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The Asset stares uncomprehendingly as its handler assures him that it’s done well and its performance over time has justified the enormous cost of his upkeep. Its cheek still stings from the slap and it tries to process the conversation with circuits that seem to be shorting out; the words keep looping away from him without sense or form, lost in a blizzard of white stained with red. He — it narrows pale eyes as if that will help it focus, but in his mind he hears again that noise: Bucky?
Who is Bucky?
He recognizes the syllables as a name, though he’s never met anyone called that before. He doesn’t think handlers have ever attached that alias to it, although it knows much is lost to the fog of its useless backup processes. It usually bears no name at all, simply ‘the Asset’ or ‘the Soldier.’ Maybe long ago, in a much colder place before they reset its language parameters to English, when he could be trusted to complete infiltration missions alone without suffering systemic logic glitches. Before 1991. Before what should have been a simple extermination and extraction shook something loose inside his malfunctioning brain.
More importantly, who is the man on the bridge?
Those eyes, a blue shade he sees only in dreams, lips he somehow knows are soft and warm, the puzzled and heartbroken expression that even now makes his chest ache with the desire to comfort —
No. The Asset has no desires save being good for its handlers. And this is not what being good looks like. Focus.
“I need you to do it one last time,” Pierce says, and the Asset’s gaze sharpens. One last time. The realization hits him with a force the minimal strength of the Secretary’s arm could not hope to match. He has not been good enough. His handler has seen through the Asset’s attempts to regulate his behavior, the Secretary knows that the Soldier’s programming developed a fatal error glitch that cannot be bypassed. His usefulness is almost at an end. Panic sets in and his lips compress into a thin line to hold back a whine of protest.
“But I knew him,” it murmurs plaintively, trying one last time in its confusion to explain where the blame lies with the limited amount of noise it’s allowed to make. It did the best it could, it completed its mission, this malfunction is not its fault and there are no other Winter Soldiers to replace it so please don’t decommission the Fist of Hydra, the greatest weapon ever created, please don’t —
He doesn’t want to be rendered obsolete, put back into cryo and then stored in a warehouse somewhere for endless decades like the other treasures horded by Hydra over the years. He wants to be used. Otherwise all the pain and terror that curl around the corners of his mind like ghostly tentacles reaching into every part of his consciousness…they matter for nothing.
The man on the bridge. This is happening because of him.
It turns its gaze to Pierce, a wordless plea in its rounded blue eyes and the upwards pull of its brows. Its mouth curves into a tiny moue before it can stop itself. Pierce is one of the smartest of its handlers, Pierce knows well that the instability glitch cannot be blamed on the Asset. Pierce fixes it with a cold stare that stings more than the slap: Pierce knows and does not care.
“Wipe him,” the Secretary orders.
Helplessly, the Asset’s gaze flicks to the Commander, who appears stunned. He too understands the implications of one last time. The technicians push the Asset back into the Chair, and he cannot halt the fear that steals over him and becomes visible on his face. He considers fighting as he sometimes still does, even though he knows the guards will shoot him into incapacitation and then wipe him anyway. If Hydra will only grant him one last mission, he might as well make them pay for all the blood and agony. His muscles tense.
The man on the bridge flashes into his head again.
The wipe will take the man on the bridge away.
The Asset will be clean again, rebooted, systems running properly. It might still have a chance to escape decommissioning if it performs this mission flawlessly. It glances again at the Commander, searching for a hint of direction, but Rumlow just looks uncomfortable. The Asset has to make a decision.
Fortunately, it’s empowered to make mission-related choices. It licks its lips and opens its mouth obediently, although out of reflex it glares at the technician, a silent warning to place only the mouthguard between its teeth lest the technician lose a finger or worse. If the Asset faces long-term storage, it has no reason to accept the games the techs sometimes play with it in the confused and vulnerable moments after a wipe. It has no incentive to remain compliant beyond its programming, and no one has spoken the words to enforce obedience.
The other technician flicks a switch and the Chair hums to life, powerful electromagnetic clamps slamming shut over the Asset’s arms. The left hand clamp delivers a low-level electronic pulse to its stronger arm, rerouting the impulses that control gross motor function servos so that it cannot lift the heavy limb, although the fingers can still clench into a tight fist. The cuff on the right side, lined with needles, inject chemical opiates into its blood to render it euphoric for the procedure, although they don’t abate its fear. It jerks, hyperventilating as the drugs take hold and the magnetic pulses thrum into its metal, reverberating through its meat.
The man on the bridge. His eyes had been so kind. So confused and hopeful. Longing, even, although the Asset couldn’t begin to guess for what.
The Asset tips its head back as the halo descends and locks into place over its left eye and cheek. Its muscles bunch and flex as its wrists rattle against the clamps that bind it still. It tries to relax and submit, but its body remembers pain and its breath wheezes through clamped teeth.
A field of white. Blood staining the ground. Pain and loss that cripples him, the overwhelming need to get up to climb up to reach up to
Steve
The halo crackles to life. Electricity bursts into his brain with the speed and force of a freight train, and the Asset instinctively tries his best to hold on, to retain something, anything of the moments that begin to scatter like windblown snow.
His grip slips, he has to let go, and the Asset falls screaming again into static white and agony.