The Asset

The cold encased him carefully. It felt as though everything had been in slow motion—maybe because of how slowly the snow had fallen. Flake by flake, it nearly buried his body alive—well, mostly alive—it was cold. It was like rain that appeared out of nowhere, the kind that drowns you in its bitter cold, trapping your body in an almost numb state. But that rain is rough; it hurts. The snow, however, felt merciful.

Have you ever closed your eyes and seen light? There are always patches of light, whether you are in the dark or if you're facing directly into the bright red sun, stinging your eyes behind their hood. This time, he saw not a single ray, none at all, the clouds had caused it to snow gently enough that it had left him with the final chance to see nothing, and to feel nothing; just like he had been trained.

But this time, he had a choice. He had a choice. He had to have a choice. He knows they couldn't find him, they were attacked, they were all dead, but they deserved it. He deserved it.

But he didn’t get the brutal killing they most likely had to endure, no, he somehow has this peaceful moment, waiting for the weak heater in his suit to finally break down, leaving him with his nearly nonexistent thermoregulation; to die a cold, yet peaceful death.

Part of him would have rather died in battle, that part of him he loathes, locked down deep in his psyche to later be pried - no - guided out by a delusional idiot who thought it’d be for the better.

If he somehow lives.
Although, the asset knows- has known; things always take a turn for the worse.

His eyes fell shut.

…

The asset awoke, surprisingly, it seemed the snowstorm hadn’t gone on for much longer after he’d passed out. He watched the shadow from tall frost-ridden trees stiffly sway with the chilling breeze as direct, warm sunlight peered through them.

He slowly inched over to the area that didn't have a cast of shade caused by the trees, his body sinking into the fresh, powder-like snow, a decreasingly warm trail of deep red blood following behind his nearly limp, scrawny form.

The second the majority of his body was covered by the pale-yellow sunlight, casting an almost angelic glow over his dying body, alone, surrounded by thin, lifeless, worthless, sticks of wood. This was meant to happen, he didn't deserve to listen to the nagging voice in the back of his head pleading for mercy.

How could he? There was no way to survive this.

His breathing slowed.
Breath catching the dryness of his throat, though surrounded by moisture.

How could he do that? Prioritizing his own life over the many he just threw away, as if they meant nothing to this world?

The lids of his eyes felt heavy, like a chore, like carrying groceries inside after going to the store with your mom.

How many children had he robbed that opportunity from?

He heard a faint shout, though nothing more than a faint mumble in the back of his head. He didn’t care that his senses were slowly fading away, he could no longer feel the sticky-wet snow beneath him, but what felt fuzzy, static, had felt more peaceful than quiet.

His breath hitched suddenly, though it felt more like a desperate gasp for air. He felt a source of heat, every part of his body that touched it felt the numb, staticky feeling, but this, this felt more of a reminder, unsettling, rather than peaceful. It worked to pull him back to reality, like hope.

He could faintly feel the wind against his body, slamming against it with more numbness, continuously reminding him to live, to stay awake, he found himself clinging to the source of heat, shamefully enough.

Was this what dying felt like?

Was his body fighting it?

Even his subconscious valued itself over his victims. What a monster.

He gave himself away, he could’ve held on for longer- maybe they’d have killed him, but at least all those people- his victims, would be alive.
They wouldn’t have had to suffer because a weak, worthless boy couldn't suck it up until they gave up.

Asset. Weak, worthless, asset.

He felt himself slip slightly, he couldn't tell if it was literally or figuratively.

The dry air struggled to filter through his system, his once enhanced senses weak as his body exhausted its sources to keep him alive. The sticky blood seeping from his wounds were his body’s only source of organic warmth escaping, he couldn’t heal from the overwhelming numbness beginning to take over his mind.

The asset could not stay conscious.

---

Cold, metallic, flooring.

He found himself sitting, beaten, on the floors of all he’d known— all he was meant to know— but he could remember warmth, carpet, comfort, all things he’d been stripped away from, along with humanity.

A tall man sat on guard, across from him in the dark. The only source of light faint, it shone from in-between the cracks of the door, lighting the silhouette of the large man.
Large compared to the assets form, that is. He was more agile, any muscle he could gain wasted away by the lack of nutrition given to him.

He knew who this man was, a legend. But a warning.

They’d used his punishments, result of his defiance, as a horror story against agents, their children, assets, anyone they couldn’t trust entirely. Anyone who could be manipulated.

The Asset had a title- much like the winter soldier, he was powerful enough, successful enough in his missions- to be given as such.
But he was defiant, ‘ungrateful,’ he didn’t ‘hail Hydra,’ he hated everything about it; so he took any opportunity to be an annoying smart-mouthed brat he could. They found using his title too rewarding. Too humanizing.

He wouldn’t be surprised if the Winter Soldier knew of the Arachnid as well.

After all, they'd put them in a room together for a reason.
They both had the look on their faces, frustration, although The Winter Soldier’s gave off a weakened element, confused.

Assumedly, the Winter Soldier had probably lost all of his ‘defiance,’ or at least, it never left his subconscious. This upset Hydra just as much as the Arachnid somehow being able to still be human after all the things they’d had done to him, they’d never fully control their best Assets.

“Arachnid.”

He didn’t flinch, nor did his jaw clench, he didn’t feel embarrassed by the other most likely noticing his staring, he didn’t take a moment to understand the english, he didn’t.
He definitely didn’t feel any fondness towards the use of his title. He shouldn’t.

“Soldier.” He responded, firmly as possible— but his voice was hoarse, and weak.

The larger man paused, it was obvious– the look of emotional difficulty in his icy blue eyes.

“Don't let hope linger,” he didn’t have a ‘somber’ tone, he deadpanned, but his words– his words had more emotion than anyone he’d heard in Hydra, in a long, long time. He wished it was ever.
“Hope can hurt more than any form of torture.”

—

Again, he’d awoken.

Though now, the scene hadn’t been comforting, it wasn’t familiar, he wasn’t sitting atop a cold surface.

Although, his body lay limp, curled up on itself, like a kid.

His weakened senses clouded his vision, all he could see were shapes and colors— blotches of blues and whites, like a hospital— if he could smell as efficiently as usual, he could easily tell if it actually was a hospital.
But he just had his wit.

Thankfully, even when dizzied with blood loss, possibly still hypothermia, and what would be something like pneumonia– if it weren’t for his enhancements– he was rather intelligent, for an asset.

He could feel– more than anything else, the fuzzy vibrations from footsteps around him. If he weren’t so weak- so useless, he would free himself from whatever situation he was in.

If he weren’t so pathetic; would know what was happening.

He’s in a bed, drugs— that definitely aren't working— pumping into his arm. He wasn’t worried about the drugs, he could tell it was a sort of numbing thing, though whoever put them in didn’t know about his metabolism, they didn’t know about his enhancements.

They weren’t Hydra.

They removed his weapons— well, not all of them. He had a dagger, digging into the dense flesh of his torso, usually, one of his favorite hidden weapons, he kept it sheathed under his utility belt.

Annoyingly enough, the dagger somehow escaped its sheath, facing up, and annoyingly, inwards, from the position in which he lay on top of it.

But the Asset couldn’t move, without alerting the unknown, and certainly untrusted people in the room with him. They’d obviously saved him, but that could mean two different things.
They either needed him, he could be of use to them, or; they cared for him— a complete stranger— dressed in obvious Hydra attire, sticky with dark blood, in the middle of whatever freezing wasteland he’d been left in.

They’d bandaged his wounds, firm, itchy bandages kept him from bleeding out any more than previous; aiding his healing factor, allowing his senses to slowly go back to normal.

The Assets breaths were heavy and slow with careful control, he knew how to collect his composure, how to deal with the pain that often comes after the numbness.
Usually, that pain wasn’t caused by his injuries from missions.

Anyone with experience in his ‘field’ could recognize his breathing.

He felt the movement of someone, right beside the bed, he tensed.

“Kid?” an almost recognizable voice spoke, someone he’d probably heard about.
Confirms his suspicion of these people being enemies of Hydra.

Please let them not want information.

Silence hung over them, unknown familiar guy– most likely others like him, and the Asset, accompanied by his embarrassingly quickening heart rate. The Asset slowly moved his body up, careful not to lodge the dagger into his side any further, though he found it too obvious if he sat up all the way– the blanket would no longer cover his lower torso, he couldn’t risk losing his last source of protection.

His fists were not doing much in this situation, his muscles felt weak, and his body felt torturously sore.
…Not that he couldn't handle it, his punches would probably bruise, at worst; heightened by his enhanced strength, though weakened by his circumstances.

He opened his eyes once again, his vision having improved greatly since he’d woken up. The people in the room were definitely familiar.

“Ебать” he mumbled hoarsely, his throat sore. Of course he would get himself into a situation like this.

The man beside him had furrowed his eyebrows, confused, but attempting to translate it in his mind. The mildly blurry figures further away from him were unreadable, but from the colors, he could tell who they were.

He sighed, his , giving Tony Stark a glare with minimal bite behind it, “Fuck,” He then clarified, his voice less weak before. He found the subtle hint of surprise on the others' faces amusing, although upon realizing he was still in his Iron Man suit, he tensed.
The silence that followed his words, or rather, word, was loud. Nobody knew what to say, he could practically feel the awkwardness radiating off of the avenger beside him.

“Arachnid.”

He didn’t flinch, nor did his jaw clench, he didn’t feel embarrassed because of that, he didn’t hate his senses for not warning him, he didn’t.
He didn’t, he didn’t, he’s sure he didn’t.

He turned around immediately, ashamed of the fear prying its way through his consciousness at the sight of the Black Widow.

The Black Widow, The Asset idolized her, the way she shoved one big middle finger in Hydra’s— not specifically the red rooms— face, he wished he could do something like that.
But he was never strong enough to leave, never worth enough to be missed.

“Is that another hidden dagger?”

Fuck, and he meant it this time.

Immediately, a hand went to protect the dagger from the man in the iron suit, letting out an involuntary wince at a sharpshooting pain in his side.

“Don’t touch that.” he hissed out, his embarrassing accent apparent in his tone.
Hydra would not be proud of that slip-up.

The millionaire put his hands up in surrender, something about his nonchalance and lack of seriousness… grounded, the asset, it calmed him

Not entirely.

His main concern at the moment, is why he was with the avengers right now, and not sitting under a shitty fluorescent light being yelled at and interrogated by shield. Why they’re treating so.. Humanely, he wasn’t one of them, he couldn’t be, he wasn’t something to be given a name anymore.

There was absolutely no way he’d express that, though.

“Do you have a name?” The billionaire spoke again, fuck, how was he supposed to answer that? He pursed his lips, licking off what tasted like blood from them, “Uh.. if you remember it, of course,” the man clarified, well, comforted, maybe?
Why did it have to be so hard to read people while delirious with pain?

“Do you guys have… um..” he hesitated for a moment, trying to find the right words, “stronger painkiller?” He immediately regretted how weak he sounded. Smooth.

His gaze shifted to the IV, suppressing the urge to scratch at it, if only he could avoid questions that easily. Another person, one he wasn’t entirely sure if he knew, entered his field of vision. He seemed like a doctor— but based on his movement, the man didn’t seem too confident in that— was he a scientist?

No, no, no these were the avengers they wouldn’t just rush into experiments, right? They were against that, they wouldn’t.

But the Asset was dangerous, if he were in their position, maybe he’d do the same.

“You have an enhanced metabolism right?” The ‘scientist’ asked, foraging through a cupboard full of drugs.The Asset tried his best to mask his rising anxiety.
He nodded slowly, if he had to tell anyone, it would be the avengers.

He has plenty of other enhancements he can keep to himself.

The Asset tried to ignore the Black Widow's gaze burning into the back of his head, the low buzzing hum of his senses serving as a warning. The ‘scientist’ came back, supposedly with something strong enough to subside his pain, probably some sort of opioid.

The man had a worried expression on his face, maybe he was worrying about the Assets unknown enhancements?

”Is it smart to give him these drugs?” he heard the man whisper, ”how can we be sure just how high his metabolism is?” The Asset would’ve scoffed, thankfully, he had self control.

“I won’t get addicted, and don’t worry about overdose— I have a tolerance.” he assured them, aware of the scientists' continuous anxiety, but he wasn’t worried, as his senses healed back to normal, he confirmed that the drugs weren’t anything to worry about.

His guard lowered slightly as he let himself relax, no longer stiff, but he kept his hand resting above his dagger, careful of the Black Widows eyeing towards his ready hand, her gaze softened as he relaxed his muscles.
He almost flinched upon hearing Iron Man speak

“Seriously kid,” he started, his classic annoyed expression plastered on his face as he watched the scientist change out The Asset’s IV, “What do we call you?”

“Arachnid?” he suggested, shrugging, using the same russian accent he was used to hearing that title in– at least, how they’d usually say it in english.

“Well-” Starks eyebrows furrowed frustratedly, the Asset probably hadn’t said what he wanted to hear— but, surely— they knew he wasn’t supposed to know his name, right? As if he did what he was ‘supposed to.’

“What Stark means is that.. Preferably, ‘Arachnid’ doesn’t sound very uh..” The scientist glared at the other, as if either embarrassed by him, or just annoyed.

“Human?” Stark interrupted, throwing an arm around the others shoulders, receiving an audible sigh. Even the Black Widow seemed like she would’ve used different wording.
That made sense, they wouldn’t understand.

“Well, yeah,” he spoke, his tone humbling, “It’s not a name– it’s a title,” His words sounded less pained now, as the drugs kicked in.

“Don’t they call you The Asset?”