Recalibration
The asset pants, struggling to summon the will to continue. It has been running the assault course for four hours straight, weaving through a reinforced training facility buried twenty floors beneath an unassuming office building. The repetition, the exertion, the relentless demands—it's nearing breaking point.
Since they told it about the target’s death, something inside has fractured. Motivation drains like water through a cracked vessel. A feeling it can’t identify presses against its chest, sharp and unwelcome. The eyes burn.
“Again,” Agent Walsh barks, clicking the timer in his hand with clinical detachment. The sterile room echoes with the sound.
The asset moves forward with mechanical precision, neutralizing holographic targets with ruthless efficiency. The metal arm gleams under the harsh fluorescents, recalibrating between movements with a soft whirr. That recalibration is becoming more frequent since the encounter with Rogers. Possibly a malfunction. It has reported it to the handlers. Another malfunction.
Behind reinforced glass, Hill observes with arms folded tight across her chest. Dr. Hayes stands beside her, eyes locked on the asset, unwavering and unblinking.
“His combat metrics are exceptional,” Hill says, scrolling through real-time data on her tablet. “But hesitation before lethal strikes is up by 1.2 seconds.” She sighs, “Maybe you should not have told him about Rogers.”
Hayes tilts his head from side to side, considering, a faint smile curving his lips. “Programming remains intact, but it’s under stress. Rogers was significant to him—whether he remembers it or not.”
Hill’s voice cools. “We can’t afford significance, Doctor. We need reliability.”
“I understand. I’ll handle the cognitive recalibration personally.”
She glances sideways at him, noting the eagerness buried beneath his professional tone. Hayes always finds a way to stay involved with the asset’s conditioning. Rotating personnel is protocol—for a reason. But Hayes insists his insight is indispensable.
“That won’t be necessary,” she says.
“With respect, Agent Hill,” he replies, tapping his tablet to reveal brain scans, “standard protocols are for standard assets. This one is anything but. Look here—neural patterns activated by the Rogers encounter. Hydra suppressed them for years, but one look at Rogers and it call comes apart. I’m the only one who understands the delicacy of this case.”
Hill clearly doesn’t like it, her dark brows drawing down.
But the scans are damning, and Hayes is the only handler who has charted these fluctuations in real time. “Fine. But Ross is to be present for all sessions.”
Hayes’ smile falters, just for a second. “As you wish.”
---
The asset sits motionless in the recalibration chair. Restraints pin the arms and torso in place—not that it’s resisted in over 700 days.
The door opens with a quiet swoosh and Hayes enters alone. He seals the door behind him. The red light of the overhead camera blinks once, then dies. The asset finds itself swallowing against a suddenly dry mouth.
“System maintenance,” Hayes explains with a tight smile, though no one, especially not the asset, has asked. “Privacy is essential for this recalibration. Too many eyes interfere with proper programming.”
It stays silent. Obedience is protocol. Resistance will bring nothing but pain. Obedience might bring pain. Order through pain?
Hayes steps closer, into the asset’s space, and rests a hand on its thigh. The muscles of the body tense. The asset looks down at the hand, confused.
The heart beats faster and the mouth feels suddenly very wet, the shoulders jerk.
“Enough.”
It gulps and sits back as much as it can. The body keeps trying to do... something, twitching and jerking.
“I studied your file long before they assigned me to you,” Hayes murmurs, moving his hand to place it on the metal arm and tracing the seam where it meets flesh. “They see a weapon. I see something else.”
The asset’s pulse elevates—an automatic response, not fear. It does not feel fear.
“Rogers destabilized your programming,” Hayes continues, tilting the asset’s face until they’re eye to eye. “But I see it as an opportunity. A chance to build something new.”
His thumb brushes the asset’s lower lip.
“You’re afraid,” Hayes says, smiling. “Good. Fear is useful when properly channeled. We’re going to be spending a lot of time together.”
The metal arm whirrs sharply in response.
---
Ross is the first to speak in the briefing room, flipping through the mission file. “Tehran. Suspected HYDRA facility. Small cell. They’ve got SHIELD tech.”
Hill scoffs. “A foothold? Sounds more like rats nesting in the scraps.”
Coulson folds his arms. “Doesn’t matter how small. If they’re using our gear, we put them down.”
Ross taps the table. “We’re sending the asset. Infiltrate, eliminate, secure the equipment, destroy the facility.”
“Standard protocol?” Hill asks, glancing at Coulson.
He nods. “Infiltrate. Eliminate. Secure. Destroy.”
Ross leans back, smug. “He’ll follow through?”
Hill’s expression doesn’t change. “He always has before.”
The asset stands as Hill outlines the mission. “No witnesses. No trace of HYDRA operations. The public can’t know.”
It listens. Absorbs. Tracks Ross in the shadows, then Hayes, whose gaze lingers too long.
Hayes adjusts the asset’s tactical gear, fingers brushing against the suit’s seams. “Remember your training. Your purpose is to serve. I’ve made adjustments. You’ll find yourself more efficient.”
---
At 0200 hours, the asset moves through the Tehran facility like a ghost. Fourteen hostiles fall with silent precision. It does not hesitate. No deviation from the breifing.
Until the fifteenth.
A scientist. Female. Elderly. Cowering behind a desk. Terror twists her features—and something else. Recognition.
“Sergeant Barnes?”
The voice comes from nowhere. Memory? Hallucination? The asset hesitates. The metal arm recalibrates loudly.
The woman grabs for a weapon. The asset neutralizes her, but the hesitation lasts 2.8 seconds. Too long. A flaw.
In the basement, it finds children. Seven of them, no older than twelve. All hooked to machines. Test subjects.
Mission parameters: no witnesses.
The asset raises its weapon.
A boy with too-big shoes. “Don’t worry, Buck, I can handle it.”
The arm spasms. Recalibrates violently. The asset reroutes to alternate parameters—secure the tech, destroy the facility.
It smashes the equipment. Triggers the self-destruct. Locks the children in a reinforced container outside the blast zone.
Extraction arrives. The asset reports mission completion. It does not mention the children.
---
“Failure,” Hill snaps, slamming the report down. “Seven witnesses. Intelligence lost. Explain how this is acceptable.”
The asset stands at attention, silent.
Hayes steps in. “The programming is stressed. Rogers’ death triggered dissonance. I warned this could happen. It will improve with time and training”
“Fix it now,” Hill orders.
“I will. He needs to return to base. Recalibration must be hands-on.”
“Forty-eight hours,” Hill says. “Then we deploy to Odessa.”
---
The recalibration room is colder than usual. The asset notes the variance but does not speak. It has not been ordered to speak
“You disobeyed,” Hayes murmurs, prepping the suppression rig. His voice is neutral but there is a line of tension in his body.
“Children,” the asset says. The word slips out unbidden.
Hayes pauses. “You’re remembering.” He doesn’t sound angry. He sounds pleased.
The arm whirs, tense.
“You fear me,” he whispers, leaning close. “Good. I’m the only one who sees you—not their weapon. Mine.”
His fingers twist in the asset’s hair, jerking his head back. “Rogers saw it too, didn’t he? Before you killed him.”
“I failed the mission,” the asset replies. “Rogers died from injuries post-mission.”
“Is that what Hill told you?” Hayes laughs. “But you know better. You completed it. Perfectly.”
Breath quickens. A malfunction. Faces rise from the dark—blurred, broken.
“They’re lying to you,” Hayes says, caressing the place where metal meets flesh. “But I never will.”
The feeling returns. Not the emptiness. Something sharper.
Revulsion.
It is almost grateful for the pain that follows as the machine engages.
---
The Odessa mission is another partial success: all targets eliminated. The package secured.
There is too much destruction. No discipline.
“He’s unstable,” Ross says, watching the debrief feed, shaking his head in disgust.
“Hayes says it’s temporary,” Hill answers, her voice betraying her uncertainty.
“Hayes is the problem,” Ross says. “The asset fears him.”
“Do you have proof?”
“Not yet. But I can tell and fear like this… it breeds hatred.”
Inside the containment room, the asset tracks Hayes’s every move with silent intensity. The arm never stops recalibrating. Warning tones beneath the surface.
Hayes enters alone. Again.
“No more cryo,” he says. “Just us. Time to perfect your programming.”
The asset’s eyes widen—barely—but it’s there. The edge of fear.
“Comfortable quarters,” Hayes says with a smirk. “You’ve earned them.”
The nod is mechanical. But inside, the asset feels something shift. Break.
And as the lights dim, a single monitor records Hayes returning, override in hand, settling on the cot beside the silent figure. Watching.
And somewhere in that stripped-down shell, James Buchanan Barnes lies awake.
Remembering. Waiting.
Plotting.