The Asset

The Asset’s eyes shot open, sweat already started sliding down his face. His breathing hadn’t steadied as sunlight burned through his eyelids.

He groaned, settling into his surroundings, having woken up on the floor of the room Iron Man had assigned him earlier in the day.

Supposedly, although he didn’t really know what time or day it was.

He exhaled heavily, turning slightly to lay on his back, discomfort and anxiety pooled in his gut.
His clenched fists made an even more tense effort to let go of their stiffness, stretching his fingers outwards until it felt less manual of an effort.

The last small bit of beaded warm sweat that had pooled in his palms slid down the side of his hand onto the cold hardwood floor.

Speaking of hands, wasn’t he cuffed?

His hands were surely free of restraint now, and there is the clear memory and soreness on his wrists from those large, bulky cuffs.

He brought a hand over his head, examining the wrist as he flexed his fingers routinely. He was used to having fist-clenching, gut-crushing, and sweaty nightmares, his hands appreciated he reset.

They must’ve come in to talk to him, but he’d already passed out.
Vulnerably. Ew.

It was okay, though–he trusted them well enough to know they probably thought the worst when he didn’t respond, and felt bad for him; falling asleep with those heavy cuffs on.

Not meaning that he trusts them.

He slowly brought himself to a sitting position, leaning back, palms against hardwood; in an attempt to avoid the effort of holding himself up. His throat felt dry and his stomach queasy, he could never really have a peaceful nap for once, could he?

He groaned as he let himself fall back onto the hard floor, tired and groggy from his unpleasant nap, he curled into himself slightly, staring blankly at his palms and the cracks and imperfections of his skin, a grounding action he had taught himself when his ‘colleague,’ left.
He really didn’t want to leave this room.

He’d have to talk with the Avengers, he was assuming it was about why he was here in the first place–as they were discussing when he was in the medical bay–not only that, but why they’re avoiding Shield. His jaw was sore even thinking about it.

He didn’t really care, though.

He’d rather stay and die of starvation than have to speak to someone right now– English or not– it was too much effort. However, having to suppress his accent did make it reasonably more frustrating.

The Asset hadn’t felt this tired in years, but, was he ever really not tired? Doing all those missions, thrown around and passed on like the object he’d become,
Whatever, It didn’t matter then, so it doesn’t matter now–sometimes things just have to be done, how would he get anything done with this tedious self-reflection?

None of it matters. Comparing all this bullshit is tiring and unnecessary–it’ll only lead to disappointment–complex emotions are not something he needs to deal with any more than as-is. Not anymore.

He knew someone would end up checking if he were awake, unfortunately, and he really didn’t want to be caught in such a childish position, vulnerable and weak, in front of people who literally saved him from death.

The Asset wouldn’t want them to think it was a waste, what was the point in salvaging a weapon that was weak? Well, that’s what Hydra would say when he was rented out.

The Avengers aren’t like that, they’re the world's mightiest heroes. Of course, they aren’t like that.

He reluctantly stood up, finding balance momentarily as his head struggled to keep him still–especially with his recent lack of any kind of nutrition. He used the bed to keep him upright, refusing to sit on it, seeing as he’d probably fall right back asleep.

“I’m detecting a significantly slowed heart rate and struggle,” who the fuck- “Would you like me to call for assistance?”

…

Eugh ‘Starks talking walls… no thanks.

His head throbbed as the room spun, he wouldn’t be able to describe how—he’d probably deny the whole situation—but his knees sort of… buckled, falling back against the footboard of the bed, a sharp wave of white-hot pain on the back of his head, from the impact of smashing against it.

Usually, it wouldn’t hurt that bad.
It didn’t even smash that hard against it..

“Fuck, nevermind—Please,” he mumbled, hoping whatever strange robot thing Stark had in the walls heard him, he didn’t doubt it, although he wasn’t sure he had even spoken English at this point. Very unlikely.

He pressed his knees close to his chest, resting his head against them as he hugged his legs close.

“Alright, I suggested bringing light food as well, they’ll be here soon” The slightly mechanical female voice spoke yet again, he could hear the vibrations clearer than a bat.

“спасибо,” He muttered a quiet ‘thanks.’ He had hoped when they brought the food he didn’t look totally pitiful…

The rushed thought of insecurity vanished the minute he could smell cinnamon and apple… and holy shit has it been an eternity.

Suddenly- he could stand yet again, he not-so-carefully ran to the door, flinching as it was opened, but snatched a small container of applesauce from whomever's hands and tore off the foil seal before a hand grabbed his arm firmly.

“Wait a minute, you don’t want to disrupt your immune system, eat it carefully-” her voice was careful and steady, definitely wary of his current position–ugh–why was that so annoying…? He’s not a timebomb.

He rolled his eyes,
“I know how to eat after starving.” He snapped, slight Russian accent and all.

With shaky hands, he carefully brought the cup to his lips, tilting it and his head back. He finished in just under 2 minutes, waiting a quick moment before he took another. He continued eating the applesauce until around the sixth one, still hungry but giving himself a break.

He leaned back against the side of a bookshelf, comforted by the significant lack in aggressive beating of his blood.

He really didn’t want to end up rejecting it, vomiting was not fun in any way, whatsoever.

“Sorry.” He apologized, though now paying close attention to the interaction, speaking in a natural American accent, as well as quickly identifying the Black Widow standing right in front of him.

“Don’t be.” She reassured, setting the last few applesauce down on a shelf beside the entrance.

“Ah… So, I assume we have to talk now?” He tried not to wince at his awkward way of speaking. Not that he could blame himself for it though; having grown up with little to no interaction with anyone his age, or much interaction at all…
Where he was doing the speaking, that is.

She nodded, pulling out a pair of much lighter-looking cuffs, curiously, he wondered if the change in restraints was pity or trust. The obvious answer: pity.

He held out his hands to be restrained, the action bathing them in significantly uncomfortable silence for the moment, his head lowered, his secondary instinct—the first one being the infamous ‘perfect posture, at attention,’ soldier’s instinct—supposedly, it’s similar for weapons.

As she led them both out of the room, not daring to touch him in any way, her perceiving ways and whatnot, he snagged an applesauce for later. Just in case he got dangerously hungry again, not unlikely.

. . .

“Morning sleeping beauty!” ‘Stark enthusiastically shouted from what he’s known as the common area, ‘living area,’ most people would call it.

“Did he eat carefully?”

“Obviously he did, she wouldn’t let him just scarf it down-”

“Why does everyone think I’m inexperienced with this stuff?” He groaned, slumping onto the—what’d he describe as a—disgustingly comfortable couch, beside ‘Romanova.

Silence followed, curiosity… What, did they think he was uneducated? Had they not talked to him before? Well, there were more of them here now, still, what did they take him for, a mindless monster?
He looked around the room… of course they thought—well some of them just seemed pitying—better than thinking he was a monster, he’s a weapon; a monster is an insult to his intelligence.

But, seriously, what is with these people and their pity?

“Don’t look at me like that,” He snapped.

“Like what?” Stark seemed taken aback.

if he didn’t have a severe case of hero worship, he would’ve ignored him, “Like i’m some kidnapped and tortured orphan-” He sighed, “Er–Just—like a kid, I guess.”

“Aren’t yo-”

“Tony, uh.. Spider-kid or whatever, this isn’t what we need to talk about.” The Falcon interjected, the first time the Asset had heard him speak outside of recordings.

He crossed his arms, scoffing, as did ‘Stark—somehow in a more dramatic way.

“He’s right, we need to discuss what exactly happened in Alaska, son.”

Woah.
Captain america?

His raised-by-messed-up-organization hero worship was having a field day right now.

“Alaska? I dunno, Mr. Rogers, Alaska’s a pretty big state, gonna need more info than that.”

“Just–somewhere up north–I don’t know!” The blue eyed sighed in annoyance, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his pointer and thumb, “We need to know what happened out there,” he sternly continued, his disinterest in the Assets ‘tomfoolery,’ clearly evident.

“What, you think they’d tell me where we were?”

“Yes,” An interjection from a certain already annoyed mechanic.

“Why in the world would Hydra tell me that?” He sat up, bringing his legs to criss-cross on the couch.

“You were a soldier, were you not?” Of course, the Captain was the one to ask about soldiers.

“More or less,” He went back to leaning back, the stares beginning to send an unsettling consistent shiver down his spine, “A weapon.”
The truth, the reality.

“So, a soldier.” The man crossed his arms.

he didn’t get it, all he knows is how it was for the Winter Soldier–and most likely, barely that–nobody can really fathom what it’s like to have no sense of humanity. “You might say that.” At least the Soldier still had human blood, he wasn’t as much a stain to his bloodline.
Plus, he gets to save people to make up his controlled red ledger; satisfy the savior complex and such. They are very different–in those terms–if not many, many more.

“A soldier.” Said Mr. Righteousness, yet again.

He sighed, glancing over at Mr. Stark, who was seemingly unimpressed with the Captains uptight and rather pushy demeanor.

“What’s important-” the Falcon interjected, running a hand over his face, “-Is what happened, not where it happened, kid.”

“Oh.”

He exhaled, not a sigh.

“Oh?” ‘Romanova raised an eyebrow.

“I don’t remember,” He shrugged.

“You don’t remember nearly bleeding out to death in the snow?” Another, rather insensitive, interjection from ‘Stark.

“Oh I remember that,” he grinned, like it was something to be proud of, “I could hear my own heart slowing down.”

Yet again, no one knew how to respond.
He wasn’t lying, he could hear the struggling beats of his heart try to pump more blood into his system.

The thought alone made his skin crawl, the worst thing about heightened senses; you feel everything. Nothing made the Asset any more resentful towards his powers than that.

His fists and jaw clenched subconsciously, fighting the urge to sink into the couch. Away from this conversation.

“But… you can’t remember what caused it.” Mr. Rogers seemed increasingly upset, although the Asset was beginning to think his anger was misplaced, with how distant his gaze was; getting lost in small details about him.
Unsettling.

“Hey, Steve… Cool off, man,” ‘Wilson’s tone was careful with warning.

“What do we even have this kid for? He’s endangering us just by being here!” He didn’t even make the effort to mask his very–totally not hurtful–strong opinion, “In more ways than one.”

And of course; more following–now disappointed–glares.

The Captain groaned and left the living area with frustrated muttering under his breath, in which the Asset did not care to pay attention to.

He didn’t take any of his words to heart, why would he? For one; he had a point, even if it was fragmented and lacking logic, anyone with a brain could piece it together–the way he looked at him with such complicated emotion behind his blue eyes. The Asset could tell he resented him, for what reason, he shouldn’t be prying into, but Hydra played a very obvious part.
Plus, they all know his mind wasn’t ‘broken,’ he wasn't brainwashed, it was obvious by the way he talked. For someone whose whole life had been affected by the nazi’s–a relatable position–it was impressive, he didn’t say worse.

Annoyedly, he was snapped out of his thoughts at the sound of a familiar name.

“-ell ‘Barnes, he can deal with ‘Cap…”

Fuck.

He wasn’t nearly good enough.

He pursed his lips in an attempt to hide his dropping face, he settled on biting down on his bottom lip, hard.

He looked up; in the corner of the room beside a wall stood the three who had previously been sitting (or standing) beside him.

When the fuck did they move?
Whatever, he really needs to stop zoning out.

.. “How do we know the kid won't kill him?” ouch, way to read a book by its cover–er–by its title/reputation, he hadn’t necessarily been acting like a kid who’d kill. But still, Mr. Falcon. So not cool.

“Does the kid look like he’s in a killing mood?” Thank you, Iron Man; finally some sense.

“We know nothing about him, sure, he’s been very… lively–attitude wise–but for all we know he could be trying to gain trust by acting…” She seemed to be struggling to find the right words.

“Sociallable?” Definitely not the word, ‘Stark.

“If you think his snarky attitude is social, you were an absolute douchebag in high school.” ‘Feels like it sort of comes with the whole ‘genius/playboy/nepo-baby,’ package.

“you’re just saying that because you know it's true and being right makes you sound smart.” He tried to hide a smirk.

“I’m telling James.” Natalia interrupted their bickering, pulling out her Stark phone; assumably to invite the Winter Soldier.

The Asset stopped listening.

Watching her tap the screen a few times and hold the phone to her ear, was confirmation enough. He watched her pocket the Item and shrug in response to the other two’s dumbfounded expressions.

His first instinct was to shut out the thought.

Y’know what? Zoning out wasn’t so bad.
The professor told him that when he had just started seeing her–around 6-7 years old–he would ‘zone out,’ or ramble out loud. At least he’d learned from that.

Weird, honestly. He can barely get out of his mind now, talking took a toll on his energy–he could barely even voice his concerns or emotions properly.

Not important–seriously Asset, if you're gonna zone out, make it worth it.

What was important was that mind still blanked on a few thoughts; I mean, why the fuck had they kept him from Shield? He assumed they were planning on talking about that here, but it seems Mr. Stick-up-his-ass disrupted their plans.

Hey, at least he didn’t have to talk as much as he thought.

“Uh.. world's mightiest heroes?” His words somehow felt foreign to him, he’s really gotta get used to this accent thing. Assets are useful. How is he supposed to be useful if he can’t speak English, right?

The Black Widow’s head turned to face him, flawless in its ability to display attentiveness, the Falcon nodded carefully, and Mr. Stark–currently not Iron Man–completely spun around; as animated as you could probably imagine.

He tried to calm his hands down from shaking, what kind of weapon gets anxious to ask a question?

“Why aren’t I with Shield, getting interrogated?”

. . .

The Winter Soldier’s eyes glistened, glaring at the dark metal walls of the excruciatingly quiet hallway.

Usually, the soldier could hear better than the others. Better than the agents.

So they dug. Down, out, away. They dug until they were sure the soldier could hear nothing from where there were sounds. And that's where the room was.

Lined with layers and layers of metal–not a hint of vibranium–metal. It was thick enough the soldier could not leave, yet no Vibranium, no ability to hear anything. Excruciating.

It felt like the soldier had died.
Before the chair, every once in a horrific blue moon; with the knowledge that nothing but–quite literally–brain-numbing pain just around the corner, the soldier had done something wrong enough to deserve numbing, dead silent pain.

It felt the soldier’s mind and fragmented thoughts had been the loudest thing the soldier had ever heard.

In this room, the loudest thing possible other than the incoming–or fleeting–sounds from the footsteps of agents.

That was, until; that kid.

Cursing out the agents, despite his age; being around 9 to 11. The soldier couldn’t tell exactly.

The boy flipped off one of the guards before being pushed aggressively onto his back. The soldier waited for the footsteps to quiet before he stood up, steadily standing above the pouting child.

The soldier held out a hand, which was reluctantly accepted by the child, neither in much of a speaking mood.

He hoped the kid would remember this. Sitting together peacefully as their breaths brought both of them peace, no longer the excruciating silence.

But of course; he didn’t. The next time they meet, is presumably—from the following sessions in the horrid box—the first time the boy remembers.

. . .

“Really? Shield would hurt me?” The Asset said, trying extremely hard not to let the wavering of his voice show; resulting in the almost-as-embarrassing slip up in his accent.

“... If you didn’t cooperate it might get a bit more complicated in that aspect, but we were mostly worried about your age, spider,” Romanova unfortunately admitted, although he supposed it wasn’t the oddest opinion… actually, it probably would’ve been more out of character if they hadn’t worried about that.
Even if it were annoying.

“Yeah, not sure if I like the idea of some 12-year-old in the ‘pirate’s Hydra files,” Stark added, a loud enough mutter all three of them—powers or not—could hear him.

“Files?” The Asset raised an eyebrow. It’s a good idea they’re hiding this then, he’s sure there are still agents in Hydra. For surveillance, none of them could get in very high power at the moment, too many eyes… At least that’s what he’s overheard, “Definitely don’t let that happen then.”

…

“Wait–I mean–unless you want me to go back, or anything—I don’t know why you would but–sor-”

“You’re fine, kid,” he swallowed, why would he do that? It’s so much easier to say things in his head, and now Mr. Stark thinks he’s weak, shit. “We’re not going to let that happen, no worries.”

He nodded, receiving two very analytic glances; one masked impressively (but was it really impressive if everything she does is impressive because she’s so cool?!)

Unfortunately, he hated being on the receiving end of an analytic gaze. He looked to Stark for an out to further psycho-analytical conversation… In other words, a former pararescue–incredibly experienced in PTSD–and an assassin with an unfathomable skill in reading people, categorizing and taking mental-note of his every word. No thanks.
Not saying Stark wouldn’t, but most likely not to such a degree, and probably for much different reasons.

Nonetheless, it’s better than nothing at all.

“Ah… y’still hungry, kid?” The man asked, the Asset replying with a hungry glare; he received a knowing nod paired with an amused grin from the older.

He hid a thankful smile, head hung low as he bid farewell to the other avengers in a lazy wave.

The Asset would’ve been content with this much interaction in a day.

He’d much rather eat whatever Stark had to offer—carefully, of course—-and go back to the room until he felt more charged, or at least enough to be dry, or somewhat nonverbal throughout a lengthy conversation.

The Asset was instead; met with a familiar aura.