Chapter Text
Operational status is undefined.
Over the past several days, the asset has been issued numerous hard-copy briefings on a variety of topics.
(“You don’t have to ask,” Steve told it, gesturing at the bookshelves. “Why do you think I bought them? There’s a bookstore not far from here, too. Has a pretty good science fiction section.”)
<Recalibrating.> The general relevance of texts on subjects such as battle tactics or military history is apparent, although knowledge or skills related to these subjects is not relevant to the current mission. Review of these briefings is unnecessary and may pose a detriment to combat-readiness; a briefing regarding the events of “World War II” necessitated multiple recalibrations, causing Rogers to recall all briefings on World War II or related subjects.
Other briefings are less straightforward. Many of the briefings appear unrelated to any possible mission, providing “intelligence” on non-existent entities and situations that cannot possibly have occurred. These coded briefings are of higher priority: important or sensitive information is unlikely to be relayed in plain text.
Despite extensive appraisal, the asset has not yet decoded any of these briefings; further assessment is required. Appraisal of the coded briefings has had an additional effect. But the asset was not issued knowledge or skills related to this.
Rogers enters the main room carrying a pile of folded fabric. “Fresh towels,” he explains, offering them to the asset. “If you want to shower.”
It collects the towels and proceeds to the bathroom. The asset was not issued knowledge or skills related to showering.
Assessing…
Rogers knocks on the bathroom door. “Can I help you find anything?”
James Buchanan Barnes would not have required assistance; James Buchanan Barnes knew how to shower. But the asset is not James Buchanan Barnes.
(Rogers stated: “What they did to you… I don’t care if you’re memory’s fucked up.”)
“They” refers to Hydra, “what they did to you” refers to— (Fear. Pain. They held him down; they hurt him. No one’s coming, not this time. But Steve always… but Steve didn’t. And they hurt it, until it does not register pain.) <Recalibrating.>
“…Bucky?” Steve says. (Rogers will attribute minor lapses to memory loss inflicted by Hydra.)
(I wake suddenly. It’s not morning; the inside of the tent is pitch black. I’m disoriented, shivering, but for once I can’t recall the details of the dream that woke me. Small mercies, I suppose.
“Steve?” I whisper, even though I’m pretty sure he’s asleep.
“Yeah?”
“I, uh—”)
<Recalibrating.> James Buchanan Barnes avoided admissions of vulnerability, except in cases of severe distress. The asset emulates his affect.
“I, uh,” it says. It opens the door to the bathroom and gestures helplessly toward the shower. “I don’t…”
Rogers frowns.
The asset backs up to the wall, slides to the floor. It says, “When Hydra… with the chair. They blocked off anything that wasn’t useful.”
(It’s pitch black inside the tent, and dead quiet aside from Steve’s even breathing.
“I, uh—” I start, but I don’t have any words for what I’m feeling.
All at once, I’m sick of myself. Sick of still doing this months later. Of still being like this: exhausted and shocky, jumping at shadows. Still too weak—or too damaged, maybe—to stop feeling broken and sorry for myself.)
It glances up at Steve. “I don’t… ‘Self-maintenance was not a mission priority,’” it explains miserably.
“Shit,” Steve says.
It gives a hoarse laugh. “Yeah.”
The asset is instructed on shower usage. It showers.
It is issued fresh civilian clothing, which it equips. Operational status is… undefined. Again. The asset has not been issued knowledge or skills related to this.
It surveys the room and checks reports from various internal systems. Assessing. If “this” were mission relevant, the asset would have been issued knowledge or skills related to it. (The asset was not issued knowledge or skills related to spoon usage, or James Buchanan Barnes, or the story.)
All systems checks return within expected parameters. It returns to the main room.
(The way Steve’s staring, you’d think he hadn’t seen me in decades, instead of the hour or so it’s been since I started getting ready.
“Wow, Buck. You look—”
I grin, but…) <Recalibrating.>
“Feel better?” Rogers asks.
“Sure.”
“That’s great.”
“I was thinking,” Rogers says.
“Well, that makes for a change.” <Recalibrating.>
“If you’d like to know about other, ‘self-maintenance’, operations. You can ask.”
The asset nods, and returns to the briefing.
Rogers is washing dishes. The asset emulates James Buchanan Barnes, leaning casually in the doorway to the kitchen and conspicuously not offering to help.
“Like what?” it says. Rogers considers.
“Anything, really,” Rogers says. “What do you want to know?”
Assessing. Self-maintenance was not a mission priority. The asset was not issued knowledge or skills related to upkeep and field repairs.
“Dunno.”
Rogers nods.
In addition to another set of protein bars, the asset is issued a loose-leaf briefing—a list of self-maintenance operations. The asset is issued a writing device.
“Mark off anything unfamiliar,” Rogers says, indicating a column of squares beside the list entries. “There’s space at the bottom to fill in whatever I missed.”
(I wait til I hear the front door click shut, then dive under the bed to retrieve my mission notes. I open the little box as gently as I can—it’s starting to look a bit worse for wear—and start pulling out the scraps of butcher paper I’ve stored in there. I lay them out on my bed to look over.)
Assessing. The asset was not issued knowledge or skills related to hand-washing, or ration scheduling, or equipping/removal of worn items for temperature regulation, or “dental hygiene”, or…
(“strawberry: X” Well, obviously. I probably didn’t need to write that one down. “chocolate: X” Obvious again. “vanilla: X”. “rocky road: X”, “pistachio: X”. Coconut is crossed all the way out: Steve’s allergic, so that’s cheating.)
The asset was not issued knowledge or skills related to the majority of items on this list.
(I keep searching til I find the slip that says “maple:”, and sadly draw an X beside it. I’m running out of flavors.)
<Recalibrating.> Rogers retrieves the briefing and examines it.
“Well,” he says.
(Stevie stops walking and stares at me like I just grew an extra set of arms. “NONE of them, though?” he says. “Not any?”
I shrug; I don’t see what the big deal with saints is, really. “Maybe it’s not a Jewish thing?” I suggest, grabbing his arm to start towing him along. “Like the crackers.”
“Communion,” Steve puts in.
“Sure. Well, I bet saints are like that. S’probly why I never learned them.”
Stevie seems real worked up about the whole business, so I try to think what else I could say that might help matters.
“I mean, we got, y’know, Moses and stuff?” I offer. “So that’s kinda the same.”
He doesn’t even answer, just glares real hard. I’m starting to get the hang of Steve’s glares, I think. I’m guessing this one means something like: ‘That is NOT kinda the same, are you stupid.’
I shrug and put on a sunny smile that says ‘Sorry, that’s all I’ve got.’)
<Recalibrating.>
“You know how to drink water,” Rogers says. “That’s— Gotta start somewhere.”
“Regular hydration is dictated for continued operational effectiveness.”
“Right.” He pauses. “I better pick up groceries. We’re running low on some things.” Rogers equips himself for his grocery retrieval mission, and exits the apartment.
It’s a beautiful day, crisp and perfect, and Steve Rogers realizes belatedly that he hasn’t left the house in almost a week. He takes a deep breath, trying to clear his head. When that doesn’t help he takes off running.
He should be headed to the grocer’s to pick up the food he claimed they needed, so he can get back to Bucky. But the anxious, desperate-to-please look on Bucky’s face keeps replaying in his head, along with his own stupid line about drinking water. Steve knows from experience that he’s no good to anyone in this state.
Even at a flat sprint there’s no time for Steve to actually tire himself out, but after a few blocks his head starts to clear. He slows to a brisk walk and pulls up Sam’s number on his phone.
“Steve!” Sam’s voice is chipper, if slightly distorted by the phone speaker. “I’m glad you found him, man. What do you need?”
“How did you—”
“Dude, you’ve been calling me six times a day with updates, and just like that you switch to screening my calls?” Sam chuckles. “I would’ve seen it on the news if Captain America was dead or in a coma.”
Steve slows his stride. Of course that’s the first thing Sam would think; he’s lost too many people.
“Right.” He hopes Sam will hear the apology in it.
“So?”
Steve hesitates.
Sam says, “Did I ever tell you about the first time I was gonna quit the airforce?”
“First?” Steve asks, caught off guard by the sudden change of topic.
“Oh, yeah. It was after my third real mission with the wings—shit went south and I almost died.” Sam pauses. “There was a while after that… whenever I thought about flying, I’d get all up in my head about it. Just totally freeze up.”
Steve’s never heard this story before; he can see why not. Hard to imagine Sam Wilson losing his nerve like that, Steve can’t help thinking. Guess even Sam has off days sometimes.
“I made all kinds of excuses, but it started to feel like: it’s just a matter of time before someone realizes I can’t hack it and they fire my ass, right? So might as well cut to the chase.” Sam exhales sharply. “Not exactly a high point.”
Steve can’t help but think of Bucky, still working out how to piece himself back together. Coming back from something like that isn’t easy. Sam shouldn’t be blaming himself.
“You didn’t quit,” Steve points out.
“Only because Riley figured something was up and dragged my sorry ass to a therapist. He said—how’d he put it—‘I’m not much use with the head stuff but I sure as hell know when it’s time to call in reinforcements.’” Sam chuckles and goes on, “And then he warned me that if I didn’t show up and put in the work, he’d have to call in the really big guns.”
Steve stops short, picturing a report to Sam’s higher-ups or something worse. He doesn’t understand how Sam can sound so casual about it.
“The nuclear option, huh? Brave of him to risk the fallout,” Steve comments. “Who’d he have in mind?”
“You know what, I never actually asked. Now that I think about it… We’d talked about my folks a few times; I bet he had some kind of plan to extort their number out of me.” Sam laughs in fond memory. “That was the kind of thing he did.”
Steve briefly slows his pace, stretching to clear the tension from his shoulders. That’s not so bad. Tattling to Sam’s parents is intrusive, but it’s not a betrayal—just really annoying.
Bucky did a lot of stuff like that. One time he got into an honest-to-god shouting match with Steve’s priest, when Steve was sick with scarlet fever and Father Kelly came by to pray over him. Bucky hadn’t wanted to let him in and had pushed right past Steve’s ma to block the door.
Steve had heard snatches of the exchange from his bed upstairs: “No, you can’t come in! You shouldn’t even be here, cause Stevie’s NOT gonna die. And if he did, it’d only be from all your stupid praying. But it’s not gonna happen, because I’m not about to stand around while the Angel of Death gets all mixed up from how everybody’s acting like Steve’s dying when he’s NOT!”
Steve had been too weak to move, so he just lay there, mortified and furious. He had consoled himself that as soon as he was better, he was gonna clarify to Bucky—possibly with violence—how completely over the line he’d gone.
Thing was, Bucky’s speech worked. The grown ups mostly stopped treating Steve like he might die at any moment, and all Steve’s righteous fury wound up buried under a much bigger heap of gratitude and profound relief. Neither of them had brought it up again.
That’s how it was: any time Bucky figured he was acting in Steve’s best interest, he didn’t give a shit about overstepping. From the sounds of it, Riley was the same way.
“He sounds like a good guy,” Steve says.
“He was.”
Steve keeps falling short of that kind of courage. He’s been telling himself he’s holding back with Sam to keep from breaking Bucky’s trust, but the real reason isn’t so high minded: the thought that Bucky might resent him for oversharing hits like a physical blow. He’s been letting that fear dictate his choices. Bucky deserves better.
“Sam,” he starts. Sam waits patiently while Steve looks for words. “You know how older people can forget some pretty basic self-care stuff?”
“That bad?” Sam exhales slowly. “How are you holding up?”
“He hasn’t had any trouble moving around or retaining information,” Steve clarifies. “It’s more like they blocked off certain things from him.” Anything that wasn’t useful, Bucky had said; Steve’s pulse picks up with anger. He walks faster, working to keep his breathing even.
“And you?” Sam asks.
“Most people don’t ever get a second chance like this. I’m unbelievably lucky.” It’s true, and it’s the part that matters.
“How’d you find him?”
“He walked in my front door. Said ‘Hiya, Stevie!’ like nothing had changed,” Steve smiles at the memory. Steve doesn’t add: He spent more than six hours standing in the cold outside the building, first. Sam’s wary enough of Bucky as it is.
“He say why?”
Bucky hasn’t said much of anything. “Not really,” Steve admits.
Sam waits, leaving space for Steve to add more.
I found him huddled outside my bedroom, crying, Steve doesn’t say. His gun was loaded. Safety off. He didn’t even notice when I took it from him. Steve had lain awake for hours after that, wondering which of them Bucky had been intending to use it on. He knows which option he prefers.
“Lemme think for a sec,” Sam finally says. There’s a clatter of typing. “Okay, yeah, I got a bunch of resources I can send you.”
“Thank you, Sam. Really.”
“Hey man, I’m just happy to hear from you. Keep in touch, okay?”
“Roger that.”
Sam chuckles. “I’ll email you what I have here to get you started; I can dig up a more comprehensive list this afternoon.”
“You—”
“Don’t get all mushy on me, dude,” Sam laughs. “This is literally my job. You can pay me back in pancakes once things settle down.”
“Diner on East Capitol?” Steve suggests. It’s a nice thought.
“See, I knew you’d have my back. I’ll let you get back to your boy, then. Keep me updated?”
“Bye, Sam.” Steve hangs up the phone.
He takes a deep breath, then another. He shouldn’t have let himself panic like that. The only course of action—same as always—is for Steve to get over himself and start fixing problems.
At the next intersection, he turns toward the grocer’s. He shifts to a light jog, not really pushing himself; he would barely outpace Sam at this speed. Still, it feels good to be moving. Steve watches the overlapping patterns of tree branches shift as he moves past, grateful to be out in the sun and healthy enough to do this.
Mostly, Steve’s grateful to have found something Bucky needs which he can tangibly help with. It’s a selfish thing to want, he knows, but the idea of being able to do something for Bucky makes Steve feel a hell of a lot lighter.
It’s good to have a plan.
(The service goes on for probably a hundred years. I’m bored and hungry and no one’s paying attention to me, not even Becca. High holidays are stupid. I don’t see much point sitting around doing nothing for hours, is all, just to atone for a bunch of stuff that I already had to say I’m sorry about.
That’s the thing: if we’re all gonna be forgiven for everything on Yom Kippur, why’d my pa make me apologize for pulling Becca’s hair last week? I tried to ask him about it, and ma too, but I never did get an answer from either of them.
They’re probly just sore cause they know I’m right.)
<Recalibrating.> The asset retrieves a coded briefing and resumes appraisal.
A noise emanates from the spare room. The asset reaches for a gun; the holster is empty. <Class 1 items may be expended or discarded; retrieval is not a mission priority.> (The asset will not be punished.)
A weapon is required. The asset relocates to the kitchen and selects a knife from the block on the counter. It hears the hiss of a window sliding open and rustling fabric as someone climbs in.
“I’m not here to interfere with your mission,” the intruder explains lightly, “if that’s what you’re wondering.” Her voice is— but the asset has not been issued knowledge or skills related to Natalia Alianovna Romanova. It listens, adjusts its grip on the knife. When she moves away from the window, the weight of her tread will provide an indication to the arsenal she carries; when she opens the door, the asset will be ready to respond.
She does neither. “I’m just checking in,” she says. “Heard you were in the neighborhood; I thought I’d stop by.”
(She smiles, as if at some private joke.)
<Recalibrating.> Assessing. In this situation, mission completion will not be facilitated by emulation of James Buchanan Barnes. But the asset was not issued knowledge or skills related to non-violent interaction with someone who is not a handler.
In the absence of relevant protocols, it asks the obvious question. “You were allied with Rogers?”
“I like to think I still am,” she says. Her voice goes soft. “We’re friends.”
“‘If present, Rogers’ allies will go to extremes to assist and protect him,’” it points out.
“You want to know why I’m not here to stop you?”
“Yes.”
“Sounds like they took a lot this time,” she says softly. Her voice goes matter-of-fact: “Stands to reason. Hydra couldn’t afford to have their soldier going wandering off mid-battle.” Her tone shifts again, and now the asset hears a smile in it: “…And yet, you went ahead and did just that.”
The asset is malfunctioning. It has failed its mission. Hydra has deemed it irreversibly damaged and irretrievable.
“Mission completion will demonstrate the asset’s continued utility to Hydra,” it says.
“So that’s your angle.” She hums, thoughtful. “What happens if you kill Rogers and they still don’t come for you?”
Assessing…
She says, “You wanted to know why I’m not here to protect my friend. Well, Steve’s a big boy, he can take care of himself.”
(—I'm not at all sure that's true for Steve.) <Recalibrating.>
She switches to Russian. “I know what it’s like to have all your choices taken from you, Sasha. And I know all about unearned second chances. Thought I’d pass on the favor.”
Assessing…
“I am here to protect my friend,” Natalia says. “Both of you.”
Footsteps from the exterior hallway indicate that Rogers is returning.
“Well,” Natalia says, “that’s my cue. Good luck, Sashenka.”
“Прощай, Наталья,” it says. Farewell, Natalia.
Rogers enters the apartment. The asset retrieves a coded briefing and resumes appraisal.
“Got some new flavors,” Rogers says, displaying a case of protein bars.
<Operational protocol dictates that rations issued to the asset will be free from distracting sensory elements.> Override: the asset is not currently eating the protein bars, so their flavor is irrelevant. The asset will not be punished.
It resumes appraisal of the coded briefing. Rogers finishes storing his groceries.
“I need to print a few things,” he says, with a gesture toward his bedroom. “I’ll be right back.”
“Sure thing, Stevie.”
Rogers returns with a loose-leaf briefing, but does not issue it to the asset.
(I finish the last of my chores and dash back up the stairs, only to skid to a furious stop. Stevie’s about where I left him, sitting on my bed with his legs dangling over the side. But he must’ve rifled through my backpack, because he’s holding my new comic that I saved up for all week and haven’t even had a chance to read yet. He looks up and smiles at me.)
Steve sits on a chair and begins review of the new briefing. (“Steve, you FINK!” I launch myself at him. “Give it BACK!”) <Recalibrating.>
“Here,” Rogers says, offering up the new briefing, “you can have it. I’ll print another.”
(I’m stronger and my arms are longer, but Steve fights dirty and never, ever gives up. It’s usually a pretty even match, but with my new comic at stake I’m almost as determined as he is. I catch Steve eyeing the open window as he loses ground.)
Rogers holds out his hand, offering the new briefing to the asset. These actions are incorrect. Protocol has been violated. <Error.>
(“I swear to god, Stevie,” I warn him, “I will go right out that window the second it does. And then you’ll be the one who has to break it to my ma, that the reason I broke all my bones is all on account of how you threw my new comic book out the window.”)
Assessing. No protocol prohibits the issue of hard-copy briefings. In addition, Rogers is not subject to operational or mission protocols; he cannot be in violation of protocols which do not apply to him. <Roger’s actions are not in violation of protocol.>
(Stevie’s next bright idea is just as dumb: he dances out of reach long enough roll up the comic and shove it down his pants. Hah! As if I’m gonna let that stop me.
“Times like these, Stevie,” I tell him, “it’s real obvious you’re an only child.” I grab his pants and pull.
Stevie squawks in outrage. I knock him over and steal his pants, planning hold them out of reach as a diversion, but Stevie’s not falling for it. He ignores the pants; we both dive for the comic.)
(But Rogers’ actions are incorrect.)
(Just then, my bedroom door swings open and my ma storms in. “Boys! Why is there so much yelling—” she stops short, taking in the scene. “You know what, I don’t want to know. Give Steven back his trousers and clean up this mess. And for G-d’s sake, keep it down!”)
<Recalibrating.> “Naw, that’s okay.” The asset does not take the briefing.
“Hold on,” Rogers says, standing. “I have something better.”
He retrieves a cloth grocery bag and issues it to the asset. Despite its stated purpose, the bag does not contain groceries. The contents of the bag are—
“New briefings?” it says.
Rogers nods (and holds out the tickets, looking about as proud as if he’d personally invented baseball.)
“Stevie!” the asset crows, (making absolutely no attempt to conceal my delight.) “You keep doing stuff like this, a fellow’s gonna get to thinking you like him or something. And it’ll go straight to my head, don’t think it won’t.”
(G-d, but Steve’s adorable when he’s trying to pretend he’s not falling for my lines. He rolls his eyes and) reaches out as if to try and reclaim the gift, but I scamper away, clutching the bag of books (tight to my chest and caroling out,) “Too late, no take-backs!”
Steve laughs and desists.
He holds up the loose-leaf briefing. “I can keep this, then?”
<Recalibrating.> The asset returns to the couch to appraise the new briefings.
Operational status is undefined again. The asset was not issued knowledge or skills related to this.
Assessing. “This” is related to… a change in operational status. It surveys the room and checks reports from various internal systems, but all systems checks return within expected parameters.
Assessing. This is not related to an increase or decrease in combat-readiness. <Operational status is a measure of combat-readiness.> So operational status cannot have changed. <This is not mission-relevant.>
The asset selects a briefing and settles down to read.
The asset is issued a mission briefing consisting of a list of maintenance operations, subcategorized by type and priority.
(It’s pitch black inside the tent, and dead quiet aside from Steve’s even breathing.
I’m sick of myself. Sick of still doing this months later. Of still being like this: exhausted and shocky, jumping at shadows. Still too weak—or too damaged, maybe—to stop feeling broken and sorry for myself.
I just woke Steve up for what must be the dozenth night in a row, because, what, I had a bad dream? It’s a fucking war, I tell myself. No one’s had a good night’s sleep since December 7, 1941.)
Each item is accompanied by a checkbox, and followed by one to four lines of brief descriptive and explanatory notes. The item labeled “Showering” is ticked off and marked with today’s date.
(“Never mind,” I apologize. “Go back to sleep.” I roll over, wrapping my arms around myself. I can’t seem to make myself stop shaking.) It looks up at Steve. “I’m not worth all this.”
“Humor me,” he says. (Steve’s reply is instant: “No.” His tone is so flat and firm that I’m not sure how to interpret it. It doesn’t matter anyway; I don’t have it in me to respond.)
The asset shrugs. Steve retrieves the mission briefing and appraises it.
This action is unnecessary: Rogers has not forgotten the briefing's contents in the half-hour that has passed since he created it. Information retention and recall are cited among his serum-enhanced abilities. Assessing. Steve likes the feel of having things on paper, something tangible to interact with. And when he’s nervous, it gives him something to do with his hands.
(There’s days I barely feel human anymore. Steve can tell every time, but he’s been too stubborn to acknowledge it. He only ever shrugs and smiles reassurance, and asks me what I need with a head tilt or a raised eyebrow.)
“If there’s something you want to start with,” he tells the asset, “let me know.”
(Sooner or later, Steve’s gotta to realize he’s wasting his time. That the problem isn’t Azzano, or even the war; it’s me. He doesn’t seem to get it, how broken I am. Or maybe he doesn’t care. Stupid.)
The asset shrugs.
(“You wanna lay off with the attitude?” Steve chides, even though I haven’t said anything. He sighs. “Come'ere.” Maybe I shouldn’t, but it’s not as if I’ve ever been able to say no to Steve.)
“That’s okay,” Steve says. “We’ll go in order.”
(I roll back to face Steve, who reaches out a hand and waits. It’s pitch black inside the tent, but I know every detail of the smile that spreads across Steve’s face as my resolve breaks and I reach back. Our hands meet. A quiet moment passes in the darkness, but I don’t need light to know that the corners of his mouth twitch slightly, turning the smile into a question: 'What do you need?’
There’s nothing I can say to that. I wish I knew.)
<Recalibrating.> “Where do we start?” it asks.
The asset is instructed on hand-washing. “Dental hygiene” refers to the process of spreading paste on a small brush and using it to clear debris from a set of teeth. The asset was not issued knowledge or skills related to handling of non-mission-related items; it holds the toothbrush as it would a knife, then a screwdriver, then a writing utensil.
“Here, let me—” Roger says, placing his own toothbrush on the countertop and reaching out to adjust the asset’s grip.
(Oh.) Operational status is undefined again. The asset will perform a systems check when tooth-brushing instruction has been completed.
Rogers finishes repositioning the toothbrush, then steps away to retrieve his own and demonstrate technique. The asset mimics his maneuvers, lifting the brush to the set of teeth it was assigned to clean, and—
(I’m six, and seventeen, and eleven.
Ma’s baking bread, so me and my sisters are banned from the kitchen; that’s been the rule as long as I can remember. It might’ve been like that forever, except for Becca says the rule got started when she ran through and broke ma’s favorite mixing bowl and knocked over a whole bag of flour. So probably not forever, then.
Ma covers the bowl of dough and puts it in the window to rise in the sun—Ma always says that sunlight is the secret to the best challah, that that’s why hers always turn out fluffier and more perfect than Mrs. Alderman’s or Mrs. Cohen’s down the street. I creep into the kitchen. Ma pretends not to notice.
It’s like this: if I’m quiet and patient and don’t make a fuss, I can tuck myself out of the way and watch while she crushes mint from the garden and boils a pot of water, and carefully takes down the one perfect, delicate teacup that she keeps on the top shelf and that not even pa is allowed to touch.
And when the tea is ready; and the kitchen is painted gold with sunlight; and the air is filled with the smell of mint, subtly different in its different forms—fresh, and crushed, and brewed into tea—and ma’s sitting at the kitchen table, running a finger along the handle of her teacup as she waits for it to cool—
When all that’s happened, that's when I can come and join her at the kitchen table, and sit and talk with her and watch her drink her tea.
And ma smiles at me, the softest I ever see her smile, and her eyes crinkle a little at the edges because we both know I’m breaking a rule. But I’m not in any trouble: because I have permission; and because I was quiet and patient and didn’t make a fuss; and because it’s the only time there ever is that’s just for ma and me, so it’s special.
So it's the same at every age, six and seventeen and eleven: I creep into the kitchen, and I’m quiet and patient and don’t make a fuss, and ma smiles her softest smile, and we sit together while the bread rises, all wrapped up—just the two of us—in warm sunlight and the smell of mint.)
“What is it?” Steve asks.
<Recalibrating.> The asset was not issued knowledge or skills related to this. The asset was not issued knowledge or skills related to non-violent interaction with someone who is not a handler.
Rogers retrieves the self-maintenance briefing and ticks the box next to “Dental hygiene: tooth-brushing”.
“We’ll do flossing later,” he explains. He adds today’s date to the list entry. “Want to go sit down?”
“Sure thing. Just a sec?”
Rogers exits the bathroom. The asset visually examines the toothpaste tube. “Toothpaste” has resulted in a change in operational status. The asset was not issued knowledge or skills related to this. Operational status is undefined. Again.
Assessing. Operational status was also undefined during toothbrush grip correction, but assessment was postponed. Resume.
The asset checks reports from various internal systems; all systems checks return within expected parameters. The change in operational status was not related to an increase or decrease in combat-readiness. <Operational status is a measure of combat-readiness.> So operational status cannot have changed.
(But operational status was not undefined, and then was undefined.) Operational status has changed.
Assessing…
This is your fault, toothpaste.
<Recalibrating.> The asset returns to the main room.
“You okay?” Rogers says.
“Sure,” it says, “why wouldn’t I be?”
“What happened?”
The asset is malfunctioning. Operational status has changed but cannot have changed. The asset was not issued knowledge or skills related to this. The asset was not issued knowledge or skills related to non-violent interaction with someone who is not a handler.
“Gonna need more of an answer than that, Buck.”
It nods. Assessing. “The toothpaste. Tasted like… sunshine and the smell of tea.”
Rogers nods. “You can go back to your book.”
It does.
Tooth brushing protocol is updated to exclude the use of toothpaste. The asset is instructed on floss usage.
Rogers issues a verbal schedule: tooth brushing is to be executed for a period of two minutes in the morning and evening. Flossing will occur before the evening brush.
Shower usage is dictated every morning, but shall additionally be performed “—if you spill something, or if you’re sweaty, anything like that. Or any time you’d like to. I can spare the hot water.”
Unclear protocol. Assessing.
“Want me to write it down?” Rogers offers.
“Naw, I got it.” The asset grins disarmingly so he'll know that it’s not just saying that, it really will remember. Rogers reissues the self-maintenance briefing along with a writing utensil. He indicates the square next to “Dental hygiene: flossing”.
The asset ticks the checkbox. Rogers smiles at it.
Operational status is undefined.
When the asset reenters the spare room, it finds a slip of paper on the windowsill. It is a handwritten note, consisting of a sequence of digits above a few words in Russian: "In case you need a friend. N."