Chapter Text
One: 1996
He’s twenty-one years old, and still naïve about how the world really works.
HYDRA teaches that order only comes from pain.
After bouncing around from foster home to foster home his entire life, he figures he can use a little order. He joins HYDRA not long after he turns eighteen. Secret underground organization bent on world domination? Sounds good to a young shithead with no friends or family to care about. As long as he’s on the winning team he has no problem getting his hands dirty.
Growing up on the streets means growing up tough. There was no one around to take care of him so he quickly learned to take care of himself. He took up boxing at an early age as a way of defending himself. His streets smarts became an advantage while he’s slowly making his way up HYDRA’s ranks. He’s heard that he’s hardheaded, good at following orders, but also shows the skills to be a leader in the field.
He may have started his life with nothing. But he’s damn well sure he’s not going to end it with nothing.
It’s after a long week of nonstop tactical training when he and two others are called in for a special debriefing. They have a new mission. The three of them are relatively new to the organization, no more than ten years between them. It comes as more than a shock when they’re the ones called in for the mission.
Alexander Pierce is the one to debrief them. That’s enough to know it must be a big mission. It makes Rumlow even more suspicious that they’re the ones being assigned.
“Two days ago, four men of a freedom fighter resistance group attempted an assassination of the former Iraqi president’s son. They failed. Not only that but they got themselves captured and are currently being held prisoner by the Iraqi military for questioning. We have reason to believe that one or more of these men are privy to some HYDRA details. You can see why this is a concern for us. If these men break under torture, we don’t want any of our secrets getting out. The mission is to infiltrate this Iraqi base and kill all four of these men.”
Pierce drops a folder of information onto the table in front of them. Rumlow opens it to look inside. He sees faces, names, locations, etc.
“Sir, am I to understand that the three of us are supposed to infiltrate a populated Iraqi military base to kill four men heavily guarded by Iraqi soldiers?”
He hears some nervous shuffling behind him.
“I’m honored that you have so much faith in us, sir, but I have to insist that with only the three of us, it kind of sounds like a suicide mission.”
Pierce lets out a small laugh and grins at him in a way that makes him uncomfortable. “No, don’t be ridiculous. We’re sending in the asset.”
Rumlow raises his eyebrows. “The asset?”
Pierce begins a slow walk around the table. “Have any of you heard of the Winter Soldier?”
They slowly shake their heads.
“That’s what the Russians called him.” He’s made his way so that he’s standing in front of another door inside the vault. “We call it the asset. He’s HYDRA’s most valuable weapon, and one of our greatest secrets.”
Rumlow’s curiosity is peaked. It kind of feels like he’s been let into an exclusive club, members only.
Pierce nods at one of the guards and the man opens the door for him. They follow Pierce inside. It’s a room none of them have seen before.
“This is the asset. We acquired it from the Russians during the messy collapse of the Soviet Union.” And he sounds so damn smug when he says it.
He’s shocked when he first sees the guy—he was half expecting a nuclear weapon of mass destruction—and his eyes narrow as he takes him in. Pale skin that clearly hasn’t seen much sun, long stringy dark hair that looks like it could use a good washing, or a comb maybe. Muscular and built, but he’s got two lab technicians strapping a tactical uniform onto him, lots of leather, lots of straps. He can’t be more than a few years older than himself. This guy is supposed to be HYDRA greatest weapon?
But then the tech on the right moves back and Rumlow sees the arm. It’s completely made of metal. There’s a shiny red star painted on the shoulder. From the Russians, he presumes. The tech returns and pulls a single fingerless glove onto the metal hand as the guy stares off blankly in front of him.
“How long has this guy been in the business?” Rumlow whispers to the man in a white lab coat standing next to him.
The other man gives him a smirk. “You have no idea.”
What kind of answer is that?
The techs finish their work and step away, allowing Pierce to move forward until he’s standing directly in front of the asset. Out the corner of his eye, Rumlow notices some of the guards tensing around their weapons, and his own fingers start itching towards the gun on his hip.
Pierce shows no fear.
The asset speaks. “ожидает протокол миссии”
Pierce sighs and turns back towards them. “Excuse his Russian, it’s his default setting. We’re still trying to override it.” He says it like his talking about his computer software malfunctioning. “Speak. English.” He says to the asset, leaning down and enunciating as if he’s talking to a child.
“Awaiting mission protocol,” comes the soft voice, sounding like it hasn’t been used in a long while. It’s too soft, like a child’s. How is this guy supposed to single handedly take down an Iraqi army base?
Pierce reaches out a hand and grasps the man’s chin, tilting it upward. The other man makes no movement.
“Hmm, beautiful isn’t he?”
Rumlow’s eyes narrow slightly. How are they supposed to answer that?
But then Pierce removes his hand and turns to the head technician. “Is he prepped?”
“Ready for mission, sir.”
As Rumlow watches, the tech brings forward a black mask and begins strapping it to the asset’s face. The man makes no movement as the straps are tightly bound behind his head, underneath his hair.
“Good.”
Pierce turns back to the team. “The jet is ready for you. You’ve got a long flight ahead of you. I strongly suggest you have the mission protocol read before you land. There’s quite a bit of material on how to handle the asset. I’ll give you the highlights: the asset is not a friend, he is not a colleague, he is a weapon, and you will treat him as such. You take care of the asset as you would your own personal firearm. Do not speak to it unless you’re giving it an order. Do you understand me?”
They all nod simultaneously.
Rumlow sneaks a glance at the asset, who’s still sitting in his chair, staring off blankly into space as if he’s not being spoken about like an object.
Maybe HYDRA’s a little more fucked than he gave it credit for.
“Good,” Pierce continues. “I won’t have you incompetents fucking up HYDRA’s greatest weapon.” He smirks at them, making eye contact with each one. He’s trying to intimidate them. Rumlow doesn’t back down, and meets his gaze head on. “One last thing, the mission is for the asset. The test is for you, all of you. Whoever proves he can handle the asset will be granted special privileges as his personal handler. Not a job to be taken lightly.”
They all nod their understanding.
Pierce gives him one last look and turns to walk away. “Good luck, boys. Don’t let me down.”
Rumlow inhales a breath of relief. Pierce is intimidating to say the least. But he’s eager to prove himself, and he’ll do the best damn job with the asset that he can.
Folders of paper, mission statements and protocols are shoved into their hands. Rumlow glances at the other two briefly. None of them outrank the others. This is his chance to take charge. “Let’s go.”
They begin to turn when Rumlow glances back to look at the asset. He’s still sitting in the chair. He doesn’t move an inch except his eyes, which flicker to meet his gaze, hard and unwavering. It sends a small shiver down his back when he feels that cold gaze on him.
He has a sudden ridiculous urge to say ‘heel boy, heel’ like he’s a fucking dog. He doesn’t. Instead he says, “What are you waiting for? We’re heading out,” in his most commanding voice.
The asset stands and takes a step forward, then waits. They head towards the exit and without looking behind him Rumlow can feel the asset following.
At least HYDRA has him well trained.
It’s a small private jet that’s waiting for them. The door is open when they arrive, and they all watch in silence as agents load up the jet with crates upon crates of weapons. Handguns, submachine guns, and assault rifles are pretty standard. When he looks carefully he sees what appears to be a fucking grenade launcher. It’s a rather large armory for such a small team. When the men are finished, the asset silently sits down in a seat a few feet from the weapons like he’s one of them.
The three of them file in after him and sit on the other side across from the asset. He watches them unnervingly from behind the mask.
“Wasn’t expecting this when I woke up this morning,” Erikson mutters.
“He’s creepy as fuck,” Sanford says under his breath. The asset’s eyes flash towards him and he quickly shuts up. Rumlow smiles to himself and glances down at the papers in his lap. Might as well get started on the reading. There’s plenty of time to kill during the flight.
The jet slowly begins its shaky lift off and they begin to make themselves comfortable.
“Mission protocol.”
The three of them glance up at the asset in shock. No one answers him. Rumlow quickly glances at his papers, looking for a dos and don’ts list to make this easier.
“Awaiting mission protocol,” he repeats in the same low voice.
Fuck it.
“You’re going to infiltrate an Iraqi army base. We’re looking to kill four men being held prisoner.” He rifles through the packet, grabbing the photos of the men they’re looking for and gets up to hand them to the asset, who takes it in his metal hand.
The gears in the arm shift loudly and Rumlow sneaks a look at the shiny metal plates before sitting back down in his seat. He waits for the man to ask more questions but he remains silent. He looks at the photos for a moment before going back to staring blankly in front of him.
The other two don’t seem to care much for the reading. Erikson has his phone pulled out and Sanford has his eyes closed, head tilted back. Rumlow looks back down at his papers, deciding he might as well get started. The knowledge will only give him an advantage during the mission.
Pierce’s words ring in his head as he looks over how to treat and look after the asset. There’s a long list of what to do and an even longer list of what not to do.
The asset requires minimal sustenance. Give water twice and food once a day as necessary (MREs only, provided during missions).
The asset must be told to defecate twelve hours post feeding.
The asset must remain masked at all times in public.
The asset must be given strict orders including targets and rendezvous points.
Do not show feelings or emotions towards the asset. Doing so will interfere with fundamental programming set in place.
Rumlow looks up at the man sitting across from him. Is he even a man? He seems more of a cyborg assassin considering the arm and the blank stare.
The manual even included a few key trigger words. There’s one to disable the arm, one to send an electric shock powerful enough to incapacitate the asset, and the last one, only to be used as a last resort, is described as a “manual override” in case the asset malfunctions. The terms are all in Russian. He’ll have to brush up on his Russian just in case he has to use them.
Fuck. Leave it to HYDRA to steal a man-machine from the Russians, and use it to do their dirty work. And now he’s here to make sure it behaves. Fucking typical.
Nearly half a day later they finally land on Iraqi soil. There’s a truck already waiting for them. HYDRA has connections spread all over the globe. They drive to a safe house provided solely for this mission.
Finally, they arrive at their destination. It’s home for the night anyway. They’re tired, and need rest before the mission tomorrow. Rumlow thinks if he has to listen to Sanford complain about the lame mission one more time he might have to punch him in the face. He sets down the last crate he had to carry and drops down onto the bottom of one of the two bunk beds set up in the small room. The place is bare. Besides the beds, there’s a large fold out table, and a bathroom that looks as old as it is unsanitary.
Erikson follows his cue and collapses onto the other set of beds. Sitting on a cramped jet for twelve hours is a lot more tiring than it sounds.
“So what the hell are we supposed to do with this guy?” Sanford asks. The others turn to look at the asset, who hasn’t spoken a word since asking about the mission. He’s still wearing the mask, which is unsettling in itself. But his dark eyes are now flickering between each of them. Sizing them up maybe?
“You want to maybe take the mask off? Take a seat? Stop being so fucking creepy?”
“Sanford!” Rumlow glares at the guy. Rule number one is not to speak to the asset unless it’s a direct order.
Sanford lets out a huff and rolls his eyes. If Rumlow was his commanding officer he’d put him in his place. The guy’s a dick on a good day. Sanford just climbs onto the top bunk over Erikson, and they both let it go.
Rumlow is about to move towards the gear they brought when the asset slowly moves, drawing his attention. He freezes and watches the asset slowly reach up to undo the clasps of the mask. He moves, mechanically, and slowly sits on the floor, next to the weapons and equipment that they brought in, and sets the mask down on the floor next to him. His dull, blank eyes are no less creepy without the mask on. If Sanford’s watching he doesn’t make a comment. He wonders if maybe the guy had his brain replaced as well as that arm. He doesn’t seem close to human.
Rumlow continues moving towards the gear, feeling uncomfortable being so close to HYDRA’s valued asset. He digs through the equipment looking for the packages of MREs that he knows HYDRA packed for them.
“You guys hungry?”
Erikson sits up and looks over at him. “For barely edible military food? Bring it on,” he says sarcastically. He gets up and walks over anyway.
Rumlow lets out a chuckle and hands him a package and a water bottle. Erikson grabs extra for Sanford and makes his way back to the bunk. The other man reaches down and accepts the items unenthusiastically.
“Do we need to feed him?” Erikson asks, nodding to asset.
Rumlow looks down at the man by his feet. “Yeah, once a day.” He hands him a package of MRE and a water bottle. The asset accepts them wordlessly.
“He better be able to feed himself,” Sanford says.
The asset still says nothing. But he does open the package in his hands and starts eating. Rumlow moves back to his own bunk and watches him. From what he’s read, the guy can barely take care of himself. Being told when and what to eat and shit, this guy belongs in a fucking hospital, not on a mission as HYDRA’s greatest weapon. He’s half convinced tomorrow’s mission is going to be a complete failure. What happens if this guy gets himself killed? Are they going to be responsible for the death of HYDRA’s valued asset?
Like hell he’s going to let some helpless, mindless zombie ruin his chances of moving up in HYDRA. If the asset fails tomorrow, he’ll take down the fucking army base himself.
“I’ll take the top bunk.” He says to the asset. “You take the bottom.”
The asset watches him carefully as he climbs into the top bunk. He’s read that the asset doesn’t need to sleep more than a few hours every few days. But tomorrow’s the big mission. He might as well be well rested. And if he’s in the bunk at least he won’t be staring at them in the dark. It’s too fucking creepy, even for him.
He listens as the asset shuffles into the space beneath him. He closes his eyes and decides to get some rest. Tomorrow is guaranteed to be a shit show.
*
When Rumlow wakes the next morning he has no idea how long he’s slept. There are no windows in the safe house. He glances at his watch. It’s time to get ready for the mission.
He gets out of the bunk as quietly as he can, sparing a glance at the others. Erikson and Sanford are still asleep. But the asset watches his movements with sharp eyes, silent as always. He wonders if the man’s slept at all during the night. Rumlow meets his gaze for a few moments, unsettled, before turning towards the bathroom to relieve himself.
There’s no sign of movement from any of the others when he gets back. He grabs a water bottle for himself and hands one to the asset.
“You need to… relieve yourself?”
The asset stares at him.
“Go to the bathroom,” he says, exasperated.
The asset gets up to move. And Rumlow almost thinks he gives him a look of thanks before it’s gone.
“Wake up you lazy assholes!”
The other two groan and toss in their uncomfortable bunks, before slowly sitting up.
Rumlow begins preparing for the mission. Technically, the asset’s mission. He lays out all the weapons required. The mission protocol came with a handy manual that explicitly states how to outfit the asset for a mission.
Erikson’s finally beginning to review the protocol. At least he’s bothering with it. Sanford hasn’t glanced at the papers since he got them.
An hour later they’re ready to get started. They’ve eaten and they all know the plan. Drive out to the base, keep a good distance, stay hidden. Assess the situation but leave the rest to the asset. There are no instructions for how he’s supposed to actually infiltrate the base. Maybe the orders are just programmed into his brain.
They each begin to prep themselves, putting on their tactical uniforms and making sure their weapons are loaded. This is standard protocol for them, and they’ve done it a dozen times. The asset watches them from a distance.
Sanford turns to the guy. “What’s he waiting for?” He asks, as he’s putting his glock into his hip holster.
“Well if you had bothered reading the mission protocol…”
“We have to prep him.” Erikson finishes for him.
“Seriously?” He scoffs. “Jesus, can this guy do anything for himself?”
“Can a weapon load itself?” Rumlow says dryly. “Get over here,” he motions the asset closer.
He begins strapping on a custom thigh holster onto the asset’s right side. The asset doesn’t move, he just stares infuriating off into space. Erikson helps him on his other side with the other holster. Two knives are strapped to the back of his waist, another one on his side, along with a few hand grenades. And together, Erikson and Rumlow figure out how to strap a submachine pistol onto his back. Sanford, the little shit, just watches lazily from his seat on one of the bunks.
Rumlow places the mask back on his face while Erikson checks the protocol to see if they’ve forgotten anything. He tries to make sure the straps don’t pull on his hair too much. It’s a lot tighter than he thought it would be, and it reminds him of a muzzle as much as something to hide one’s identity. This is the closest he’s been to the asset. His cold eyes flicker to meet his own. They’re a shocking blue color, bright and sharp. It looks wrong on such a dead gaze.
“Here, put that on him.” Erikson hands him a pair of tactical goggles.
Rumlow raises an eyebrow and does it, fastening the straps under the asset’s long dark hair. He steps back to look at their work. With the full mask and goggles on they can’t see any feature of the assets face.
“Holy shit, that’s terrifying,” Erikson murmurs.
Rumlow nods in agreement. “Come on, let’s go.” They each grab their own assault rifles and a bag of weapons for the asset, and head out to the truck.
Sanford drives and Erikson sits in the front passenger seat, leaving Rumlow in the back with the asset. It’s unnerving how he can’t see the soldier’s face. It dehumanizes him even more. Can’t even tell if he’s looking at him. He probably is.
They arrive near the military base and are careful to stay hidden behind the dunes. Don’t want to give away the element of surprise. Iraq is everything he imagined it to be. Sand, sand, and fucking sand everywhere. He suddenly wishes he had his own mask and goggles to cover his face with.
The asset watches the base, silent as always.
There’s only a small handful of buildings. “There,” Rumlow says, pointing to the one with guards standing at both entrances. “I guarantee they’re being keep in there.”
A moment later the asset moves, he shifts towards them like he’s waiting. Erikson opens the bag of weapons. A Colt M4A1 assault rifle is handed to him. He slings it over one shoulder with the strap, and holds his hands out. Erikson hands him a Milkor MGL 6 cylinder grenade launcher. The asset is ready.
He walks forward, each step filled with purpose and drive. He doesn’t bother trying to be covert or sneaky. They watch as he raises the grenade launcher, sending a blast directly into a military truck. It explodes backwards, men scrambling to get away from it. The sound immediately alerts the entire camp that an attack is underway. This was not the covert operation that Rumlow was expecting.
Another blast is launched at a group of cowering soldiers. Fire and body parts explode around the asset, who moves calm and unphased.
The soldiers start firing back. The asset’s metal arm protects him from the bullets until he finds cover behind a truck. A moment later another blast sends soldiers flying away.
The asset sets down the grenade launcher, and takes up the assault rifle hanging around his shoulders. Bullets fly towards the soldiers and they drop like flies. Each one of his targets doesn’t stand a chance. His aim is impeccable. It's chaotic until the soldiers drop, still and silent.
The asset makes his way towards the building holding the prisoners. He’s dropped the assault rifle now, and grabs the handguns by his side. Each one of his movements are made with grace. He doesn’t run towards his opponents, he steps like a predator, slowly hunting his prey. Bullets fly towards him and he dodges with flips and turns worthy of a life long gymnast. Men drop all around him. They never even get close to the asset.
They are literally watching a one-man murder machine.
The guards at the door are already dead, taken down by the asset’s bullets. He kicks the door open with enough force that it flies backwards.
They can’t see him anymore. But they hear the sound of his guns, echoing out of the building. They were silent before. But now…
“Holy shit…”
“That was… insane.”
Rumlow doesn’t join in. He watches intently. There’s silence for a moment, then come four shots in succession, and then silence again.
“He did it. He actually fucking did it.”
The asset walks out calm as ever. There are still soldiers trying to take him down. He throws a hand grenade that lands perfectly under a truck that was shielding a group of soldiers. He stalks towards the others—calm in his movements—while reloading one of his handguns. Every shot aimed at him is bounced off his metal arm. Soldiers drop one at a time.
Until finally, the shots stop. The asset stalks around the base. A slight movement on his right, he fires, and a body drops to the ground. At one point he runs out of bullets and drop his guns to the soft sand, grabbing a knife in each hand instead. The soldiers dare to attack him now. But it doesn’t fare any better in their favor. The asset dodges every bullet, flips in the air with grace and power. His knives bury themselves in the throats of the soldiers, splattering blood all over his mask. He’s just as capable at close combat as he is with an assault rifle. A single kick from the asset sends a soldier flying a hundred feet back.
“This guy isn’t human,” Rumlow murmurs, the first words he’s said the entire time. He’s beautiful. His movements have a grace that Rumlow could never hope to accomplish in the field. He’s dangerous, and a stunning sight to watch.
The number of men left standing can be counted on one hand. The asset takes them out one at a time. The last one, he throws his blade, which lands cleanly in the middle of his chest, and he drops to his knees.
The asset looks around, his hands are now empty. The mask and goggles hide his entire face. Rumlow wishes he could see it now.
There are men moaning in pain all over the base, those who aren’t dead. The asset wasn’t aiming to kill, he was aiming to incapacitate. Too bad the majority of the soldiers who aren’t dead will probably bleed out before they get medical attention.
This is order, he tells himself. And there is no order without pain.
The asset’s mission has been accomplished. The prisoners are dead. Anyone who stood in his way was also taken out. He walks back towards them, slow and purposeful as ever.
He says nothing. They say nothing. And they pile into the truck to head back to the safe house.
“I called it in. The jet will be ready to take us back in a few hours.” Rumlow says when they arrive.
They’re still a little stunned by the display they saw. No one has said a word to the asset. The asset stands, still and silent, face completely shielded from view.
“Well, since we’ve got a few hours to kill, who’s up for some real food?” Sanford asks.
“Yeah, sure,” Erikson reluctantly accepts.
Rumlow shakes his head. “I’m going to get our shit packed up, make sure we’re ready to go. Maybe get him cleaned up,” he nods towards the asset.
The idea of touching the asset clearly makes the other two uncomfortable. They wish him luck and quickly head out the door, leaving Rumlow alone with the silent asset.
Once the others are gone, he takes a good look at the asset, and notices for the first time the dark blood that’s drying down the side of his uniform.
“Holy shit, are you alright?” He steps closer, and without thinking, presses a hand to the asset’s side. “You’re bleeding.”
“It’s nothing,” the asset finally speaks. “I’m not malfunctioning.”
Rumlow scoffs. “If I don’t clean this up, you might be malfunctioning sooner than you think. Come on,” he grabs his arm and pulls him towards one of the bunk. The asset sits down while he grabs the first aid kit.
Carefully, he starts to undo the straps of the asset’s uniform. On second thought, he pauses, and removes the mask and goggles first. It’s just too unsettling. The asset makes no motion to help him. The leather slowly peals off his body, revealing a bullet wound on the asset’s right side. It’s not bleeding horrendously, but a quick look shows him no exit wound. He’ll have to extract the bullet.
“Lay down on your back. I’ve got to get the bullet out.”
The asset does as he says.
Rumlow pulls on a pair of latex gloves and begins cleaning the area with rubbing alcohol. The red drips down his side, bright and alive.
“So you are human,” he murmurs. And the asset’s eyes flicker towards him. He gives him a strange look, almost like the words are a mystery to him.
He grabs a pair of forceps and cleans them as best he can with the alcohol.
“This is going to hurt.”
He starts digging into the wound, trying to go as slow and gentle as he can, looking for the bullet. He quickly glances at the asset’s face. The man shows no pain, but he can see the asset’s fingers clench the thin sheets beneath him. He does feel pain.
He feels the forceps hit metal and he carefully tries to grasp the bullet. The asset stifles a grunt of pain as he slowly pulls the forceps back out.
“That was really amazing, you know.” He speaks, thinking maybe it’ll keep the asset’s mind off the pain. “I definitely doubted you for a moment. Thought we’d be taking home a body riddled with bullet holes.”
The asset doesn’t answer him.
He knows he’s not supposed to speak to it. But he can’t seem to help himself. “You got a name? It’s kind of weird calling you ‘the asset’ ”. He carefully loops the thread into the curved needle, and wipes away fresh blood again before starting to thread the bullet wound closed.
“The Russians called you the Winter Soldier, right? Badass name. It’s fitting, you know?” Rumlow glances at his face again. He seems torn, like he knows he’s not supposed to speak, so why is this man speaking to him? “Like the toughest soldier. You were relentless out there. Brutal. Fucking incredible.”
The asset stays silent, but he’s watching him now.
“It’s kind of a mouthful though. How about Winter?” He finishes tying the thread in a tight knot. “I could call you Winter.” He gives him a soft smile. “My name’s Brock. Brock Rumlow. Sit up, I’m going to get you cleaned up.”
He grabs a clean washcloth and empties a bottle of water over it. He wrings it out and begins wiping the asset’s face. There’s sweat and dirt covering him. He brushes the dark hair back and gently brushes the cloth down one side of his face, then the other, gently cleaning his nose. Blue eyes watch him silently. But they don’t look so dead now, not as… blank. Hooded by long, thick eyelashes, he almost looks sad. Beautiful. Rumlow scoffs in his head. Pierce was definitely right about that.
Rumlow’s thumb brushes across plump, red lips. There’s nothing wrong with admiring something so beautiful.
He lets out a mirthless breath. “Who are you?” He murmurs. Slowly he drops his hand and rewets the cloth, wringing out the excess water. He cleans the rest of the asset, wiping away sweat and grime from long lines of hard muscle. Down his neck, and his front, both sides, he’s extra careful around the wound.
There’s dried blood on the metal arm. “Can you lift it for me?” The asset does so, and the shifting of the gears rings out loudly in the small room. He carefully wipes down the metal. He witnessed today what happens when a person gets hit by a cybernetic arm. The asset is as dangerous as he is beautiful. It makes him special, because Rumlow’s never met someone like him before.
When he’s done, he throws the dirty washcloth onto the floor. He turns to face the asset. There’s little emotion on his face, but Rumlow thinks he looks… confused? Like no one has ever shown him kindness before. Maybe no one has.
The others return just as Rumlow finishes getting the asset’s leather uniform back on.
They’re loud and drunk—at least Sanford is—much more relaxed now that the mission’s over.
Erikson shoves a bottle of vodka into his arms. “Something for the road,” he says with a smile.
Rumlow returns it, “Thanks, I could use good drink right about now.”
He takes a swig of the bottle and winces as the cheap vodka burns down his throat. He glances behind him. Sanford’s in the bathroom and Erikson’s rummaging through his bag. He holds out the bottle towards the asset, raising his eyebrows.
The asset stares at it. Then his eyes move up to meet his. He’s confused. No one’s ever shared with him before. But he knows he’s not supposed to. He gives a barely visible shake of his head.
Rumlow shrugs and takes another large swig. Good way to get ready for another twelve hour flight.
“So you don’t drink.” He says softly, so only they can hear. “How about a smoke then?” He pulls out a pack of cigarettes from one of his many pockets. He nods his head towards the door, and slowly, the asset follows him.
Rumlow pulls out a cigarette and lights it before holding out the pack. The asset looks confused. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do. Rumlow gives him a small smile. HYDRA’s most dangerous weapon can’t even figure out how to light a cigarette. He pulls another cigarette out of the pack. “Open,” he commands. He places it between those soft lips and lights it for him. “Inhale.”
The asset does, hollowing out his cheeks as he does so. And then he just kind of stares at him, eyes wide, holding the smoke in his lungs, nearly looking comical. Rumlow reaches for the asset’s human hand, and brings it up so two fingers grasp the thin cylinder, pulling it from his lips.
“Now exhale.”
The asset does, and his eyes slightly glaze over as the nicotine floods his system.
“Feels good, right?” He says gently, taking a drag of his own smoke.
The asset watches him carefully, imitating his motions. It feels good. It feels like there’s a soft, gentle buzzing in his head, tingling his nerves. It makes him think there’s something really important he’s forgotten, from a long time ago, something really far away.
Rumlow glances over at him again. The asset’s eyes are closed, head tilted back just a bit, looking more relaxed than he’s ever seen him as he slowly exhales the smoke from those soft, pink lips.
“I’m guessing they never let you smoke.”
The asset is as silent as he ever is. He does open his eyes though, and he looks at the other man like he’s lost.
“What’s wrong?”
“I think… I think there’s somethin’ I’ve forgot’n. Somethin’ import’nt. Someone, maybe…”
Rumlow’s lips fall open slightly and his eyes widen. Because there’s a distinct Brooklyn drawl that was never there before when the asset spoke in his low, monotone voice.
The asset lifts the cigarette to his lips again, takes an impressive drag, and blows the smoke back out into the air like he’s been a lifelong smoker. In another life maybe.
Muscle memory.
“Okay, enough of that.” A twinge of terror hits him as he grabs the half smoked cigarette and drops it, crushing it beneath his boot. If he’s somehow broken the asset’s valued programming, HYDRA will skin him alive for it. “Let’s go back inside. It’s time to leave.”
The asset has the nerve to give him a sad, longing look. If Rumlow weren’t afraid of breaking the programming he’d indulge the asset in as many smokes as he wants.
It’s time to go home.
*
“Mission report.”
“Mission successful. Target eliminated.” The asset appears back to normal. The light in his eyes that Rumlow saw earlier had faded slowly, nearly gone by the time they reached the HYDRA base.
Pierce nods. “Good. Very good. No casualties, I see,” he says as he glances towards the three men. He leans closer to the asset, and whispers in his ear, Rumlow itches to know what he’s saying to him.
Slowly, the asset turns to them. But it’s clearly him that he’s making unwavering eye contact with. He gets a little nervous, and hopes that it doesn’t show. Winter better not sell him out when he was nice to him.
“Rumlow, you stay. The others can go.”
“Yes, sir.”
The others leave and Pierce signals the asset to start walking towards the other room where he first saw him. Rumlow follows silently behind.
The lab techs busily get to work when they walk in. He watches as they work methodically to remove the asset’s uniform. The leather is removed, as well as the single glove on the metal arm, until he’s just left in his black pants and combat boots. The techs usher him into the single chair in the middle of the room, surrounded by medical equipment.
“What are you doing to him?”
“They’re just checking his vitals,” Pierce says absently. “Making sure he’s fully functional.”
One of the techs hooks him up to a monitor, and watches the screen as it returns various numbers. Another one examines the arm, opening the plates to check the wires and gears inside for damage.
“Good job on the mission, Rumlow.” Pierce suddenly says to him.
He looks up in surprise. “Thank you, sir.”
“Being able to handle the asset is a rare skill to have, a coveted one in this organization. You did well. We won’t forget that.”
Rumlow swells inside. It’s one of the few praises he’s heard since he got here.
“Thank you, sir.” He says again.
“The asset appears to be in peak condition, sir. All vitals look good.”
“Good.” Pierce nods. “Wipe him, then put him away.”
The techs nod at his instructions.
“Feel free to stay and observe this part. It may be of interest to you.” He gives him a smile before turning and walking away.
Rumlow turns back to the asset just in time to see them push him back onto the seat. His eyes are hard, resigned, and they flicker towards him before he opens his mouth to accept a mouth guard. The men step back and a loud clang reverberates through the room signaling the movement of metal restraints closing around both the asset’s arms.
“What are you doing to him?” He asks, taking a step closer. He stops when the machine behind the asset starts whirring, the metal apparatus coming closer towards the asset. His naked chest starts heaving up and down as his breaths draw quicker. He’s hyperventilating. Scared.
“We’re wiping him. It’s standard protocol for long term storage.”
“Long term storage—what?"
Electricity crackles, lightning white and terrifying, in the two metal plates that are now framing the assets head. They close, shifting into place around his face and skull.
The screams are terrifying, and he nearly jumps back when he hears them. They're raw and anguished and filled with so much pain. He winces when he sees the asset’s face scrunched up in agony. His fists are clenched, and his body shakes and spasms as he screams in torturous pain. He can only imagine what it feels like to have volts of electricity sent directly into your skull. Traumatizing doesn’t even begin to cover it. And yet not a single person moves to help him.
The men in white coats watch him like they’ve done this a hundred times before. They probably have, Rumlow realizes. It’s standard protocol.
Finally, the screams stop. And the machines are slowly retracted.
The asset lies relaxed, face no longer a mask of pain, it’s just… blank. His chest hitches sporadically as he draws short, shaky breaths. There’s an occasional twitch in his real arm, and in his legs, as his brain continues to misfire electrical signals.
Jesus fuck.
This is what they do to him. This is how they keep him pliant and submissive. The asset. Without a mind of his own, unable to make his own decisions or do anything for himself. This is what HYDRA has done to him. They take away what makes him human.
Is this order?
One of the techs removes the mouth guard and the chair moves until the asset is sitting up. Rumlow watches him. There’s no recognition in his eyes, no life, no pain. Just emptiness.
They literally wiped his mind.
The techs strip him of his boots. They stand him up and strip his pants and undergarments while he stares blankly past Rumlow. He watches as they herd him into an adjacent room, which appears to be just a large shower. The spray comes on and they wash him down, scrubbing hard at his skin, scrubbing him clean. They don’t bother with soap or shampoo. They just hold his head under the spray and let the water wash over his hair, running down his body. The spray turns off and they dry him off the best they can with a few towels.
They bring him back into the room and shuffle him towards a metal chamber towards the side. The chamber is connected by large tubes to a heavy metal tank sitting next to it. There’s a warning label on it. He reads 'liquid nitrogen'. One of the techs opens the metal door, it hisses as it swings open, and a dense white fog seeps out into the warm air.
It’s a fucking cryotube.
With a push, the asset clambers inside. Rumlow can see him start to shiver even before the door closes.
With the push of a few buttons, liquid nitrogen floods into the tank. Rumlow barely suppresses a shudder as the sound of crackling and fizzing fills the air. Once it stops, the tech releases the nitrogen back into the tank.
The screen towards the bottom of the cryo chamber flashes on slowly, until it settles at -80.0 C.
Rumlow slowly steps forward. He has to stand on his tip toes to look into the tube through the screen. The asset is still. Too still. His eyes are closed. There’s frost along the edges of the screen. The asset is bathed in a light blue glow. He’s pale and still. Frozen and beautiful. Until the next time HYDRA decides to defrost him for their use.
Rumlow slowly steps away as the lab techs start putting away the equipment. Just like they put away the soldier. None of it will be used until the asset is reawaken.
He thinks about the asset for a long time after that day.
Unfortunately for him, it’s years before he sees him again.