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The first time the unit activated its optics and audio sensors it was to the sight of its creator watching the unit with a wide smile. It was the first image to be specially stored in its memory banks. A mustached human male with dark hair and graying temples. New connections formed between the image of the human and the data banks. Its creator was designated Howard Anthony Walter Stark.
“Hello,” Howard said softly. The unit watched the creator awaiting instructions.
“It doesn‘t look like much,” another voice said. The unit turned its optics to see another human: elderly, male and wearing a U.S. Military uniform. The human was looking right at it. It searched its data banks and matched the face to a human designated: Major General Chester Phillips. Additional data streamed into its fore consciousness in less than a second before it was set aside as currently irrelevant. At his side stood a much younger human male with darker skin and the rank of lieutenant. The unit searched its data banks and matched the face to 2nd Lt. Nicholas Joseph Fury.
“This is the first time I‘ve activated his brain, General,” Howard said dryly. “I didn‘t want to add his skin until I was sure I got all the gremlins out of his gears.”
The unit processed the words from the creator carefully. Implied was flaw in the unit yet also implied was care for the unit. Explicit was the information the unit was male. It incorporated the three new data points into its core identity software.
“So you say, Stark. I still say it doesn’t look like much,” Phillips grumbled.
Howard shot the general a sardonic look. “And you and I both know that appearances can be deceptive. Don‘t judge him on his looks. Judge him on his actions.”
Phillips grunted in reluctant agreement. “Well, what‘s its name?”
Howard smiled. “I was thinking: Cybernetic Official Unit for Lawful Security Operations Number 01.”
“That‘s a mouthful,” Phillips observed. “Not exactly the kind of thing you want to be shouting into a radio.”
“I thought he could be called C.O.U.L.S.O.N. for short,” Howard said dryly.
The unit incorporated the new data into his core identity software. “Accepted, designation: Cybernetic Official Unit for Lawful Security Operations Number 01.”
“Jesus! It can talk?” Phillips cried out. “What the hell, Stark?”
“This unit has vocal capacity,” C.O.U.L.S.O.N. said. “And it is in working order as this unit has demonstrated.”
Lt. Fury chuckled and sobered up at once at the annoyed look the general shot him. “Sorry, sir. I didn‘t think he‘d be funny.”
“Say ‘I’ instead of ‘this unit’,” Howard said, as he leaned closer to look at C.O.U.L.S.O.N., studying the movement of the electronics in his neck.
C.O.U.L.S.O.N. incorporated the order into his behavioral programming. “I,” he said obediently.
Lt. Fury grinned at C.O.U.L.S.O.N., his dark eyes sparkling in amusement.
“Hmm, maybe I was a little too enthusiastic in developing his understanding of humor,” Howard said, smiling despite his words.
“Aw, don‘t change him, Mr. Stark,” Lt. Fury said smiling. “He‘s a smartass, that‘s great.”
C.O.U.L.S.O.N. saved Lt. Fury’s words into his memory banks.
“When will you have it ready to be in the field?” Phillips asked.
Howard crossed his arms as he considered C.O.U.L.S.O.N. thoughtfully. “Well, his programming is solid. I‘ve just got to finish his hardware, then add his skin which is going to be the trickiest part since I want him to be able to feel through it. So maybe nine months, but if you really want him to pass for human then he‘s got to be fully functioning that‘ll take a little more time. Say fourteen months.”
Phillips grimaced. “Fully functioning? You know, Stark, don‘t explain it. Just tell me when it‘s field ready.” Phillips spun on a heel and marched for the door. “Come on, kid. I promised your father I‘d have you home by supper time.”
“Yes, sir!” Lt. Fury called after him. He turned to Howard. “Can I come back later to look in on him, Mr. Stark?”
“I‘ll have a car come get you if you‘re in town,” Howard agreed. “And will you stop calling me, Mr. Stark. I keep telling you to call me Howard. After all I know your father.”
“Sure, Mr. Stark - I mean - Howard,” Lt. Fury nodded.
“Fury!”
The lieutenant straightened up in reflex at the bellow, shot both Howard and C.O.U.L.S.O.N. a nod and sprinted out the door. “Yes, sir!”
Howard chuckled. “Well, Jack‘s kid is something else.” He turned to smile at C.O.U.L.S.O.N. “And it looks like you made a friend. Not bad for your first day as a fully conscious entity.”
C.O.U.L.S.O.N. considered the data and incorporated it into his core identity software. Lt. Nicholas Joseph Fury was his friend.
“Well, C.O.U.L.S.O.N. let‘s see what else you can do.”
*-*-*-*
Coulson blinked and sat up in his bed, the memory of his first day of consciousness always replayed when he awoke from standby sleep mode. It was an odd quirk he had yet to find a reason for, but it was a pleasant one so he never sought to change it. He reached toward his abdomen and unplugged the electrical cord leading into his bellybutton. The complex polymers which made up his skin tightened with deliberate elasticity leaving behind a normal human looking ‘innie’ belly button where he‘d had the cord plugged in. As always he was grateful that Howard Stark had thought ahead when he’d designed him and made it so he could plug into any outlet in the world, even with the different voltages in other countries. His creator had built him a surge protector which could stand up to a lightning strike.
And that was no hyperbole; he’d actually had to test it once. He’d survived but he never wanted to do that again.
Coulson stood up and padded for his closet, pulling out the suit he‘d wear, checking it for loose threads or stains before leaving it on his neatly done bed. His deliberate habit of carrying cups of coffee around in order to appear more human sometimes left him with unexpected stains so now he always checked for them. Still undressed he walked into his kitchen, ground a fresh batch of coffee and turned on the coffee maker before heading for the bathroom. He took a long shower, leaving the water running for several minutes before he used it and several minutes after he stepped out. He only had to bathe once a week since he didn’t sweat like a human being, allowing the water to run longer normalized his water bill. He was always careful to appear normal to any diligent observers, especially those who could gain access to public records like utility bills. Once he was dry, dressed and had his pseudo-hair carefully combed and held in place with gel, he grabbed the finished coffee and poured it into a thermos which would keep it hot for the rest of the day. Coulson ran a final security check on his apartment before he headed for SHIELD Headquarters.
This was his routine everyday, at least when he was home and pretending to be human.
His first stop in HQ was the Director’s office to check on him to make certain Fury had made it in. He was among the rare few that risked seeing him first thing in the morning. The Director was not a morning person. After making sure that Fury wasn’t an evil universe twin, clone or alien imposter Coulson went to his office to read the briefs, the situation reports of agents in the field, and the mountain of Avengers generated paperwork which he thought was getting bigger by day, even though comparing the number of pages to those generated every single day in the past five months since he’d been appointed to manage the Avengers showed no significant increase.
“Sir, if you keep making that face it’ll stick,” Barton teased by the doorway to Coulson’s office.
“I think I‘ll risk it,” Coulson said, as he frowned at the paper in his hands. It was request for the Avengers to show up for another charity function. Coulson brought up the videos in his memory banks of the last six disasters which had struck the six functions the Avengers had attended. Six charity functions and six attacks by super-villains and yet he was holding another request for the Avengers to attend. Even after all these years, it never ceased to surprise him at how humans ignored such blatantly obvious correlations of data.
“You‘ll scare the junior agents,” Barton said as he wandered in and sat on the chair across from Coulson‘s desk. He put his feet up on the desk, avoiding the paper, pens and computer with practice.
Coulson didn’t bother to scold him. It never worked before so he knew better than to keep asking. He just shoved Barton’s feet off without turning his head from the paperwork. He also ignored Barton‘s exaggerated pout. “If you need to put your feet up so badly, Barton, there are armchairs available in the waiting area in Medical.”
Barton shuddered. “You want me to go there, voluntarily? That‘s cruel, Coulson.”
Coulson finally looked up to stare at him. “Is there a reason you‘re gracing me with your presence today?” he asked in his driest tone. “Because if my karma had gotten so bad that you‘re here for no reason I‘m heading for the nearest place of worship to apologize.”
Barton laughed. “I‘d almost buy that, if I didn‘t already know you‘re an atheist.”
Coulson eyed him with interest. He‘d never labeled himself in such a way. It wasn‘t part of his core identity software. “Exactly how did you come to that conclusion?”
“Whenever you talk about religion you always do it in a very distant way,” Barton said, as he grabbed a pen from Coulson’s desk and began spinning it over his knuckles. “Like right now, you said place of worship, instead of church or temple or synagogue. It‘s like you‘ve never been in one, not even as a kid.”
Coulson considered, carefully comparing his behavior with previous discussions regarding religion and had to agree with Barton’s analysis. He made a change to his behavioral programming to say church from now on. “Noted,” Coulson agreed. “Although, atheist isn‘t entirely accurate, I believe in a Creator for life but not necessarily in a God.”
“Some people would say that‘s one and the same,” Barton said.
Coulson gave him a calm look. “Other than our unexpected discussion on theology, what brings you to my office?”
“Is it so hard to believe that I just want to hang out?” Barton protested.
“You‘re hiding from someone,” Coulson said, basing his conclusion on Barton’s previous pattern of behavior and the time interval since the last time Barton had used his office as a sanctuary, although it had hardly deterred an enraged Pepper Potts.
Barton tossed the pen into Coulson’s pen holder and rubbed his hands through his hair in a gesture of frustration Coulson had noticed him make before. “No, well… yes, but not in the way you think.”
Coulson stared at him, making certain to blink at a standardized human interval.
“It‘s just about lunch time, do you want to go out? To eat?” Barton asked. He licked his bottom lip in a tell of nervousness which Coulson had only seen four times in the last six years since his recruitment into SHIELD. “My treat?”
“I have a lunch appointment with the Director,” Coulson explained.
“You always have lunch with Fury,” Barton said, straightening up. “Can‘t you reschedule? Just this once.”
Technically Coulson could since he had nothing urgent to report but lunch with Nick Fury had always been the perfect excuse as to why no one ever saw him in the cafeteria. He could chew and swallow food but it gave him no nutritional benefit - he always had to flush out his system before any lingering pieces rotted - and over the years he’d developed a severe dislike of wasting food. Even the cans and boxes in his kitchen cabinets at home always ended up being anonymously donated to soup kitchens before his next planned trip to the grocery store. He had too many images in his memory banks of too many children starving and too many people dead of starvation who could have been saved especially with a meal he wasted. Fury was kind enough to help him from having to keep up this particular pretense of being human.
“It‘s a standing lunch meeting for a reason, Barton,” Coulson said mildly.
“Then how about coffee after work?” Barton said, leaning forward intently.
Considering coffee’s lack of nutritional value, especially when he ordered it black, Coulson had no objection. “That‘s fine, I‘ll meet you for coffee.” He was curious about what Barton wished to discuss with him that he felt he couldn’t do here in his office in SHIELD HQ.
“Great!” Barton exclaimed. He jumped to his feet and all but bounced out the door, pausing at the doorway to toss Coulson a wide grin before left.
Coulson blinked, for once a reaction that had nothing to do with maintaining a human front, as he wondered if he’d missed something.
*-*-*-*
“Barton asked you out for coffee?” Fury asked before he burst out laughing.
Coulson eyed him and wondered what it was about the situation which had resulted in such an extraordinary reaction from his first and oldest friend. He checked his memory banks twice and had no recollection of any similar event.
“Please, explain what I missed,” Coulson said, as he poured hot coffee from his thermos into the Director’s mug.
Fury’s loud laughter softened into chuckles. “It always amazes me how you can be so brilliant in analyzing perfect strangers but you always miss things when it comes to people you know.”
“Isn‘t that why I have you?” Coulson asked dryly. “To provide a human perspective on life?”
“Poor you,” Fury said, still chuckling. He lifted his mug and smirked at Coulson. “Barton wants a date.”
A couple definitions for date instantly came up in Coulson’s processor. But he waited a few seconds until Fury took a drink of his coffee. “I take it you don‘t mean to say that Barton wants a fruit, at least not the kind that comes from a palm tree.”
Coulson made certain to record every second of Fury’s spit take, if only for his personal viewing pleasure.
“Damn it, Coulson,” Fury groaned, as he snatched the napkin which had come with his lunch and sopped at the papers on his desk. He glared at the ruined paperwork before shifting his one eyed glare to Coulson. “I should have let Howard reprogram that humor of yours while I had the chance.”
“Too late now, sir,” Coulson said smiling a little at Fury‘s grumpiness.
“I could still declassify you and throw you at the wolves at R&D.”
“Yes, sir,” Coulson agreed mildly, quietly amused at the reiteration of this particular threat. It was the Director’s favorite when he felt that Coulson was being an annoying pain in his ass. “Would you like me to get you copies of everything?”
“Ugh, no, just give me the bullet points, if there‘s anything too important I‘ll have it copied off the mainframe,” Fury said, as he shoved every stained paper into a wastebasket which would later end up in SHIELD’s incinerator. There was nothing especially confidential which would have had to be destroyed by Fury’s own hands.
“Yes, sir,” Coulson said. As he recited the information for Fury, he pondered what he would do in regard to Barton. In the entire time he’d been operational he’d never before had to deal with such a situation. Oh, he’d run ops where he had to pretend to be the sexual partner of a fellow field agent and he’d even seduced a few sources for vital intelligence which had proved enjoyable. His training was up to date in such matters and he was fully functional. He knew how to act in those situations but a sincere attempt at emotional and sexual connection? His memory banks had no data of him dealing with such a situation. Nor did it have any information to give him on how to proceed.
It was… interesting. He looked forward to adding this new experience to his memory banks.
*-*-*-*
Coffee with Barton went well. They’d discussed a wide range of topics which had nothing to do with either SHIELD or the Avengers. It allowed Coulson to stretch out his reasoning abilities in a different way from his regular routines which was highly enjoyable as well as surprising since most the topics weren’t in Barton’s personal file as acknowledged interests.
“You know, I kinda expected you to come up with an excuse to bail on me,” Barton said, as he swirled the dregs of his coffee cup, looking down at the creamy mocha liquid spinning counter-clockwise.
“I accepted your invitation,” Coulson said, wondering at what aspect of his core identity software had brought Barton to his conclusion. He analyzed his programming but he couldn‘t find the specific personality trait. “What gave you that idea?”
“Well, you‘re you and - and I‘m me,” Barton shrugged.
“That told me absolutely nothing, Barton,” Coulson said dryly.
“Forget about it,” Barton said quickly. “And we‘re out of the office and off duty, call me Clint.”
Coulson let it drop although he didn’t delete the conversation from his memory banks either. He rarely destroyed data unless the Director gave him direct orders with specific authorization codes. But the second part of Barton‘s request he could grant, and he incorporated it into his behavioral programming. “Alright…” Coulson said. “First names when we’re off duty, Clint.”
Clint grinned. “Well, Phil, I may still want to call you sir, even if we‘re not in the office.”
Coulson raised his eyebrows and a fascinating flush bloomed on Clint’s cheeks. “I‘ll remember,” he murmured, saving the visual more than once into his memory banks.
“If you‘re done with your coffee… do you want to stop by my place?”
Coulson considered Clint and all the implications of his invitation. “Yes.”
*-*-*-*
Being kissed by Clint Barton was a novel experience, Coulson decided. He’d received kisses before of course, ones that ranged from blatantly sexual and ones that were purely theatrical and chaste. Yet in none of those eighty-three separate occasions had Coulson ever been kissed with such an interesting mix of care and hunger and focused intent.
It was provocative, activating the protocol for sexual intercourse before Coulson could do it himself. It caught him off-guard when his skin’s sensitivity doubled. He gasped in surprise at the doubling of sensory input, as Clint sucked at his lower lip even as he ground up against Coulson’s front. Pleasure peaked in a sine curve one moment then shifted into cosine in the next. Coulson moaned and fed additional data to his processor. The taste of Clint against his mouth, activated sensors in his synthetic tongue, the information was nearly contradictory. Clint was hard teeth and soft flesh, sweet and salt lingered in his mouth. He had a rough wet tongue, smooth gum and dry lips.
He also surprisingly quiet, his enjoyment expressed in muted gasps and in an arched back as Coulson sought to taste and feel every inch of his body, which in turn made Coulson seek to evoke a greater response to save into his memory banks. That desire activated a line of code within the protocol for sexual intercourse which surprised Coulson again.
He’d never had sexual interaction with someone that he’d honestly wanted to before. It surprised Coulson at the difference it made, even with them doing nothing more than touching each other with their mouths and hands, it tripled his enjoyment beyond anything he‘d experience in the past. Everything increased in intensity, the depth of his desire, his level of pleasure, and his want to do it all over again and again.
His creator had left a line of code that had never activated until he found someone he wanted to have sex with for no other reason than his own want. Howard Stark, Coulson considered not for the first time, was a sneaky bastard and a very good creator.
*-*-*-*
Clint mumbled in protest as Coulson slid out of the bed until Coulson gently stroked the long length of his back, soothing him back into slumber.
Coulson found the bathroom, took off the condom, tied it off and dropped it into the toilet before flushing it away. The chemicals that combined to make the fluid which posed as his semen may have the right look and feel but it hardly would pass close inspection so he always made certain to personally dispose of it. He considered a shower, before deciding to hold off. He was only covered in Clint’s sweat, and tiny beads of salt water his synthetic skin released during sex. It wasn’t unpleasant. His olfactory sensors may not be very sensitive compared to his optics but the salt and Clint’s scent was an interesting and appealing combination. He walked to the living room in order to find his scattered clothing and save them from the floor before heading back to the bedroom. He slipped in, careful not to jostle Clint.
As soon as he was under the covers Clint turned over and wrapped his arms around him, holding him tight.
“I didn‘t meant to wake you,” Coulson apologized at once.
“You didn‘t,” Clint said, nearly inaudible from where he pressed his face to Coulson’s neck. “I didn‘t think you‘d- I‘m glad you came back.”
Coulson assessed his data banks for confirmation of standard behaviors post-sexual intercourse. His actions were correct. “Of course,” he said, confused. “Where else would I be?”
Clint didn’t answer, his only response was to tug at the boxers Coulson had recovered from the floor since Coulson wore clothes to sleep; it was a part of his behavioral programming he‘d never found a reason to override. Clint kissed his neck, deep sucking kisses which have left small bruises if Coulson had been human. Coulson obligingly tilted his head back, shivering as his skin’s sensitivity doubled.
Clint pressed him onto his back, and pulled Coulson’s underwear down past his thighs. “Ready for round two?”
His data processor gave Coulson the information behind the phrase. He smiled at him. “How many rounds will this match have, Clint? Are you going for the championship? I‘m willing if you are.”
The dilation of Clint’s pupils and the jump of his cock from half-hard to full erection was a satisfying reaction, which Coulson just had to save to his memory banks.
“Jesus, Phil,” Clint said panted. He licked his lips and moaned. “Hell, yes.”
They made it five more rounds before Clint collapsed and even Coulson had difficulty convincing his overheating servos to keep moving. His coolant wasn’t up to the task and he had to admit defeat. He hadn’t been designed for a championship match of a sexual nature. No twelve rounds for him. Pity.
“Double knockout,” Coulson murmured.
Clint snorted and laughed weakly against Coulson’s chest. “Double win.”
“Hmm, it could also be considered a double loss. I demand a rematch.”
*-*-*-*
His relationship with Clint Barton remained satisfactory; the only complaint came jokingly from Clint who kept saying Coulson was trying to kill him with sex. An accusation Coulson always denied with a smug smirk which earned him suspicious looks from Clint and anyone else who caught sight of it.
Fury's only acknowledgement of the situation was to give him orders to never let their change in personal interactions interfere with the job which Coulson promptly integrated into his behavioral programming. Not that he would have let it interfere but he always regarded direct orders from Nick Fury of being worthy of special attention. So he added a change to his behavioral program to always refer to Clint Barton solely as Barton while on duty even if only in his main core processor.
Coulson never had the desire to broach the topic of his inhumanity with Clint as he was still under orders to remain classified to everyone in SHIELD with the exception of the Director. But to be certain of his choice to remain silent he conducted a study of human relationships which had revealed such deeply personal topics didn‘t need to be shared right away. He wouldn’t need to seek permission from the Director for eight more months at the very latest.
At the one year anniversary of their relationship Coulson would reveal the truth, or so he planned, until Tony Stark ruined it when he decided to take the Avengers Quinjet to Brazil after a fight against Hydra in Australia.
“Come on, Coulson! It‘s Carnival,” Stark said, as Coulson frowned at him from his seat. Coulson was unable to resist cataloguing the similarities and differences between his creator and his son. Stark winked and shifted the navigational controls before Coulson ever agreed. “We can cut through Antarctica and enjoy the show and be back in New York before SHIELD sends out a rescue party.”
Coulson crossed his arms and kept his body language unyielding.
“I like Brazil,” Agent Romanov said lightly. She kept sharpening her knives without looking up. “I didn‘t get to enjoy it last time I was there.”
“I‘ve never been to Carnival,” Rogers added thoughtfully.
“It‘s a lot of fun, Steve,” Dr. Banner said smiling in memory. He blushed at the looks he earned from the other Avengers. “I saw it while I was on the run, in Rio de Janeiro. It was amazing.”
Barton grinned at Coulson. “Come on, sir. Maybe we can get to ride on a float.”
“You say that as if the last time the Avengers were on parade ended well, Barton,” Coulson said dryly.
“I paid for the building I broke, didn’t I?” Stark protested. Before Coulson could point out more than one building had incurred damage that day the entire Quinjet shook. “Whoa! Whoa! JARVIS what the hell was that?”
“Uncertain, sir, the sensors show-” JARVIS was caught off with a burst of static. Stark swore and fought the controls.
Barton, Dr. Banner and Capt. Rogers scrambled for their seats as the Quinjet shook and abruptly dropped several hundred feet. Dr. Banner had managed to click his seatbelt closed, and Rogers used his strength to hold onto his seat but Barton didn’t make it in time. He hit the ceiling of the jet, grunting in surprise and pain.
The jet leveled off for three seconds, long enough for Barton to drop, swearing as he hit the floor with flexed knees to absorb the impact. Then the jet rolled left and all the lights turned off at once. Coulson’s internal compass went haywire, and several hardware components began sending urgent damage reports to his diagnostic processor.
“You piece of shit, work! I know you can work! I put you together!” Stark yelled.
Coulson ignored the contradictory error reports and switched his optic sensors from visual light to infrared. He snatched Barton as he passed by, reeling him in and holding him tight against his body. Coulson’s olfactory sensors detected blood of sufficient quantity even for his meager ability to pick up. Coulson checked and to his mute relief found Barton was still breathing.
“Brace for impact!” Stark yelled in panic.
In the 2.04 seconds before impact, Coulson memorized the location and status of every Avenger. He pulled Barton closer, cradling his head and neck, and kept his optics open as the Quinjet moaned with metal stress before slamming into the ground.
For a moment the noise overwhelmed his auditory sensors and a heavy object hit him on the back of the neck but Coulson didn’t lose consciousness, nor was he injured although the joints in his neck kept making odd clicking noises as he moved his head to conduct a visual confirmation of the aftermath of the crash landing. A fire was already spreading from the control panel to the rest of the jet. At the rate it was growing it would reach a fuel line in about five minutes.
Coulson pulled off his seat belt, picked up Romanov and quickly carried her and Barton out of the jet. He took a second to record their crash landing location - a tropical forest - before he put Barton down at a safe distance from the wreckage then he ran back at top speed for the other Avengers.
He carried Stark and Dr. Banner out together, keeping track of his dwindling time estimate by deliberately counting the seconds since his internal clock flagged an error. He carried out Capt. Rogers and his shield before running back for Stark’s Iron Man suit in its carrying case, the first aid kit, all the survival kits and everything and anything he could lift out in the last two minutes.
Coulson was halfway back to the Avengers at a run when the Quinjet caught completely on fire. Two seconds later it blew up, sending shrapnel flying in all directions. Coulson had thrown himself flat just in time and only caught a few fragments in his clothes which he quickly swept away. He quickly returned to the Avengers to find Agent Romanov awake and tending Captain Rogers, who awoke as Coulson approached. One of her knives had hit him and was embedded in his leg in his upper thigh. Romanov soothed Rogers with a few words until the confusion in his blue eyes cleared.
Coulson tossed her the first aid kit and went to check on the rest of the team. Barton and Dr. Banner were still unconscious. Barton had a small contusion on his forehead and a few shallow cuts while Banner a large bruise along the right side of his head. With head injuries, Coulson could no nothing for them until they either woke up on their own or they received professional medical care. Coulson was about to check on Stark when he regained consciousness.
“What the hell happened? And how much did I have to drink?” Stark groaned as he rolled to the side.
“We‘ve crashed, in South America if I was to guess,” Coulson said, his interval compass was still giving him various mistaken readings - he was quite sure he wasn‘t in Rome - so he ignored it. He was ignoring everything internal that demanded his attention until the external crisis was dealt with.
“What?” Stark sat up abruptly and clutched his head, groaning. “South America? That‘s not possible, we weren‘t anywhere near South America. We were still over Antarctica.”
Coulson raised his eyebrows. “Does this look like Antarctica, Mr. Stark?”
Tony squinted at Coulson and then looked around. “Jesus, is that a volcano? Where the hell are we? There‘s no way I was pushing the engines hard enough to reach any part of South America. JARVIS wouldn‘t have let me.”
Coulson considered this information, it was relevant. J.A.R.V.I.S. was a very intelligent program, and was in place as the jet’s autopilot. Chosen because he could override any stupid decisions made by the pilot as well as having the autonomy to take off, fly and land the jet on his own without anyone present should the Avengers require it. J.A.R.V.I.S. would have warned Stark of any hardware malfunction well before it became dangerous.
“Coulson,” Rogers said, his voice awed. “I agree with Tony. I don‘t think we‘re in South America.”
Romanov swore in gutter Russian which made Coulson turn to them. They were looking up and over to their left. Coulson blinked his optics and added the image to his memory banks because standing thirty feet from their location was a dinosaur.
It was a stegosaurus of the armored stegasaurid dinosaur genus, according to Coulson’s databanks. He dismissed all additional information as irrelevant.
“I‘m dead, aren‘t I?” Barton said groggily and Coulson turned to him. “Because I swear I see a dinosaur.”
“You’re not dead, it’s real,” Coulson said, dismissing the stegosaurus which hadn’t moved closer and therefore was currently no threat to the Avengers. “I‘m glad to see you awake, Agent Barton.”
“Don‘t want to be seen lying down on the job, sir,” Barton groaned on he sat up. “Please tell me we have aspirin.” Romanov tossed him a small packet from the first aid kit. Then Rogers tossed him the case for his recurve bow and quiver which Coulson had also pulled out of the jet. “Thank you!”
Stark crowed in delight as he found the Iron Man carrying case. He pulled out the helmet and turned it on. “JARVIS, where the hell are we?”
There was a moment of silence. “I‘m uncertain, sir. Last known coordinates placed the Quinjet twenty miles past the South Pole and heading for Rio de Janeiro, per your instructions. I am unable to contact any satellite to confirm.”
“JARVIS, are you able to contact anyone? What about McMurdo Station?” Coulson asked. Unlike the newer technologies, he didn’t have the ability to connect to satellites or radio by his internal systems. It was why he was always reliant on radios and phones. His skin blocked too much of the electromagnetic spectrum to make it feasible.
“I am unable to contact anyone, Agent Coulson,” JARVIS said, apologetically.
“Shit,” Barton said. “So we‘re stuck here? Dammit, why did Thor go on vacation again? He could have flown out on his hammer.”
“We’re hardly stuck,” Stark said dismissively. “There‘s probably something blocking our signal. We just need to find something to boost it and I‘ll be able to call SHIELD HQ to come pick us up.”
“What do you need, Tony?” Rogers asked.
Stark rubbed his hands and gave him a brilliant grin. “Get me everything electronic you can find and let’s see what I can put together.”
“You heard, Iron Man, Avengers. Let‘s get to it,” Rogers ordered. He turned to Coulson. “I would appreciate it, Agent Coulson, if you would stay to guard Bruce.”
Coulson agreed with the plan as the most able bodied he‘d be able to move Dr. Banner quickly as well as be able to provide for his safety. “Consider it done, Capt. Rogers.” He pulled his gun out of his shoulder holster as soon as he sat down next to Dr. Banner.
“Thank you, sir,” Rogers said, ever polite. He turned to walk away but he paused. Rogers quietly added, “And thank you for getting us out, I‘ve never done well in plane crashes.”
“You‘re welcome, Captain,” Coulson said, and saved the sincerity of the moment to his memory banks.
It would take hours for the Avengers to return from the crash site after sorting through the scraps, so Coulson used the time as he waited for their return to check his internal hardware. One by one he ran diagnostics on himself and found grim news.
While most of the critical damage warnings were incorrect there were some important ones which weren’t wrong. His internal cooling pump had slowed down to half its usual speed and he couldn’t correct it with code so it had to be hardware damage. His left ankle’s articulation joint had cracked yet he’d received no warning about it. The clicking noise he heard in his neck came from similar damage also unreported. His time clock kept insisting it was 7:88 a.m., his left hand kept sending him ghost sensation of wet sand under his palm and his internal battery was at five percent. It had been at ninety-three percent when they’d left Australia and he would have been good for forty-eight hours without going into standby sleep mode or needing to recharge before he hit such a critical low level of power. Whatever had turned off the lights in the Quinjet had also drained his batteries.
He had two hours at best before he reached three percent power. Then he would go into involuntary standby mode in order to preserve his critical systems. Coulson had no way of overriding this safety feature. His creator had once told him that he didn’t dare completely turn Coulson off after his first activation out of the worry that it would destroy the fragile identity engrams Coulson had built in his core identity software. The computer that ran that crucial aspect of Coulson was partly bio-chemical. There was a high percent probability that if all electricity ceased to flow through his ‘brain’ then he’d lose every unique aspect of his memory and personality, like a human deprived of vital oxygen until brain cells died. Once he went into the involuntary standby mode he wouldn’t be able to get out of it on his own.
Two hours and he’d be unconscious and useless to his team. And seven hours after that, he’d use up every volt from his batteries.
No matter what scenario he ran in his processor, no matter how he tweaked the parameters, it always led him to one inevitable conclusion: he needed to inform the Avengers he was an android. They needed to know him about his power situation. If he fell, they needed to leave him behind.
He overrode his programming regarding Fury’s orders about his top secret classification and added new code into his behavioral programming.
*-*-*-*
Coulson could tell from the frustration on the faces of the Avengers and the way that Stark was glaring at the unfinished looking electronic device in his hand that they hadn’t managed to contact SHIELD. And Coulson had twenty-three minutes left before involuntary standby.
“So, we can‘t phone home?” Coulson asked, from where sat by Dr. Banner. Coulson had wrapped him in the emergency metallic blanket from the first aid kit and had pillowed his head against a survival pack. The man hadn’t fully regained consciousness yet, although he had mumbled several coherent sentences accompanied by rapid-eye-movement which led Coulson to believe Dr. Banner had transitioned from unconsciousness to sleep in the last hour. Coulson was still concerned over his inability to wake him up.
“No,” Stark groaned. “I was only able to find about half of the components I needed. Everything else went up in smoke or was trampled by the dinosaurs.”
Coulson raised his eyebrows. He considered the information, and ran a scenario about the probability of the Avengers survival which was dismal until he added a new variable. The probability of success skyrocketed and reinforced his decision that what he was about to do was the only possible plan.
Barton sat next to him. “Remind me to build ‘dinosaur’ rated arrows when we get back to New York, sir. They have damned tough hides. Do you think you could get me adamantium arrow tips?”
“I believe I have an answer for your problem of lack of components,” Coulson said to Stark. Coulson hoped Barton didn’t miss him too much.
“Why the hell didn‘t you say so? I almost got eaten by a tyrannosaurus,” Stark complained. “And as cool as it sounds, I don‘t actually want death-by-dinosaur written on my gravestone.”
Coulson shrugged out of his suit jacket and rolled back the sleeve of his left arm exposing the synthetic skin. Then in one smooth quick movement he grabbed the knife he’d left unsheathed at his side and dug the blade tip from his wrist to his elbow.
Barton cried out in fear and grabbed for him. “Phil!”
The Avengers shouted and leapt at him.
“I‘m fine,” Coulson said quietly, as various hands gripped at his arm. Red coolant spilled past their fingers. He gazed into their pale faces. “I‘m not bleeding. Look at my arm.”
Hesitantly, Romanov, Rogers and Stark let him go. Barton‘s face was white and his hands shook when he finally released him. The coolant had stopped spilling as Coulson’s automatic defense system shut off the flow into his extremity. Coulson pulled back on his skin, ignoring the flares of pain and exposed the wires, servos and articulated joints which lay under his skin. There were even a few tiny gears like his creator had mentioned on his activation day.
“Oh my god, you‘re a Terminator,” Stark said into the hushed silence. “That explains so much.”
Coulson rolled his optics.
“You have an artificial arm?” Rogers asked carefully.
Barton’s stared at Coulson’s opened forearm, his expression unreadable no matter how many comparisons to human facial expressions Coulson ran through his data processor.
“No, Captain Rogers,” Coulson said in an equally careful voice. “All of me, every part, is artificial.” Barton jumped to his feet. Coulson moved fast to grab his arm before he stomped off into the jungle and got himself eaten by the prehistoric wildlife. “I couldn‘t tell you,” Coulson said quickly. “I‘m classified top secret for the Director‘s Eyes Only, due to matters of international security.”
“Let me go,” Barton growled.
“No, this isn’t the time for you to indulge in a temper tantrum, Agent Barton,” Coulson said sharply.
“He‘s right, Clint,” Romanov said, she looked at Coulson with a blank expression.
“Why have you chosen to tell us now?” Rogers asked. “If you‘re that top secret shouldn‘t you have kept quiet?”
“Probably but the circumstances changed your need-to-know.” Coulson looked at Stark who was studying the technology in his arm. “I want you to use my components to finish your device.”
“What?!”
Coulson waited as Barton shouted and Romanov and Rogers both protested.
“I recognize pieces of this technology,” Stark said, a he turned Coulson‘s arm to the left and to the right. The shouting tapered to a stopped as they quieted to listen to Stark. “It‘s Stark Tech, some of is over thirty years old and yet it‘s in pretty good condition.”
“Howard Stark designed me well,” Coulson agreed. He brought up the first memory to be stored into his memory banks before returning the file to its place.
Stark froze and stared at Coulson with wide eyes. “My father made you?”
“Yes.”
“Jesus, Dad got into everything didn‘t he?” Stark said dazed.
Coulson considered his internal countdown and decided to bring an end to this conversation. The matter wasn‘t up for discussion. “The same event which took down the Quinjet has drained my batteries,” he said to Stark. “I‘m about to fall into an involuntary standby mode. Take everything you need, I won‘t feel it in that state.” Stark gazed back at him solemnly and slowly nodded. “Leave behind what you can‘t use. I‘ll just slow you down.”
Coulson released Barton who was staring at him with wide eyes then he activated the sleep standby mode. His knees buckled as he sat abruptly on the grass.
“Coulson? Wait! What are you doing? No, don‘t-”
It was fitting that power to his optics and auditory sensors where the last to shut off. It allowed Coulson to capture Clint Barton’s voice and a visual of his face one final time.
He integrated both into his core identity software.
*-*-*-*
The unit activated its optics, and audio sensors to a brightly lit empty room. It blinked its optics and sat up to map the room. The room had one door and one wall covered with a large mirror. The room was white. The unit was alone. The unit considered the data and concluded the emptiness felt wrong. It looked down at itself. The unit was flawed, it observed. The surface which covered it had been damaged although it was repaired, leaving deep lines on the left arm, torso and both legs. It integrated the data into its core identity software only to find the data already there. The unit, it observed, was male. It integrated the data into its core identity software only to find the data already there.
He blinked his optics again.
“What‘s your name?”
The voice came over hidden speakers built into the wall with the wide mirror. He considered it. The voice was not the creator but it required an answer. It searched for the data.
“This unit is designated: Cybernetic Official Unit for Lawful Security Operations Number 01.”
The voice was silent. The unit rechecked the data. It was correct, no further answer was necessary.
The door in the empty white room slammed open.
“No!” A blond human male stormed in and grabbed the unit’s shoulders. He glared at the unit. “No! You don‘t get to do this to me you bastard! You don’t get to make me fall in love with you and then do this to me. Don‘t you fucking dare, you fucking bastard!”
The unit was care for. He integrated the data into his core identity software only to find the data already there. And with the first three pieces of core identity the software released a cascade of information which culminated into the final data added to the core identity software.
The voice and face of Clinton Francis Barton. The voice and face of the human male before him.
“I-” he paused and then smiled at Clint who stilled and stared back at him with growing hope in his eyes. “My name,” he corrected himself, “is Phil Coulson.” Coulson raised his eyebrows at Clint. “It‘s not now nor has ever been ‘fucking bastard’, Clint.”
Clint flattened Coulson to the metal table in a tackle. It hurt but Coulson merely added it and the memory of Clint’s arms around him, his mouth against his and the mumbled death threats -because if he ever did that again Clint would kill him personally - into his memory banks.
And his core identity software.
End