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kryosThere is a man on a bridge. That can't be right. Or it can be, he doesn't know, because of course there is a man on a bridge, that is the function of a bridge it is used by people to cross things -- streams and roads and rivers. There is nothing special about a man on a bridge. But there is something special about this man--something inside him argues. Something that was quiet and still and mostly gone except in the darkest corners and the deepest recesses, except now it comes up more, now he comes up more, says things, insists on things, fights the Programming and the Keeper and that something says there was a man on a bridge and he's important and Bucky Barnes (He's not Bucky Barnes--who the hell is Bucky?) says there's something that must be explored and the Asset should know this and it's so much more confusing than his Orders--
There is a man who looks up at him like he knows him. It shouldn't be right. No one knows him--no one knows him like this man says he does, because the Asset (not Bucky--who the hellis Bucky?) is a weapon and he is only known as much as someone might know their favorite gun. But this man, eye purpled and bleeding, jaw marred, stars and stripes covered in soot and blood looks up at him and says words that make the something in the back of his mind stir with more force than he's ever felt, make the man he was ten thousand years ago (might as well have been, time doesn't have meaning for the Asset, there is only awake and The Ice), that he doesn't know how to be anymore claw to the front and for a second (and that is long enough, it seems) he decides, somehow, to save a life instead of taking it.
He does not complete his mission. It is the first time this has ever happened.
There is a man who wears his face. It seems impossible, but he stands in stolen clothing in a place (museum) dedicated to the man on the bridge and the man who looks at him and there next to That Man there is someone who is wearing his face (So that is Bucky). It's strange, because the words on glass and walls and plaques bring images he doesn't recall seeing before, but they act like memories -- a passage about Bucky Barnesgiving his life in his service reminds him of trains and winter and snow and falling, falling, falling. A passage about That Man being denied entry to the military brings images of a night at a fair and two girls, one in red, and dancing. A passage about Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes being best friends sends an image of a dark haired woman named Sarah and newspapers and he's--sharing his shoes with a man too small to fit them--
That Man is called Steve. The Something that is filling more of him than the deepest dark is Bucky Barnes.
But knowing those things, their names does not change much. He is still The Asset. He is still The Soldier. He is a weapon and he is one person away from being programmed into serving a Keeper he no longer has interest in serving. It is the first time he has used agency in seventy years, the first time he has used free will. Like the first of not completing his mission, he finds it to be freeing.
Weeks pass. It's easier now, to understand. To put the pieces where they go in the puzzle. Easier, but not easy and despite his research (The Asset collects intelligence, this is familiar, this he knows--breaking into government computers, stealing information on people. Libraries who do not judge someone who comes in with three jackets in need of a shave. A tablet stolen off a table at an outdoor cafe that gives him access to the internet) there are still holes that he (who is he? Not The Asset anymore, he will not go quietly if they come for him. Not Bucky Barnes either, who seems a good man and he knows he is not that) cannot fill. It is the brainwashing (the proper word for what his Keeper did to him, though he had not known it at the time) that has him confused at this point, that keeps him from understanding and it is that brainwashing that must be undone.
It's in his research (CIA files, cases of humans exhibiting extraordinary skills) that he first finds mentions of mutants. And then of telepaths. Of telepathy. Of mutants who can climb inside your head and mess around and psychics who can put things there or take things out and he thinks that maybe one of them, a powerful one, might be able to sort him or at least smooth the edges between The Soldier and Bucky Barnes so that he can learn to be the man that's in-between. And there's something to the entire thing, to having a mission again, that fills him with a sense of purpose, keeps the itch between his shoulder-blades and the ever-present headache at bay. The part that is The Asset needs a task, and for the first time he thinks that is something both parts of him have in common because Bucky Barnes doesn't seem to protest quite as much.
Finding one of the psychic mutants is easy -- he can find access to almost any database of any kind, but finding one with the skillset he needs that is easy enough to capture takes more time. It is a week before he finds the one he wants (a man just as far out of time, though he does not exactly understand how or why that seems important, but Bucky Barnes seems to insist and The Asset has no real opposition so the request stands) and a week more before he has enough of a plan in place to grab him.
It's night. The still kind of night that The Asset and Bucky Barnes both (they overlap more and more now, and he is not sure what to make of that) like best--cold and crisp and good sight-lines. A night like this and he could shoot a man down a mile and some away without a sweat, which is, of course, what makes it perfect for his plan. He is not so dumb to think he can break into a fortress of these mutants, but he does have a stolen rifle and a stolen scope and a still cold night and he knows the mutant he wants will be doing patrols, walking along the edge of the compound to ensure safety. He shifts and winces at the crunch of gravel under his stomach. He's on a hillside, nearly his full range from his target (he does not want a stray thought to give him away), nestled up against his gun (and this is familiar, this is, he thinks, something like home), and he's watching. Waiting. Finger curled loosely over the trigger but applying no pressure as he squeezes an eye shut to watch through the sight.
He can't fire when the mutant first emerges, no that would cause panic and bring reinforcements. He must let everyone else in the compound think everything is normal and right before he makes his move. It's an hour, then two before he shifts again, a few stray pebbles falling forward off the ledge he's perched himself on. His rifle is loaded with a tranq dark (enough to fell a small elephant, he assumes mutants need more of a kick than a standard human) because he doesn't want to kill the man, but he does need him out for long enough for extraction. This far away he can't hear the man's feet against the concrete, but it's a sound he's heard so many times in his life he swears he can imagine it, each footfall a steady thump into the air. It's between one footfall and the next that he fires, between one heartbeat and the other, shorter than the time between a breath and his eye does not leave the scope until he sees his target first falter, then stumble, then fall. He crumples to the ground like fallen leaves and as soon as his head touches down, Bucky (The Asset?) is moving, pressing off the hillside and scrambling down toward the compound. He has seventeen minutes before the other mutant on patrol circles the building and finds the one he's downed, so he works quickly--covering the mile in a sprint, using The Arm at all its strength to lift the mutant over his shoulder and then disappearing back into the thick underbrush of the forest and the trees.
Four hours later and he has the mutant secured in a warehouse on the outskirts of town--half broken windows and twisted remains of metal and plastic and wood--a gun trained lazily between his eyes. The Soldier reaches out with a foot and nudges at his captive's bound ankles (the tranq should be wearing off now, he should be waking soon) and gives an annoyed grunt.
"Do you hear me, Mutant?" His voice is rough with disuse, gravely and pitched low, "Wake up." A second nudge follows the first, this one more a kick. "Mutant."
There is a man who looks up at him like he knows him. It shouldn't be right. No one knows him--no one knows him like this man says he does, because the Asset (not Bucky--who the hellis Bucky?) is a weapon and he is only known as much as someone might know their favorite gun. But this man, eye purpled and bleeding, jaw marred, stars and stripes covered in soot and blood looks up at him and says words that make the something in the back of his mind stir with more force than he's ever felt, make the man he was ten thousand years ago (might as well have been, time doesn't have meaning for the Asset, there is only awake and The Ice), that he doesn't know how to be anymore claw to the front and for a second (and that is long enough, it seems) he decides, somehow, to save a life instead of taking it.
He does not complete his mission. It is the first time this has ever happened.
There is a man who wears his face. It seems impossible, but he stands in stolen clothing in a place (museum) dedicated to the man on the bridge and the man who looks at him and there next to That Man there is someone who is wearing his face (So that is Bucky). It's strange, because the words on glass and walls and plaques bring images he doesn't recall seeing before, but they act like memories -- a passage about Bucky Barnesgiving his life in his service reminds him of trains and winter and snow and falling, falling, falling. A passage about That Man being denied entry to the military brings images of a night at a fair and two girls, one in red, and dancing. A passage about Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes being best friends sends an image of a dark haired woman named Sarah and newspapers and he's--sharing his shoes with a man too small to fit them--
That Man is called Steve. The Something that is filling more of him than the deepest dark is Bucky Barnes.
But knowing those things, their names does not change much. He is still The Asset. He is still The Soldier. He is a weapon and he is one person away from being programmed into serving a Keeper he no longer has interest in serving. It is the first time he has used agency in seventy years, the first time he has used free will. Like the first of not completing his mission, he finds it to be freeing.
Weeks pass. It's easier now, to understand. To put the pieces where they go in the puzzle. Easier, but not easy and despite his research (The Asset collects intelligence, this is familiar, this he knows--breaking into government computers, stealing information on people. Libraries who do not judge someone who comes in with three jackets in need of a shave. A tablet stolen off a table at an outdoor cafe that gives him access to the internet) there are still holes that he (who is he? Not The Asset anymore, he will not go quietly if they come for him. Not Bucky Barnes either, who seems a good man and he knows he is not that) cannot fill. It is the brainwashing (the proper word for what his Keeper did to him, though he had not known it at the time) that has him confused at this point, that keeps him from understanding and it is that brainwashing that must be undone.
It's in his research (CIA files, cases of humans exhibiting extraordinary skills) that he first finds mentions of mutants. And then of telepaths. Of telepathy. Of mutants who can climb inside your head and mess around and psychics who can put things there or take things out and he thinks that maybe one of them, a powerful one, might be able to sort him or at least smooth the edges between The Soldier and Bucky Barnes so that he can learn to be the man that's in-between. And there's something to the entire thing, to having a mission again, that fills him with a sense of purpose, keeps the itch between his shoulder-blades and the ever-present headache at bay. The part that is The Asset needs a task, and for the first time he thinks that is something both parts of him have in common because Bucky Barnes doesn't seem to protest quite as much.
Finding one of the psychic mutants is easy -- he can find access to almost any database of any kind, but finding one with the skillset he needs that is easy enough to capture takes more time. It is a week before he finds the one he wants (a man just as far out of time, though he does not exactly understand how or why that seems important, but Bucky Barnes seems to insist and The Asset has no real opposition so the request stands) and a week more before he has enough of a plan in place to grab him.
It's night. The still kind of night that The Asset and Bucky Barnes both (they overlap more and more now, and he is not sure what to make of that) like best--cold and crisp and good sight-lines. A night like this and he could shoot a man down a mile and some away without a sweat, which is, of course, what makes it perfect for his plan. He is not so dumb to think he can break into a fortress of these mutants, but he does have a stolen rifle and a stolen scope and a still cold night and he knows the mutant he wants will be doing patrols, walking along the edge of the compound to ensure safety. He shifts and winces at the crunch of gravel under his stomach. He's on a hillside, nearly his full range from his target (he does not want a stray thought to give him away), nestled up against his gun (and this is familiar, this is, he thinks, something like home), and he's watching. Waiting. Finger curled loosely over the trigger but applying no pressure as he squeezes an eye shut to watch through the sight.
He can't fire when the mutant first emerges, no that would cause panic and bring reinforcements. He must let everyone else in the compound think everything is normal and right before he makes his move. It's an hour, then two before he shifts again, a few stray pebbles falling forward off the ledge he's perched himself on. His rifle is loaded with a tranq dark (enough to fell a small elephant, he assumes mutants need more of a kick than a standard human) because he doesn't want to kill the man, but he does need him out for long enough for extraction. This far away he can't hear the man's feet against the concrete, but it's a sound he's heard so many times in his life he swears he can imagine it, each footfall a steady thump into the air. It's between one footfall and the next that he fires, between one heartbeat and the other, shorter than the time between a breath and his eye does not leave the scope until he sees his target first falter, then stumble, then fall. He crumples to the ground like fallen leaves and as soon as his head touches down, Bucky (The Asset?) is moving, pressing off the hillside and scrambling down toward the compound. He has seventeen minutes before the other mutant on patrol circles the building and finds the one he's downed, so he works quickly--covering the mile in a sprint, using The Arm at all its strength to lift the mutant over his shoulder and then disappearing back into the thick underbrush of the forest and the trees.
Four hours later and he has the mutant secured in a warehouse on the outskirts of town--half broken windows and twisted remains of metal and plastic and wood--a gun trained lazily between his eyes. The Soldier reaches out with a foot and nudges at his captive's bound ankles (the tranq should be wearing off now, he should be waking soon) and gives an annoyed grunt.
"Do you hear me, Mutant?" His voice is rough with disuse, gravely and pitched low, "Wake up." A second nudge follows the first, this one more a kick. "Mutant."
no subject
Date: 2015-12-03 06:36 am (UTC)His psi-scans are perfunctory, more out of habit than any actual suspicion some unseen enemy might be out there beyond the castle walls. This place is a fortress, surrounded by dense forest on all sides, buffered by mountain ranges that are treacherous in the best of conditions and now, in winter's icy grip, completely impassable to humans. The heavy snows will melt in the spring, of course, but by then they will be long gone. This is not the Brotherhood's only sanctuary, they move with the seasons. They have to, because it's the only way to stay ahead of the humans.
The chance to come up for air is a welcome one. Spending close quarters with his lord and master would never be a cause for complaint, but unfortunately it is not just him and Erik that inhabit this castle. Raven is here too, and all her men with her, and enduring close quarters with them is infinitely more grating than any hardship Magneto might ask him to endure. After two months here, it is tempting sometimes to just push Dukes out into the cold, to call the obese mutant who is somehow now his brother out on his constant boast that nothing can move him, and see how long it takes the Blob to climb back up to the ramparts. Wolves own these old woods, he knows, and they would certainly feast like kings on the frozen body of a late Fred J. Dukes. Though he imagines that might be cruelty to the wolves, when all was said and done.
He is far enough away from those desolate hills not to hear the gravel when it crunches, or the pebbles when they fall. He feels something, faintly, more a nagging sensation than a presence, just at the edge of his consciousness. Were he somewhere else, not here, even that sensation might have caught his attention, but here and now it is all too easy to dismiss as a wolf, watching him from the woods, envying him for his position high above the elements perhaps. The thoughts of his brothers are thick here, there are nearly twenty of them huddled down below, and they distract him too. Keep him from noticing what, in retrospect, he should have noticed.
Were he protecting himself from the elements with his powers rather than his clothes he would have been safe. It is in his power to do that, to mantle himself in an aura of his own telekinetic power, something powerful enough that neither the whipping winds nor the steady fall of snow ever touch him. But he does not want to be protected, he wants to feel the wind and the snow, the way he did before. When he was just a man and not the bridge between the past and the future.
His hair is matted with snow and his face numb from chill when the dart flies, a silver streak in the steady white snowfall, and quivers at his neck. It's a perfect shot, catching the most vulnerable and exposed part of him, and he wobbles on his feet, instantly dazed. Vision failing him, he lifts his hand in the direction the dart came from, pushes with his powers and distantly feels the vibrations from a chunk of the great hills giving way, pulling down tons of snow and ice and buried earth beneath, but he knows that no one was there. His knees give way and he falls, pitching forward and falling off the ramparts, twenty feet down into the snow that saves his life.
Consciousness is slow to return, for while some mutants have heightened immune systems as part of their mutations he does not, at least not while unconscious. Two pinpoints of light register first, the first a distant, dim light, the second much more close. Slowly, he realizes what it is: the barrel of a gun, aimed straight at him. At such close range he would never pull up a shield in time, not even at his best. And he is not at his best right now.
Blinking, trying with sluggish irritation to shake off the lingering effects of the tranq, he lifts his eyes without moving his head to get a look at his captor -- yes, captor, for he can feel now that his ankles and wrists are both bound. The man is haggard, unshaven and unkempt, but has a look in his eyes that Bennet recognizes. It's the flinty, unflinching stare of a man on a mission.
"Who..." he starts, and stops. Not important, not yet. He starts over, forcing himself to say each word firmly and not slur them. "I hear you."
no subject
Date: 2015-12-04 01:27 am (UTC)He thought, for a moment, that without his Keeper holding the weapon--without Hydra putting it in loaded into his hands (he'd had a team, when he was the Weapon, who were trained to him, to the weapons he preferred, made sure he had them when he wanted them and then stayed out of his way) that he may have misjudged the dosage and given the mutant too much of the tranquilizer. It would figure, he thinks, that finally free from the Snakes that held him for so many years and it turns out he's just as deadly on his own.
Bucky Barnes finds this hilarious. The Asset doesn't get the joke.
But then the mutant stirs, replies as he blinks through half-open eyes and the Soldier shifts the gun just that much closer. He cannot afford to waste his shot. He cannot risk his chance at reconciling: 'mission report' and a blond man laughing in the back of a humvee somewhere in the German alps. This mutant is his one and only ticket to escape that desperate battle that goes on in his head every second of the day.
"You're the one they call Exodus?" He asks--clarify your target, make certain -- it would be ironic, were it not so dire, for him to have the wrong man in his grasp, tied in a warehouse, at gunpoint. "You can infect people's minds?" Oh what his Keeper would have given for one like this. He had collected some--some mutants, people with special powers. The twins were Hydra's success story (and it's failure, it would seem) but his keeper would have loved to have one who could bend minds properly. It would have made the Machine obsolete. The asset could be reset at will without any effort at all.
The gun twitches in his hand and he levels a look down the barrel, "Is that you?"