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He's too young to be here, Brock thinks.
There's nothing extraordinary about the man standing in front of him apart from his age. Brock hesitates to call him a boy, even in his mind. HYDRA isn't evil enough to drag actual kids into combat, but it doesn't change anything. He's twenty-five at best, less than half Brock's age. That's too young to be an experienced soldier, let alone a suitable addition to STRIKE. And yet, someone in power higher than Brock himself has directed this kid straight to him.
At the very least, he knows how to behave. He's standing straight but relaxed, with hands laced behind his back. There's a hint of a smile on his lips, and he's not avoiding eye contact; it's clear as day that he's confident he's in the right place. Brock can swear his eyes are sparkling.
"Name," he demands. He could, in theory, look through the file that has been delivered to his office this morning and that he's currently holding in his hand, but Brock isn't one to waste his time on reading lengthy documents. He wants to see if the kid can justify his presence here.
"Jack Rollins," comes a reply. Brock stares the kid down. It's not easy, considering the bastard is a good couple of inches taller than him. Brock's gonna need to teach him some manners if he wants to stay.
"Sir," he corrects.
"Sir," Jack echoes obediently. Maybe he can be trained. Brock certainly won't tolerate any insubordination on his team, and no kid can be an exception, no matter how sorry Brock feels for him. HYDRA will crush him under its unforgiving boot, and Brock will rebuild him, piece by piece, into the perfect soldier.
"Again," he orders.
"Sir," Jack repeats dutifully, and Brock almost feels an urge to praise him. Perhaps his young age is an advantage.
Brock will mould Jack into the right mindset. He will train Jack to obey every order without question and in a blink of an eye. He will teach Jack to read his mind and act as an extension of his own hand.
"How old are you?" Brock's curiosity gets the better of him. He knows Jack is young, very young. His face is smooth like a baby's bottom, and it doesn't look like he's had to put much effort into it. The kid simply can't grow a beard yet. Brock can barely stop himself from reaching out to run his fingers over the sharp angles of Jack's jaw, to feel the flawless skin under his calloused fingertips.
"Twenty-two, sir," the answer comes as a surprise. He's even younger than Brock anticipated; barely old enough to drink alcohol. What in the hell is he doing with HYDRA?
"Army?" Brock asks. Maybe this time, the answer will provide some clarification.
"No, sir." Jack shakes his head slightly. Brock is once again left empty-handed.
"Marines?" he tries again. It's almost impossible that the answer will be positive, but he doesn't see any other option. Only the toughest of the tough soldiers make it into the ranks of HYDRA, and only the most skilled of them get to serve in STRIKE.
"I'm in college, sir."
Brock stares at him blankly. This has to be a joke. Either Jack is trying to mess with him, or someone from the higher-ups is trying to pull a rather unfunny joke by sending this kid his way.
Utterly puzzled by the information he's getting, Brock finally opens the file in his hand and looks through the pages. His eyes fall on the table shortly titled Education, and he reads out loud: "City College of New York, Linguistics and Literature."
It's ridiculous. They sent him a future English teacher, and it makes Brock want to burst out in fits of laughter. Maybe it's better this way; such a pretty face would be wasted on the life of a mercenary.
Brock is about to hand Jack his file and send him away before the poor thing makes a fool of himself, but he can't stop wondering how this boy with no military background whatsoever has managed to make it all the way to stand here. There must be a reason, a logical explanation, and Brock knows he won't be able to sleep if he doesn't uncover the truth.
Jack is looking straight at his face, standing perfectly still. It's Brock who averts his eyes first, moving on to study the soft slopes of Jack's shoulders and his muscular arms peeking out from the short sleeves of the standard-issue olive-grey shirt he's wearing. He appears to be decently strong for a guy his age. Even the front of the shirt is nicely stretched over a chiseled abdomen.
"What languages do you speak?" Brock asks, and his eyes fall back on Jack's face.
"Fluent English, French, Italian, German and Russian. Decent Spanish," he lists. "Sir," he adds before Brock even has the time to correct him, too preoccupied looking at the way Jack's plush lips move with every word he utters. He wants to teach that mouth one more skill.
The list alone makes Brock see the value in Jack. Language is a currency STRIKE is very much lacking. Undercover missions tend to go sideways rather quickly when not a single of the uncultured bastards Brock calls a team can communicate in a foreign tongue. But there's more to it than the surface level ability to talk. If Jack is telling the truth about having mastered five languages by the age of twenty-two, Brock already knows he's a prized ally to have. Intelligence and discipline rarely go hand in hand, but all of the signs are pointing to the fact that Jack has it all, making him as desirable for the team as a skilled marksman would be. Brock can teach him everything else he needs to know.
"Can you shoot?" he still asks, fully convinced that the answer will be negative, but he doesn't get one at all. Instead, Jack extends his hand to him, open palm facing up. Brock knows that he's being asked to hand over his weapon.
It's dangerous territory, Brock knows. In no circumstances should he be giving his gun to a complete stranger, especially one with either insufficient training to handle a firearm or an inexplicable proficiency in the craft. Brock isn't sure whether he wants to be disappointed or perplexed by the respective options.
He pulls his Glock from its holster and puts it in Jack's hand. It's loaded but secured, giving Brock a temporary sense of safety. It doesn't last long, though, as it quickly becomes clear that Jack is more than equipped to use it. He ejects the magazine and counts the rounds before swiftly loading the gun again. He points and shoots before Brock can even look in the right direction, and when he does, he's quite sure he's imagining things.
One of the man-shaped target boards hung by the opposite wall of the training hall has a single bullet hole going right through its head.