Chapter Text
April 11th, 10:34 PM
LOCATION UNKNOWN
--
The rumbling of truck wheels over rocks and grass and twigs, a cricket's song bleeding into the silence of the night.
Spider kept his eyes trained on the floor beneath him, tainted boots caught shallowly in his peripheral; his mind was blank, ready and accepting towards whatever spoken demand came next. His wrists were weighed down within metal clasps, finger-pads ghosting along the button-shaped triggers towards the middle. A gun rested firm across his back, a few others strapped to the belt around his waist, accompanied by knives and blades and small glass cartridges. He didn't know where he would be taken next, what throats he'd slit, what brains he'd splatter or what hearts he'd stop. He didn't know when, or where or why; he just knew how. And once he was done, they'd take him back, wipe his memory, clean his slate and whisk him off.
He could hardly complain; in fact, he couldn't. (It violated a set of strict rules he followed, sworn to and memorized through broken skin and bloodied fists.) He couldn't deny something that gave him purpose, that wrote his worth in his killcount and piling corpses. If not Spider, Asset-591637, who was he? A bug, a roach, scattering and squirming beneath HYDRA's boot, crushed and blown away. Because HYDRA does not create nothings, worthless nobodies. HYDRA does not have time for failures, or mess-ups or mistakes; he'd made plenty before, and any others would lead him down a path he'd rather stray far from.
Cold wind whipped through open windows, moonlight painting vibrant rays, streaming across his body in lines of color. He'd taken a moment to raise his head, catch a glimpse of shadowed foliage and falling leaves, and extended branches and life caught within mindless slumber. As quickly as his eyes had met the outside world, he was scolded, met with a harsh slap to the back of his head as he trained his sight back to the floor, feeling the pain dim down to a discomforting thump. With a clear, confident apology, he'd waited out the rest of the trip, allowing his curiosities to shine dimly within his concrete mind, fingers twitching with each bump in the road and turn of the vehicle. It must have been a good hour or so before their stop came tumbling forth, the van slowing to a pause as doors opened and footsteps pounded, kicking at dirt and pebbles. He'd been lead out through an open trunk, holding his posture straight, training his gaze on the open world before him.
"Awaiting command,"
The asset had spoken, Russian gliding smoothly off his tongue. What followed was instruction, loose and short- but he could make do. A timeframe was assigned and the threat that followed was one of abandonment; but he knew it was false, spoken with the intent of intimidation but it instead brought about a disbelieving scoff. They adored him; their spider, their asset, their greatest accomplishment. They couldn't lose him, not like they'd lost their soldiers in the past.
With the instructor's words fresh and potent in his mind, he'd proceeded forward, blending nicely with the rich darkness of the night; he danced with the swaying shadows, contorting, flipping and tip-toeing in silence, traveling on-foot to his true destination. A house, on the outskirts of a small town; two-story and forgettable against the little shops and wooden homes that stretched across the rest of the land. The stars were bright here, speckled in clusters and sparse freckles, twinkling and ancient; he determined how much time he had, before the sun should awaken and take it's rightful place in the sky, painting with shades of orange and pink and yellow, filling a canvas with hope and warmth and light. Before he should return, successful and firm, ready to have his troubles wiped clean like a dish; rinsed and scrubbed free of burden, not passed the obedience beaten into him through a life of guided loyalty.
He'd launched himself expertly over a fence, a sorry attempt at keeping out his kind; those who wished to infiltrate, to rob and steal and bring about the true unfairness of life. His feet crunched against dead grass, approaching the back door and popping it open with little force. The lock bent out of place, allowing him access within.
It was homey; at least, what he knew of the word; his home was nothing but a shelter, a place to survive. Concrete floors and metal beds welcomed the constant ache of his form and a wordless nag held immovable in his mind; it cradled him to sleep like a cruel, unloving mother, the iron seeping a frigid shiver deep into his bones. The dark was absolute, void of windows or cracks of fleeting light, solid enough to eradicate his sense of presence, carelessly meshed with the shadows of his cell and the nothingness of having both eyes squeezed shut. It was as if he wasn't there, not a heartbeat or a warm body, or a little boy curled to the chest of one who cares, cares for him-- not as a pet, or a toy or a thing, but as an equal. An equal who knows only innocence, to love without condition. One who's purity needed to be shielded, protected and left untainted.
He was nothing of the sort.
He was a coal. He was a blackened heart and he was a blade, rusted over after years of constant use, slashing and cutting and stabbing until his edges dulled and his tip shattered. He was a blade, tossed in the bin and hauled to a landfill where nature took it's course, buried him and rendered him forgotten. Another thing lost to time.
He wasn't innocence, or deserving or good. He was HYDRA, he was a predator and he was Spider; he was until he couldn't be, until his body broke and shattered and his hands refused to hold another gun, until his fingers missed the triggers and he was perceived by those who knew not of him, but of shadows cast by blinding light.
The door drifted shut behind him, a bulb above the stove in the kitchen left on; it illuminated marbled counters and cutting boards, and cabinets and a refrigerator decorated in colorful scribbles, pieces of paper and cartoonish letter magnets. He walked slowly, the rubber of his boots quiet against the hardwood floor.
He walked passed an island peaking into the dining area, focusing half-heartedly on the framed images; there were three, he discovered. A man, a woman and a child. They were smiling, wide and careless and true; like the world wasn't cruel and unforgiving, and humans didn't take and take until there was nothing left to pick at, no meat left to tear from shattered bones. They were loving, the smallest embraced protectively as the two shared a kiss above his curly brown hair. Spider reached out, hesitantly, to grasp the frame with his own gloved hands, whipping his head around to reassure he wasn't being watched.
His eyes danced over the glass, picking out the smallest features, like the way the child was missing two teeth, and the woman's eyes crinkled when she smiled. The man's hat was crooked on his head, his uniform unruly from a day of work. Beneath it all, in the far right corner, was a date and a few words.
In English, and thin black marker read; 'Peter. 5th birthday.'
He'd swallowed down the lump that grew in his throat, dropping the picture with a light thud, turning away swiftly and proceeding towards a staircase. He'd cursed his irrationality, wiping the sweat that beaded at his forehead. Up, up, up he'd gone, faced with a hallway and three doors. One was creaked open, a bathroom visible within; he'd caught glimpse of the toilet, seated beside a bathtub dressed in a worn shower curtain.
The one closest to him, facing the edge of the staircase was the first he'd entered; and there was a woman within, curled beneath the sheets, her fiery hair sprawled messily across a pillow. Her face was scrunched, eyebrows knitted firmly together as she hugged herself in her slumber; she seemed troubled, restless despite her lack of reason.
Quietly, he'd stalked toward her, freeing a pocket-knife from it's holster as he neared. It glimmered in stray moonlight, neatly sharpened and reflective. It basked in it's cleanliness, as it would soon be splattered in the blood of another. His knee pressed deep into the mattress as he peered over her sleeping body, knife drawn up to press expectantly against the smooth flesh of her throat.
It seemed Spider had hesitated, just for a moment too long.
Her eyes had shot open, and upon a drowsy realization, she began thrashing; it was unexpected, spontaneous and unaccounted for so Spider had climbed atop, forcing her body down as a hand grasped at his faced and tore off the fabric mask shielding his dearest identity.
It cause a halt in her movement, the hitching of her breath making him pause, too. He'd swallowed, slowly bringing the knife back up to its place against her neck; he'd been pushing against her arms, keeping her down and restricted. She didn't notice, not enough to truly care. She didn't comment or worry, or panic or offer a scream from deep within; she just stared. With glossy eyes full of shock and disbelief and amazement; like he was a magic trick, a miracle, a discovery that was too good to be true.
"Peter,"
The woman whispered, not to question who he was but to assert it; mention it with matter-of-fact confidence, like he was the one who had forgotten. But he wasn't Peter; he was Spider. He was Asset-591637, loyal HYDRA operative; not the boy that made this woman stare in wonder.
"I'm sorry,"
He'd whispered back, watching confusion contort her expression, leaping to fear and then she'd parted her lips to talk, not to scream or yell or beg but to speak to him as if he weren't above her, as if to question 'why?'. But his blade was sharp and his hand was fast and he had a mission; she was silenced with a tug and the gurgling of crimson, bubbling of tears not yet fallen in eyes that would never blink again. He'd remained still for a moment, studying her features in a sort of grim curiosity.
It made him sick; too sick.
He'd climbed off, wiping the knife on the bit of red-and-blue comforter that hung off the mattress, not quite fitting the bed's size. He'd left the room and shut the door out of kindness (to himself, he didn't want to see the woman's spilling blood and open eyes), proceeding to the next.
It was empty; and so he'd surveyed the final living space and confirmed his mission as successful; he'd eradicated all life within the home.
He'd turned his head as he proceeded down the stairs, a sense of discontent tugging at his chest as he passed the first door. His mission was a success; he was a success. So why did it feel so wrong? He'd shook his head, sharp and desperate as he tried to divert his mind, distract himself with thoughts of greater relevance; that he desired far more, than feeling and believing that be was all that was wrong with this world.
Suddenly, he felt too open; exposed, shoved in front of a thousand-man audience without a script.
He felt too human, too guilty and too heavy so he'd hurried, step, step, step until he reached the back door and shut it with a thud. The lock was busted, so it swayed back open after he released the knob-- but he couldn't find it in him to care.
He needed to get back, before sunrise and before his feelings ate him alive. Because he was Spider; he was Asset-591637, and he wasn't supposed to feel. He wasn't supposed to regret or doubt or question; these were all mistakes, mistakes that he couldn't afford to make. He couldn't have the recollection of the way she spoke a name-- a name that wasn't his. He couldn't have the warmth in her eyes, the recognition and the excitement that he wished he was allowed to feel.
And so he hurried, eager and desperate and messy, feet slamming down on twigs and plant life, disrupting sleeping birds high in trees and rodents scurrying from bush to bush.
This was a mission's success, written in accomplishment and flawlessness and perfection.
Yet he felt nothing more than shame, shame for killing a woman who meant nothing to him, who was no more than a tallymark on his death count and another reason to be kept around.
--
April 12th, 5:07 AM
HOLDING CELL
It was cold, it was dark and he was wide, wide awake. His mind was open and his thoughts were clear and he was laying with his back to the wall, soaking in the coolness of the stone that rested close to his skin.
His closed eyelids sparked fuzzy shapes and dancing colors and sporadic noise before his darkly-colored irises, and he focused on the movement of things that weren't really there; awaited his next command, a mission that would bring him in to the light and allow him to see. He wasn't sure what had happened a few hours prior, they'd probed his mind and deconstructed his thoughts, wiping his memories just as routinely as always. But feelings always remained; the heart remembered what the head could not. And his heart was heavy.
It was heavy with years of sorrow and rage, and broken sobs and confusion; why, why him, why this, why that; why to the things who's answers didn't matter, because he was Spider and he would never truly be anything. Not beyond a heart that mourns in ways he does not understand, for things he does not recall.
He was Spider, loyal HYDRA asset, and that's all he could bring himself to trust.