Chapter Text
A YEAR IN THE LIFE OF SARGE'S PERSON
WINTER
“Any changes to report since our last session?”
Captain Gregory McAdams, PhDs in both Medicine and Psychology. Retired from the US Army in 2008, working at the remains of SHIELD under the direct command of Nicholas J. Fury, location Stark Tower, midtown, New York City. 6’4, two-hundred and thirteen pounds, fit in spite of his age, sixty-two years. Caucasian; salt-and-pepper hair; clean shaven, except for a neatly trimmed mustache; eyes pale blue. Over thirty-five years of medical experience, and six tours of duty. Currently serving as SHIELD’s head of Head Clinician for specialized cases.
Such as his.
“No.”
Yet no matter Captain McAdams’ size, experience, or training, he would still be an easy target. Too much confidence, too much swagger, an undeniable but easily exploitable belief in his own intelligence and prowess. Ego instead of common sense. An unshakeable belief that the world was for men like him, extraordinary men, to shape as he saw fit, instead of recognizing the truth that he was only one cog, among many, and easily removed if required.
He could do it in less than three seconds.
“And have you been following the protocols we discussed?”
“Yes.”
“Establishing and maintaining a routine?”
“Yes.”
“Ensuring to consume the prescribed amount of calories on a daily basis?”
“Yes.” (When he remembered to.)
“Engaging in enough exercise and activity to maintain your current physical status?”
“Yes.” (Although it was unnecessary. His body could sustain itself and remain at peak battle-ready condition no matter what level of activity he engaged in.)
Captain McAdams eyes narrowed, staring at him as if he were an interesting specimen pinned beneath a plane of glass, trying to decide at exactly which point to begin his dissection. It lasted for longer than a minute. It always did, Captain McAdams so seemingly sure if he stared long enough, he would break, and reveal something he had not until now. But he never did, and Captain McAdams would always eventually break first, and nod, as if he approved, before beginning phase two of his strategy.
“You know, at this stage of your recovery, I think it crucial that we decrease the amount of time you spend by yourself, and increase your exposure to others, to help with your resocialization. SHIELD has several programs which we could enroll you in that would provide you with a larger network of support and interaction with future possible teammates who, with enough time and supervision, you might find yourself willing to work with, once you’re ready.”
It was day two-hundred and seventy-six. There had already been two-hundred and seventy-five days of this. Prior to that it had been two-hundred and forty-two days of intensive tests on both his brain and his body, endured because there had been no other options at that point. Of SHIELD’s agents and doctors, routing through his mind and his chemistry to see what damage had been done, what was irreparable, what could be duplicated and what discarded. In exchange for his eventual freedom, he had to provide any and all data he had managed to retain on his captors to an endless stream of investigators, while another series of supposedly trained and highly-ranked personnel forcefully ripped away the codes that had been implanted in his brain. It was supposedly for his own good, and a caveat to his eventual release, but that did not mean it had been easy. But he had endured it, like he had endured so much else, and never uttered a complaint while they first said, then shouted, the WORDS at him, while his body shuddered and shook and blood dripped from his nose. Eventually, they had been satisfied, and considered their “revolutionary deprogramming techniques” a success. He knew, from experience, that it was to his benefit to allow them to believe what they would.
Before that, it had been three-hundred-and-forty-one days of freedom. Unaccustomed to and almost too expansive for him to bear. But he had been created and trained to be able to adapt, and as there had been no additional orders, aside from the one (RETURN) that he had already somehow managed to overwrite, he had set himself to the new task of base establishment, concealment and integrating himself into his surroundings. He had thought himself successful, until he had –
Until the parameters he had established for himself proved faulty, and he had failed his mission.
But this time there had been no chair. No modifications to his program. No erasure of his memories.
He had not been able to understand it. He still could not understand it. But it had not taken him long to realize it did not matter. The environment and faces may have all changed, but their objective was just the same. Retrieve the Asset, obtain all gathered intel, modify, modify, modify, until he was functioning within acceptable established parameters, and then ensure cooperation by any means necessary. No matter what promises had been made, oaths sworn, clemencies guaranteed, their ultimate goal was the same.
Acquisition and maintenance of the perfect weapon.
But, and this was a failure in all of their observations and supervision, there had been an oversight, a lapse in their judgment. Because while nothing else may have changed, except for the faces, and his location, and the fact that there was no chair, he had.
They thought him stupid. Or perhaps too damaged to be able to understand what was really going on around him. But he had always been the most successful weapon any had ever possessed, HYDRA’s Fist used to change the shape of history. But even a fist was only effective when the mind controlling it was able to adapt and adjust to even the tiniest of variables, and he had learned long ago how to respond to changes in his environment and protocol, while pretending not to change at all.
So he let Captain McAdams drone on and on, speaking optimistically about the future, and the paths being mapped out for his continued success, responding when he knew it was required. Flat one-word answers that neither encouraged or denied, but provided what was expected of him. Until last Captain McAdams nodded and he was dismissed.
“Remember, it’s the holidays next week. So our next three sessions have been cancelled.”
“Understood.”
“There were some that were hesitant in allowing that, but since you’ve been doing so well lately, I decided to permit it.” The generosity was both sickly sweet and boastful. As if he wouldn’t recognize the technique, had not experienced it time and time again. Offer a reward as a way to build trust and a sense of understanding, so the prisoner would be more compliant in the future. Captain McAdams was so certain of his own success, they all were; the initial programming had been broken, and he was ready to be re-introduced as a contributing member of society. (As long as his contributions were ones they had predetermined were acceptable.) But he knew something that Captain McAdams didn’t, that none of them did.
“Merry Christmas, Sergeant Barnes. I’ll see you in the new year.”
They had failed.
***
It had been brutal, his deprogramming; a vicious exercise that was tortuous and bloody. WORDS said in his ear that led to screaming in his brain, as they broke him over and over again, while claiming to fix him. Locked in a room that was monitored, while they repeated the WORDS over and over again, to let the commands that been initiated play out. Exposure therapy, they told him, the only option available since the drugs they had attempted to use were of no use. (The changes to his biology were too drastic and his metabolism too fast for them to have any effect.) There had been months of it. Months and months and months of it, until finally, he could sit and listen to the entire string of WORDS with barely a blink and then recount in perfect clarity exactly where he was, and remember everything he had done, which was nothing. They considered it a success, and congratulated him on his hard work, endurance and cooperation. But what they had not known, what none of them had been able to predict, was by eradicating the effect of the WORDS, they had released something else.
Something older and deeper, and much more malignant than anything eleven trigger words could call forth.
*So, that old windbag still calling you Sergeant Barnes, is he? I thought you told him to stop that.*
And there, there It was.
*Remind me what it is you like to go by now?*
He didn’t answer. He never answered. Answering only made it worse, gave It power, made It more persistent.
*Oh, that’s right. I remember now. James.* A pause, but only for a second. *Tch. How boring.*
As he stood in the elevator, feeling the car’s smooth descent, he didn’t bother to look around. It had startled him at first, this voice he could hear as clearly as the cars outside, his neighbors arguing.
*Oh honey, did you think I was gone?* It had said, as clear as a bell, as sharp as the retort of a rifle.
He had jerked, searching for the sound, the intruder, the threat to his safety, but there had been no one there. Only the same four walls he had been staring at for the past hour. As unfamiliar as they had ever been in their familiarity. His heart had been racing and his eyes wide, because there was no more HYDRA and they had promised him no one would come for him, but yet here it was, another voice in his head when he had finally begun to understand that quiet was something he could have, no new mission, no commands to kill, no orders to get in the chair.
On his feet in less than half a second, he tore through his apartment, lifting up his mattress, tearing the doors from his cabinets in search of the source. But there was nothing, nothing, nothing.
And then, even worse, as his heart pounded and his eyeballs throbbed in their sockets from the terror of it all, he realized as he stared down at his shaking hands, it was not the first time he had heard It.
The first time had been on the hellicarier, after the fight, and watching a body fall away and into the water below. It had been a screech then, a klaxon in his brain, a command code impossible to deny.
*SAVE HIM!*
So he had.
It had gone quiet then, once he was standing on the shore, starting down at hi-
He had stood on the shore and stared. Stared and stared and stared, waiting for the next order, established protocol to follow.
Kill.
Retrieve and return to base.
Complete the mission.
But there had been nothing. Nothing. Only silence, within and without. So without any other options, he had walked away.
The second time he had heard It, it had been in Bucharest. Returning to his apartment to find hi-
To see an intruder standing there, looking through his journal of scraps and scribblings, as if they had the right.
They had stared at each other, would have probably stared at each other for the rest of time, if the room hadn’t suddenly been swarmed by over a dozen armed soldiers, all intent on his death.
*Trust him. He’ll help you. He’s the only one that can.*
It had come at exactly the right (wrong) moment, causing a stutter that caused a stumble, that allowed for mission failure. And he-
And that man may have prevented his termination, but he had allowed for his recapture, and he knew then that the voice was not his ally.
It had gone quiet then, for a while. And he had thought (hoped) that was it. But apparently, It had just been waiting, biding its time. Because once all of the cascades caused by the WORDS were removed, It had returned with a vengeance.
It was unpredictable, making Itself known with no discernable pattern. Darker than any shadow, as venomous as any snake, but always, always there. Hidden and patient, but waiting. Always, always waiting.
And It didn’t belong.
*Is that what you think?*
He knew what It was. HYDRA had always been efficient, and by eliminating the WORDS, all the remnants of SHIELD had done was activate a failsafe. A tool to drive him to madness, and in his madness he would return to them to eliminate the distraction, repair the systems failure, and recalibrate him to full functionality. He had tried to do it himself; had looked for the source, attempted to locate the origination point. But all his efforts had resulted in failure. How could you fight an enemy you could not see. The best he could do was sometimes get an impression, if It was feeling generous enough. The sense of a long leg resting on his window ledge. An awareness of a cocked head. And, the most common indication, that usually announced its arrival…the scent of cigarette smoke, heavy and cloying (and familiar?) in his nose.
It was clinging to him now, and he wondered how no one could smell it as he stepped out of the elevator and made his way through the lobby toward the exit. Once he reached the street, it didn’t diffuse. If anything, the aroma seemed to grow stronger. He turned to look over his shoulder to make sure no one else was close enough to be the source of the scent now clinging to his nostrils, catching a glimpse of the exterior of the tower as he completed his circle, blinking against the sunlight its matte grey glass reflected in his eyes.
*Ugly, isn’t it?*
He didn’t answer It. He never answered It. That only encouraged It, and served no purpose in the long run.
*Well, at least we don’t have to go back here for the next ten days. Even if that asshole thinks you should be kneeling at his feet because he’s being oh-so-generous.*
Even if it was just ten days, he would still take it. As he had the thought, he could feel Its disappointment.
*Hmm,* It hummed. *But then again, maybe you will.*
Tearing his eyes away from the building, he shook his head and made the trek across Bryant Park and toward the train station. It was time for him to go home.
*Ignoring me again, honey? Think I’ll go away if you just give it enough time? Maybe you are just as stupid as everyone back there thinks you are. Haven’t you learned by now, you can’t get rid of me. But that’s okay. You’ll figure it out one day. Take all the time you need. I can wait.*
***
Home was a small, one room apartment on Water Street, on the third of floor in one of the buildings of the housing projects on the Lower East side. The façade was a sand colored brown, and nice enough, he supposed, but the interior was seldom, if ever, maintained. The stairwells smelled like piss and marijuana, but since the elevator smelled of piss, marijuana and puke, they were always the option he chose. It wasn’t like they were a challenge to him in any way. His neighbors were a varied bunch; families with smaller children mostly, but there were also a number of elderly, and a few singles like himself, who tended to occupy the smaller units. They were a variety of ethnicities, and spoke a multitude of languages, all of which he understood, but most importantly, they were unobtrusive and by and large left him alone. The only one he ever interacted with, with any regularity, was his next-door neighbor, a middle-aged woman of Hispanic descent, whose path he sometimes crossed as he was coming or going. She always smiled and nodded whenever she saw him, usually when she was returning from her own grocery shopping, and he found himself always returning the nod, if not the smile. She was a quiet neighbor, although he did occasionally hear softly playing music, or a phone conversation through the walls, and the smells that emanated from her apartment were interesting. (He supposed that was how her groceries were put to use.)
*She’d probably invite you in for dinner, if you just asked her. She seems like a nice enough lady. Probably a bit on the lonely side too, could use a bit of company if you ask me. And the food wouldn’t hurt. That body doesn’t just belong to you, you know. You need to start taking better care of it.*
That was another thing It was relentless about. Eating. It wasn’t mission critical, and he knew he was designed to run for much longer on much less. Food was something that had never been a priority –
*Oh, is that what you think?*
- and somewhere, somewhere deep, deep inside, he knew there had been periods of time when he skipped meals because, well, because that was what had to be done.
*It’s called poverty.*
Truth be told, he often forgot to eat, or was unable to find the motivation to do so. But It was in a tither today and he knew It would grow increasingly restless and annoying if he did not consume something soon.
There was some stale bread, and old cheese he piled on top of it, that scratched at his throat as he stood in his kitchenette and surveyed his surroundings. It was an old dump of a place, draughty and damp. A single room, with a small kitchen and an even smaller bathroom. The windows were grey with age and grime, their frames covered with layer upon layer of cheap, peeling paint, currently a faded navy. The floors were a uniform greyish-green tile, cold and hard beneath his feet, and the appliances several decades old. The radiators choked and sputtered, and the temperature never varied from either being too cold or boiling hot. There was a mattress, with several blankets wedged into the corner, a lopsided bookshelf he had found on the street and repaired, a two-seater couch, also rescued from the street, and two cinderblocks with a board across them that he used for a table.
He thought it ironic that his life was supposed to be so much better now, when in truth his apartment in Bucharest had been nicer and more spacious, although not by much. But he had needed to fight for even this, and it had been one of the few stipulations he insisted upon in exchange for his full cooperation. An apartment of his own choosing, once he had proven to no longer be a threat to society, and to never, ever have to see or interact with hi-
His keepers had so far been holding to the second part of the deal, but he’d had to fight for the first, Captain McAdams consistently refusing to give his approval, no matter how many times he had argued for them to uphold their end of the arrangement. It had gotten so bad that they had spent at least three sessions with him saying nothing and Captain McAdams growing more and more frustrated with his silence, informing him in a voice filled with blisters and pins, that each session where he remained uncooperative would only be added to his total required visits at the end of his probationary period. But someone (someone) must have intervened on his behalf, because during his next session, Captain McAdams had begrudgingly signed his release papers and shoved them at him at the end of their allotted hour.
Someone (someone) may have intervened on his behalf, but that did not mean SHIELD was done playing their games with him yet. He had been informed at the very beginning of his probationary period that there was supposedly money, a lot of it, coming to him. Something to do with over seventy years of backpay, along with a pension, and a compensation package for no one verifying his status and intervening on his behalf. But as of yet, he hadn’t seen any of it. Instead, he had been informed that since he was still under probation, he would be provided with a carefully monitored stipend, available to him at the end of each month, that would be sufficient to cover any living expenses he may incur. The amount had been laughable, barely enough to cover most of his essentials, if that, and certainly not enough to do all the life enriching activities Captain McAdams claimed were necessary if he ever hoped to fully integrate himself back into society.
He knew what they were doing. SHIELD hadn’t wanted to let him go, so they put him on a leash. Longer than the one he had been on, but still a leash none-the-less. They wanted to make sure they appeared to be the better option. So of course he could live on his own, if he managed to find a place he could afford. But why would he, when they had perfectly serviceable and better maintained living quarters available for him at SHIELD headquarters. As well as a twenty-four-hour kitchen he would have unrestricted access to, where he could select any food he wanted, as often as he wanted, while they monitored his food selections. They were offering him the freedom he had insisted upon, but staging it so the one choice, the better choice, would be the obvious one, and he would be an idiot to refuse. Give him the bitter to choke on, and then slip him the sweet to make him malleable to their desires.
But his life had been filled with the bitter, with so much worse than the bitter, and he knew somehow, deep, deep, deep in his bones and beneath all the layers of skin and metal that constructed his body, that he knew, had always known, how to squeeze blood from a stone, and would be able to survive.
So he had taken the packet they provided him without a word, turned and walked out of Captain McAdams office to find himself an apartment.
And now here he was, standing in said apartment, looking around. He currently had ten days free from any obligations or required meetings, and he was looking forward to it. Once he figured out what he was going to do with this sudden and unexpected abundance of time.
*Maybe take a shower, and wash some of your fucking clothes. Because I’m telling you honey, I’ve smelled drunks on the Bowery that don’t reek as much as you.*
***
Four days and eight books later (books were easy enough to procure. They could often be found left in piles in certain places on certain streets, or at the discount table at libraries. And if there was one thing that would shut It up, it was a long book; It seemed to have as much fondness for reading as he did), he lifted his head and looked around. The radiator was clanging (apparently the apartment was on its boil cycle) and his skin clammy with sweat. And even he couldn’t help but notice he was starting to reek. As he rubbed at his eyes, he realized he could not remember the last time he had eaten or drunk anything. He thought there may have been some water and another sandwich approximately twelve hours ago, but he couldn’t be sure. He was in violation of his mission protocols, and it was time to remedy that. So he rose from his seat on his mattress, and made his way toward the shower.
*’Bout damned time.*
Except once he was done, he realized that yes, his clothes did carry a particularly strong odor, and he needed to rectify that situation, or during his next session with Captain McAdams, he would get another lecture about proper appearance, and making sure he maintained of level of self-grooming appropriate for any soldier.
It was time for him to do laundry.
*And pick up some damned food. Aren’t you tired of cheese sandwiches yet. You do know there are plenty of other options out there now, don’t you? Or are you so damaged you can’t even do that right? Oh wait, nevermind.*
He ignored It, as he always did, gathered his clothes into two pillow cases, and made his way to the laundromat three blocks over. It had snowed the day before, and he knew the holiday had come and gone; he had overheard his neighbor saying something about a white Christmas in a happy voice as she spoke to someone on the phone. But the skies were overcast and heavy, and the streets now covered with a thick layer of dirty grey slush that soaked through his boots as he walked, stopping first at the bodega on the corner to pick up a sandwich and a bottle of soda to pass the time and shut the voice up while his clothes washed.
Two hours later, once he was done, the overcast sky had delivered on its promise, and was now releasing a sleet that had already combined itself with the mess on the streets. With a sigh, he gathered his bundles closer to his body and decided to cut down the alley that ran behind the laundromat. It was gated, but it would cut three minutes off his travel time, and the fence would prove no obstacle for someone like him. He had just passed the dumpster, that smelled of dead fish and cat piss, when he heard it.
A soft, tiny whimper.
It was probably a rat, or maybe even a raccoon. He decided to ignore it, he was already wet enough, when he heard it again.
Weak, helpless and…in pain.
Turning, he made his way toward the dumpster and knelt down, searching for the source. When it came again, he found himself pushing aside two trash filled bags, until he uncovered a damp cardboard box. Lifting the lid, he found himself staring down at a small, strange creature, curled up in the corner, whimpering as it shivered in obvious distress.
It was one of the ugliest things he had ever seen, this small brown and black lump, with a stubby, little tail, and paws that looked as if they had been dipped in coal. He thought it may have been a possum, or maybe a piglet, until he realized that no, no, it was a–
*It’s a puppy.*
He leaned closer and realized the voice was right. It was a puppy. That someone had put in a box and left in the cold…
Put in a box and left in the cold…
Put in a box and left in the cold…
With a rage unfamiliar to him, he heard himself cursing in what may have been Russian, or Korean, or who knew what fucking language was coming out of his mouth, before he reached out and gathered the puppy into his hands.
It was small, so small, as he lifted it up to get a better look at it. From the cradle of his palms, it whimpered again, and then wriggled, as if it had realized someone was there, and was desperate for any warmth they were willing to share. It was helpless, such a little thing, and someone had just tossed it away, as if they didn’t care how horrible it was to left alone and forgotten in the cold, when death, a true death, was the only thing you could remember how to pray for.
As he knelt there, in the sleet, with the puppy held carefully in his hands, James made two decisions. The first was that he would make sure this little puppy would never know what that was like. The second was that if he ever found the bastard who did this, he would rip him to pieces with his own hands, and fuck whatever Captain McAdams and the rest of those SHIELD bastards had to say about it.
Then James rose to his feet, picked up his pillowcases of laundry, tucked the puppy against his chest, jumped the fence and ran all the way back to his apartment.
***
Except once he finally got there, he realized he now had a puppy he had no idea how to care for.
*It’s okay, it’s okay. You’ve done this before, you can do it again.*
“How?” he growled, not caring that he was responding to It, destroying years of avoidance in less than a minute.
*I know how. I can show you. Let me show you.*
“How?” he asked again. “You’re not even real, you’re just some program-“
*You can argue with me until the cows come home. But while you’re doing that, the puppy’s going to die. Or you can accept my help and let me show you. Now, what’s it gonna be?*
When he glanced down at his hands, the puppy was still shivering, its whimpering even louder than before. And he knew, he knew he had made this choice. It was now his responsibility to deal with the consequences.
“Fine, do it. Whatever you’re going to do. Just help me…Please.”
The voice didn’t answer him that time. Instead he felt it sigh, as if pleased, and then came…
And then came…
He thought it would be like the shriek of lightning, fire in his brain, neurons and synapses exploding, followed by the white, the endless, endless white that ripped flesh from bones and left nothing more than a blank page, waiting for the instructions to be written upon its surface.
Instead it was an echo, static-filled and distant, blurred. Sounds at first, voices, that grew clearer and clearer as he cocked his head, twisting in search of the source, like the antenna from one of their old radios, back, back, back…
“Slowly, slowly, warm water, not too hot. Too hot can do more damage than good.” A woman’s voice, guiding his hands beneath a stream of barely warm water, both of their fingers carefully wrapped around those of another, long and knobbly, but graceful, always so graceful, their tips a whitish blue, and he had known then something was wrong. “We have to bring the temperature up slowly now, you hear?” A pause. “Gently now, good, good, just like that. Hold them there, and start to rub, it’ll help bring the circulation back…Yeah, I know boy, it hurts. But that’s what you get for going outside in this weather without your gloves. You’re going to be the death of me Ste-“
And then…
Snow all around, on the ground, in the sky, stinging their cheeks. An encampment or, no, no, a foxhole. Shaking hands, struggling with their own battles against the cold as numb fingers struck first once, twice, and then again, before the match blazed and the tinder caught.
“Oh thank god.”
“Now fill than pan with snow and bring it over here.” Mud encrusted boots, rank socks, toes colder than ice, coarse palms chaffing over callused skin, moving, moving, moving, get the blood flowing, and then the water, warm, but not too hot, and color finally starting to return.
“How’s that feeling?”
“B-better, better. Thanks Barn-“
And then it was gone, and James was left standing in the middle of his room, clutching the still shivering puppy to his chest.
He sprang into action, dashing into the bathroom where he turned on the taps of the sink. His apartment may have been a shithole, but if it had one advantage, it was that there was always plenty of hot water, and even if the pipes were old and rattled, the pressure was always steady and true. As he waited for the water to fill, careful of the temperature, he grabbed a towel, one of only two, and used his left hand to vigorously run it over the puppy’s body, while keeping it pressed to his chest. Once the level of water in the sink was sufficient, and the temperature adequate, he carefully submerged the tiny puppy into the water, and rubbed, rubbed, rubbed at the skin, hoping that It hadn’t lied to him.
It took more than half an hour before the shivering finally stopped. During that time, he had to drain and replace the water several times, increasing the heat in small increments. Once he was done, both the basin and his hands were covered in an oily coating of dirt, grime and who knew what other detritus. But the shaking had stopped, and he was able to get a good look at the puppy for the first time.
It was still small, that hadn’t changed, easily cradled in the palm of his left hand. The calibrations in that arm told him it was a little over six pounds, and obviously too young to be left alone as it had. It had a rounded belly, and short stubby legs that ended in stumpy little paws. As its hair slowly began to dry under his ministrations, it transformed from the matted rug it had been into a soft fuzz that was striated in sables and browns. The colors swirled along its spine and out towards its legs. The tail was black, and so were its paws, except for the left foreleg, that looked as if it was wearing a glove, ending past the shoulder joint, just like…just like the metal of his own arm.
Frowning, he held it up to his face for further examination, as it stared back at him with blue eyes that slowly blinked, from a patch of even blacker fur that looked like…that looked like…
A mask.
“Oh, are you fucking kidding me?”
The puppy blinked at him, yawned, and then started to whimper again.
“What? What’s the matter? Why are you crying? You’re warm enough now,” he said, as he began a second inspection. There was no blood, and from an initial palpation, it didn’t feel as if any bones were broken. But still, the puppy continued to cry.
“What? What? Why are you crying?” he asked it again as he cradled it against his chest, ignoring the dampness of his own shirt. He began to rock it back and forth, jiggling it against his chest like he would a baby (had he ever held a baby?) while its whimpers increased in pitch and desperation.
“What’s the matter with you?”
*It’s probably hungry. Eating. It’s a thing we do.*
“What the hell do I feed it?” he snapped as he dashed into his kitchen and ripped open his refrigerator door. There was nothing there, or at least nothing he was sure he could feed a hungry puppy. An old bottle of ketchup he didn’t remember purchasing, more stale bread, two protein bars, and half a bottle of flat soda. Nothing he could give a puppy. Nothing, nothing, nothing, and the whimpering just kept getting louder and louder.
“What the hell do I do?”
*Oh, now you’re asking for my help? You’re the one who got us into this mess. You’re the Soldier. You never failed a mission in your life. Figure it out yourself. I’ve already given you your one freebie for the day.*
And then It was gone, leaving him there in his kitchen, clutching a crying puppy to his chest, while he cursed at It, himself, the world, and even the puppy in Russian.
But…But It had been right. He was the Soldat, and he had never failed a mission in his life (until he had), and he would not fail this one. It was vital, for reasons he could not even begin to fathom, that he not fail this one.
He scrambled back into the main room, toward his mattress, dug around beneath the sheets until he located one of his knives, before heaving the rest of the bedding easily off the floor with his left hand. There, in the corner, beneath a tile that looked exactly the same as every other tile in the room, was another secret he’d been keeping, a failsafe he himself had installed.
Using the knife, he carefully pried the tile upwards, to reveal a hidden little cubby hole, self-made, that concealed within a small stash of items that would ensure his own personal security.
He had a cell phone, one issued to him by SHIELD that held within it only three numbers; Captain McAdams, Dr. Fremore, the head of his medical team, and the number to the front desk of Stark Tower. He never used it, except when it dinged with the reminders for his appointments. They thought he didn’t know it was filled with tracking devices and spyware that would keep them informed of his every movement and any communication he might make.
But in this little corner, dark and damp, was a new one, updated with the latest security features and software, as well as a laptop, five guns, six more knives, and enough ammo to kill an entire platoon of soldiers, all sealed within a watertight plastic bag. Along with a tightly rolled bundle, several of them actually, of cash. Fives, tens and twenties mostly, nothing that would ever garner a second glance, all of it stolen from several local HYDRA safe houses that he may have forgotten to mention in his testimony. They had thought him stupid, broken, eager to reveal everything he knew, but the Soldier had always been a secret, and he knew how to keep his own, especially when it was critical to mission success.
As he tore open the bag and removed the phone, turning it on while still cradling the little dog against his chest, he decided right then and there that he had a new mission.
And that was to get the goddamned puppy to stop crying.
***
Dr. Sapna Patni, a doctorate in Veterinary Science and Surgery. 5’2, one-hundred and forty-two pounds, age approximately between thirty-eight and forty, dark hair knotted tightly on the top of her head, red spectacles, Asian-Indian descent. Current veterinarian on call at the Blue Pearl Emergency Animal Hospital.
Threat level, low. Time to incapacitate, less than 1.5 seconds.
It was forty-five minutes later, and he was standing in one of the examination rooms of a twenty-hour emergency vet clinic on West Fifteenth Street, while the woman concluded her examination of the puppy.
He had been surprised to discover there were actually doctors for animals. Animals had never been mission critical, and it would have been considered wasteful to use any resources for their care. But apparently society in the twenty-first century had decided not only to devote a large percentage of their attention to animals, but spent huge amounts of money on their health and maintenance. There had been an abundance of veterinary hospitals when he had done a Google search, but as it had been nearing nine o’clock when he had made this discovery, none were open, except for this particular clinic, which had necessitated a taxi ride to him get to the clinic in a timely manner.
The receptionist at the front desk had frowned at him when he entered, apparently offended by his appearance, which he could not understand as it was irrelevant to the completion of the mission, and insisted on payment up front. Once he handed over the required money things proceeded much more rapidly, and now here he was, standing in front of Dr. Patni as she carefully held the puppy in her arms, while it suckled and slurped greedily from a small bottle she had pressed to its lips.
“So you found this little guy in a box behind a dumpster, and then what?” she queried. She seemed nice enough, although he could tell she was wary of him.
“It was shivering, so I brought it home. It appeared to be hypothermic, and I remembered the protocol for restoring core temperature, so I followed the procedures until it stopped crying,” he reported.
“Good job on that. You probably saved his life,” she told him. “Then what?”
“But then it wouldn’t stop crying, even though it was warm. I didn’t know what to do, so I brought it here.”
“He’s starving, the poor little thing.”
“Starving? But it doesn’t appear emaciated.”
“He’s a puppy, Mr. Barnes. Barely two and a half weeks old, from my best guesstimate. They need to be fed every few hours. Usually the mother takes care of that, but you said there were no other dogs in the area?”
“No.”
“He was probably abandoned then,” Dr. Patni sighed and shook her head. “Lots of idiots think it’s a good idea to adopt a puppy, especially around Christmas. But once the excitement wears off, and they realize how much work it’s actually going to take, they decide it’s not worth it. Best case scenario, they find another home for it or drop it off at a shelter. But there are already enough animals waiting for homes, and shelters are usually filled to capacity at the best of times. Worst case scenario,” she shrugged, “you get a situation like today.”
“People throw them away? Like they’re garbage?” He was astounded, furious with the idea. Yes, animals were a waste of resources, but they were living things. And no living thing deserved to be discarded, abandoned, thrown away like trash.
Then he suddenly remembered himself, and where he was, and Captain McAdams’ voice informing him how anger or any indication of emotion would result in punishment, warnings, reminders that he needed to learn how to control his emotions if he ever expected to return to active duty.
But, to his surprise, that seemed to be the response Dr. Patni was looking for. Even though it was obvious she was angry, it was not directed at him. Instead she nodded her head and smiled at him in approval for the first time. Then she looked down at the puppy again, her eyes growing sharp, before meeting his gaze directly.
“So, we have several options at this point,” she began. “We can try to find a shelter that would be willing to take him. Normally, that wouldn’t be a problem, because puppies get adopted pretty quickly. But he’s still too young for that, and needs to be fostered for at least ten more weeks until he’d be ready to be adopted. But they’re filled to capacity right now, as well as short staffed due to the holidays. I don’t know of any foster families with an opening right now either. Of course we can keep him here until we can find someplace to take him, but we’re going to have to charge you for that. Or…”
“Or?”
“Or, you could take him home and foster him yourself, until he’s ready to be adopted, or you decide to keep him.”
“Keep him?”
“He’s in pretty good shape, in spite of the circumstances. His lungs sound a little congested, but I can give you some antibiotics to take care of that. It will be a lot of work, but you did a good job getting him warm enough, and he seems to like you already.” The puppy had finished feeding while she spoke, and he realized he was already reaching out for it again, bringing it back against his chest, where that small, chubby little body nestled itself against his sternum.
“But it is a lot of work,” she said again, as she watched them. “You have to be sure you’re willing to take on the commitment, because he’s going to need a lot from you, more than just feedings and making sure he’s warm enough. Are you sure you want that type of responsibility, Mr. Barnes?”
It was a mission. Not one that was being forced upon him, but one she was giving him the choice to accept. And the puppy was so soft, so warm against his chest and under his hand. He could not remember the last time anything had felt this soft or warm against him in his life. Could he do this? Could he shift the parameters of his mission protocols, his self, from termination and the elimination of any and all threats, into...What? Softness, protectiveness…Care.
As he stood there, staring down at the puppy that was whimpering again, but this time as if content, he knew it was irrelevant. The tasks had already been assigned, the mission accepted. The puppy was now his.
“I’ll do it,” he heard himself say, his voice so soft, so hushed, he had a difficult time recognizing it as his own.
“Are you sure, Mr. Barnes?” Dr. Patni asked.
“Yes.” This time his voice was firmer, but still just as soft, just as foreign to him.
“Right then,” she nodded and then took a step back from the examination table. “Have you decided on a name yet, so we can put it in the file?”
From somewhere deep within, he felt something stir. An image, whose source was unknown.
Standing on the edge of a cliff, staring down into a ravine, jagged and icy, and being momentarily blinded by the slicing winds that cut across his face. But then, a feeling of warmth, as he looked upon broad shoulders, in a uniform of red, white and blue, wind-chapped lips, and the bluest eyes he had ever seen. A hand clasping his shoulder, as a voice that was as familiar to him as his own said, “Ready to do this Sarge?”
It had been warm, that hand, as had the voice. Warm like the sun. Warm like…like love. And he thought it may have been the last time he had felt that heat from within in over decades worth of time. He was certain that whoever Sarge had been, he’d been loved and cared for, a treasure to the person who had spoken his name, at least once upon a time.
Maybe it would be warm enough for the puppy he now held cradled against his heartbeat, that was starting to creak and ache like old bones coming to life, or the first shoots of grass pushing their way through the dirt to embrace the spring.
“Sarge,” he heard himself say around a throat that was both swollen and dry. “His name is Sarge.”
***
Later that night, after reading through a seemingly endless packet of instructions and a list of supplies he would need to purchase, James lay on his back in his restored pile of bedding, Sarge sleeping in a contented little ball on his chest. He thought the puppy had the right idea, because he was suddenly so tired. More exhausted, within and without, than he could remember being in a long-damned time.
But, and this was a strange realization, content too. The apartment was an adequate temperature for once, not too hot nor too cold. And it was still early enough that the streets outside were quiet, with no noises or voices to distract him. And It had been remarkably silent during the past couple of hours after Its last hissing remark. His eyelids were heavy enough, and his arms nothing more than loose weights at his side, that he thought maybe, just maybe, for the first time in years, he would be able to manage a few hours of uninterrupted sleep.
He should have known better. Just as his eyelids closed one last time, too heavy for even him to lift, It came for him again.
He felt It before he heard It. Its tread was heavier than it had ever been, and It was coming closer and closer. But he was so tired, absolutely drained, and there was nothing left within him to even begin to try to fight it off. So he lay there, silent and still, as the last of his consciousness slipped away, knowing It was crouching over him.
*Oh honey,* was the last thing James heard It say in a voice that was greedy and pleased, before he slipped away, *you’ve just given me everything I needed.* And then a hand that was not his own was reaching out and running Its fingers through the puppy’s fur.
***
When James woke up the next morning, his own fingers were curled in the exact same position on the puppy’s back.