncertain how to ingest it.
An image flashed in his head. Rogers. Small. A similar cone in his hand, a smile on his face. Rogers had licked the cone, then bit into the side. The image evoked a novel sensation—a pang in his chest and warmth behind his eyes. He suppressed the feeling and focused on the task at hand.
The soldat stuck his tongue out and gave the brown substance an experimental prod with the tip. It tasted…not chalky. It was pleasant. Sweet. Cold.
He was not a fan of the cold. But the taste was enticing.
He bit into the side and swallowed the large chunk. Then another. It was cold, but pleasant. Rich. He took another. A sharp pain in his head had him flinching. He dropped the cone to the sidewalk and raised a hand to his head.
He took note of the information gained for future reference: the brown, creamy substance was to be avoided.
He still required nutrition. He had secured temporary lodging at a local motel. The room offered a modest refrigerator and something called a microwave. He was unfamiliar with the microwave.
He would require food for several days before he could arrange transportation out of the region and away from those who were searching for him—Hydra. Shield. Law Enforcement. Romanoff.
He walked quickly, coming across a large parking lot. He saw people emerging from double glass doors with carts full of bags. He spotted produce, beverages, and a variety of other edible goods in the bags. He paused for a moment. There was a familiarity to this activity. He was unable to retrieve the information, however. He approached the doors. They opened automatically. He stopped the moment he walked inside. The sheer size of the place overwhelmed him.
An image presented itself in his mind. A memory, perhaps, he thought. A store. Shelves, similar to the ones that he saw before him, but much smaller and fewer in number. Four rows total. A small section of fruits and vegetables. A single man with brown eyes, a blue shirt, and a name tag sitting on a tall stool behind a counter near the front of the store.
The name tag had read David.
The soldat pushed deeper into the memory, but further details escaped him. He studied the environment before him. A line of carts similar to those he’d seen being pushed outside rested to the right of the doors. He grabbed the handle of one with his left hand and maneuvered it out of the corral, then pushed into the store.
He walked deliberately down the first aisle, opting for an efficient row-by-row sweep of the massive establishment. His eyes scanned the shelves and bins. The first aisle contained baked goods—breads, cases of cookies, and a glass counter with whole hams and turkeys. He knew what the items were, though he was not sure where he had encountered them before.
He studied the selection of breads. There were 12 options for sliced bread, 5 options for whole loaves of breads, and 14 options of miscellaneous breads labeled buns, muffins, thins, and pockets.
It would take him an unacceptable amount of time to inspect each one. His metal hand grabbed something that caught his eye. It looked simple. It felt familiar. White. Sliced.
His gaze swept the area as he approached the end of the aisle. He saw a center display of baked goods in plastic containers with labels. One of the containers housed round brown disks with dark spots. He eyed the label. ‘Chocolate chunk cookies.’
He grabbed it and stuck the container in his cart.
“Want some milk?” Pierce had asked him in the apartment.
Milk. He had knowledge that milk was often paired efficiently with cookies, but he had no idea how he had acquired such knowledge. He would need to procure milk. He turned the corner of the aisle and was once again presented with an assault of options. A long, refrigerated section of miscellaneous goods that appeared in to be organized in no logical fashion assailed him. He saw cheeses—string, cheddar, Swiss, Havarti, ricotta, blue, Brie, Colby, cottage, cream, gouda, feta, mozzarella, American, and Pepper jack. His brain almost shut down. To avoid malfunction, he grabbed the first thing that seemed even remotely familiar—American.
As in…Captain America.
The title evoked another pang in his chest and warmth behind his eyes.
Captain America was his mission. Terminate. 10 hours.
He’d failed.
Something pushed forward from the depths of brain. Another mission. A train. The shield. He had grabbed it, picked it up. The mission target was down, vulnerable.
The mission target had not been his target at that time. The mission target had been….
“You’re my friend.” The image of Rogers, the sound of his voice on the helicarrier. It felt familiar. He knew the man from before…
Before when?
“I’m with you ‘til the end of the Line.”
Even before the target had uttered those words, the soldat had faltered, his fist hovering in mid-air. Hearing those words and looking down into the target’s bloody face and his one open, blue eye had caused something to crack inside him. Images and sounds broke through.
That train. It was not one of the missions Hydra had given him. He could not recall the context or objective, but a sensation arose, like a muscle he hadn’t used in a long time. It was almost painful. He could not identify it. It flared in his chest and settled in his gut. It was the reason he'd fled.
He blinked. His metal hand gripped the handle of the cart. It creaked under the pressure. He released his hold.
The mission objective on the train when he’d grabbed the shield had been…Protect. Save.
The current mission objective was contrary: Two targets, level six, confirmed death....
Kill.
Protect.
He could not process the contradiction. He blinked again. The massiveness of the store felt suffocating. The options were endless. His brain was malfunctioning. He could not continue. He walked away from the cart and hurried from the store. He would find another way to procure nutrition.