Chapter Text
The Asset drops its mission onto the bank of the Potomac. It registers the fact that the mission is now breathing, albeit raggedly, and that the injuries the mission had received are likely to be nonfatal. The Asset marks this information as irrelevant. It had already failed; the state of its mission is no longer its concern.
Its options are now limited. It can return to Hydra, but between the failure of its mission and the state of ruin the organization is likely in, that seems to be a tactically unwise decision, at least for now. Maybe later on, once the chaos and confusion has died down and Hydra has had a chance to regroup, the Asset can return.
Another, deeply buried part of it has little regard for tactics; all it knows is that it doesn’t want to return to Hydra, not now, not ever. That part of the Asset wants to stay with the mission and beg for forgiveness. That part of it wants to weep. That part of it wants to sink into the ground and never emerge.
That part of the Asset is ignored.
(Assets do not want .)
The Asset needs to make a decision. The Asset isn’t allowed to make decisions, at least not outside of certain parameters. The Asset does not want to make a decision.
( Assets do not want . )
The Asset decides not to decide. Not yet, at least.
Time is of the essence. If the Asset remains on the bank, it will eventually be found and captured, be it by Hydra or some other force. It has to leave and get clear of the scene. From there it will further plan what needs to be done.
A large, loud part of the Asset does not want to leave its mission on the shore, alone and unprotected. That part of the Asset is ignored.
(Assets do not want .)
The Asset turns and strides away from the mission. The Asset does not look back.
⭑ ⭑ ⍟ ⭑ ⭑
The Asset has come to a decision. It has decided that it does not have enough intel in order to make a decision. Therefore, the Asset decides to gather intel that could help it make further decisions in the future.
People in the streets are screaming. Cars are piled up, which likely had crashed after the occupants had become distracted by the debris falling from the sky. Some are running away from the Triskelion, others run towards it. The chaos proves to be enough of a distraction that few notice the Asset, but those who do eye it strangely.
It occurs to the Asset that it needs to appear more inconspicuous.
Its black tactical gear is drenched in river water. Most of the blood from its injuries had been washed away, but new stains are appearing from the wounds that have not yet ceased leaking. Several of its weapons are exposed, and a glance in a passing storefront window reveals its hair to be in a state of complete disarray. The flesh arm had been dislocated and hangs loosely at the Asset’s side.
The Asset needs to blend in. It snags a hooded jacket from a bench, likely abandoned during the chaos, and slips a pair of sunglasses out of a passerby’s pocket. It ducks between two office buildings to discard its outer gear, leaving the undershirt, bulletproof vest, tactical pants, and combat boots on for now. This task proves to be almost impossible before the Asset realizes it needs to reset the flesh arm. After that, pulling off its soggy clothing and replacing it with the pullover proves to be much easier, albeit painful.
It is of no consequence.
(Assets are unmoved by pain .)
Its hair is still wet and tangled, so the Asset pulls up the hood of the jacket to cover it. It ensures that all its various guns and knives are concealed from view and puts the hand that is metal into the hoodie’s pocket. The sunglasses are slipped onto its face. Soon it will need to acquire gloves and trousers, and possibly some other clothing, but for now this will have to do.
The Asset strides out of the alley. It is unsure how to approach its new mission. The Asset never had to gather intel itself before—or if it had, it doesn’t remember it. The handlers always provided it with a mission briefing and a file containing relevant information.
The Asset knows that there are a variety of sources of information available to the general public. News outlets, for example; which can take the form of paper, digital articles, or television broadcasting. However, the Asset doubts that any pertinent information will be available currently. Hydra’s collapse only just started, and at this point there will likely only be speculation about what exactly is going on. No, it’s best for the Asset to wait at least several hours before pursuing news sources.
The Internet is another valuable resource—at least, the Asset assumes it is, based on what it’s overheard from handlers and scientists. But the Asset has no idea how to utilize such a resource. It could try. It is a very fast learner. But it lacks a computer or other mobile device necessary. Stealing one may attract unwanted attention, and any purchases made would leave a paper trial.
Still, the Asset will likely need to access the Internet at some point. Perhaps…
The Asset shakes its head. All of this thinking is giving it a headache.
(Assets do not think .)
The Asset will worry about the Internet later.
Libraries are a reliable source of information. They are free, easy to use, and open to the public. The Asset thinks it might have had a mission that involved burning down a library once.
But that is irrelevant.
Overall, a library seems to be the best, if not only, option.
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The Asset chooses a library an hour’s walk away, far from the wreckage of the Triskelion. The journey is uncomfortable. Its tac gear is still damp, and the fabric drags harshly against its legs with every step, causing the skin to burn and chafe. The Asset ignores the sensation and keeps walking.
(Assets do not feel discomfort.)
The library it chooses is small, situated in a poorer area of the city. Still, the building is clean and well-kept, and it contains books relevant to the Asset’s search. The Asset hadn’t come in expecting to find anything up-to-date on Hydra—all of that information is likely classified—but it does manage to locate a section on Captain America. The Asset scoops up all the books that appear to be promising and hauls them over to a secluded table.
The books confirm that the Captain did in fact have a friend named James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes. However, this information does nothing to convince the Asset that the Captain was telling the truth about its identity. James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes is described in the book as a loyal, caring individual and an out-going ‘ladies man’. He’d had two sisters that he’d doted upon, a nurturing mother, and he’d been noted as being especially close to his family. He had been a skilled sniper in the Army, but he’d often argued with his Captain over orders. He had been the only Howling Commando to give his life in service to his country. All of the books seemed to agree that James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes had been an all-around good person.
The Asset is not a person.
It is a weapon, a machine, the Fist of Hydra. It is not a person at all, let alone a good one. Even if this crucial fact is overlooked, none of the other information lines up either. The Asset had been created in a lab in Russia. While it is currently stationed in America, it did not originate here. It did not have a mother; it had handlers. The Asset isn’t caring or loyal or outgoing, it just is . It is whatever its handlers need it to be. And while it is true that the Asset is a skilled sniper, it would never argue with a commanding officer.
(Assets do not disobey .)
The Asset is perusing a book on Captain America’s influence on the war when a woman approaches.
She is lean, has dark skin, curly hair, and pushes a cart filled with books. Her name tag reads Angela, and the Asset can not discern any visible or concealed weapons on her person. Still, it tenses, ready to dispatch her at the first sign of a threat.
The woman gives it an impersonal smile as she passes, glancing down at the collection of books it has amassed. “Ah, you’re a big Captain America fan, huh?” Her smile turns more friendly and she leans in closer to the Asset. “I am, too. Have you seen the exhibit down at the Smithsonian? It’s pretty neat, they have his original uniform and everything,” she enthuses.
The Asset tilts its head. An exhibition might offer unique insight on the Captain and his past. It clears its throat, testing out its voice. “Thank you,” it says carefully, “That sounds promising.”
Angela nods, her expression softening as she takes in the Asset’s appearance. “Cool. Also, I’m sorry if this comes across as rude, but there’s a homeless shelter down the street, if you need it. And the library is a nice place to come in and escape the weather—we have books, obviously, but there’s computers open to the public as well. And the bathroom in the back is secluded enough that some folks use it to wash up.”
The Asset deems this information to be useful. It had not known libraries contained computers. It will also likely need to maintain some sense of hygiene in order to blend in with society. Then again, Angela had simply assumed that it is homeless. That could be a useful cover—the homeless are often ignored and overlooked. “Thank you,” it repeats as Angela resumes pushing her cart.
As the Asset begins putting its collection of books away, it works on formulating a new plan based on the intel it had just received. It will need to use one of the library computers to determine the location of the Smithsonian. If the museum is near the Asset’s current location, it may be able to get there before closing time. If not, the Asset will have to wait until it opens again tomorrow.
The Asset hopes it is near. The sooner it gathers the intel it needs, the sooner it can decide what to do and get past this nauseating sensation of uncertainty.
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It is not near. The Smithsonian is on the other side of the city. Further research shows that the museum will be closing in an hour, which will not give the Asset enough time to get there on foot.
It decides that it will head in that direction anyway, so that it can be there bright and early the next day. The wooden chair creaks as the Asset leans back in it, formulating a plan. Once a strategy has been developed, it quickly memorizes the route it will take utilizing the help of a digital map software on the computer.
That done, it logs off of the computer and goes off in search of Angela. The Asset finds her among one of the many rows of shelves, restocking the books from her cart. She looks at it in surprise when it clears its throat, then puts on a friendly smile. “Hi, again. Anything I can help you with?”
The Asset rubs the back of its neck, attempting to behave in a way that would fit the character of a man down on his luck. “Yes, ma’am. Do you happen to know anywhere around here where I might be able to get some clothes? I had more in my bag, but it was stolen…”
It trails off, projecting what it hopes will come across as uncertainty and shame, and Angela is quick to jump in. “Oh, yes! There’s a church two blocks down with supplies available for those in need. It’s called Lady of Saints—big old white building, you can’t miss it. Just speak to Father Mike and he’ll set you up real good. The next service doesn’t start until five, so if you head over now, you should make it before they get busy.”
She quickly rattles off some directions, and once she is done the Asset thanks her. Being polite is important, especially when it comes to women. That fact is ingrained in the Asset somehow, though it certainly hadn’t applied on the few missions it could remember. Perhaps old protocol?
The Asset shakes its head. It doesn’t matter.
It quickly locates the church Angela had spoken of. The Asset carefully scoped out the building beforehand, circling the block several times. It had no reason to believe that this might be a trap, but then again, it had no reason to believe it might not be. Only once its careful inspection yields no reason for concern does the Asset approach. The building itself is slightly rundown, but the interior is bright and inviting. Sun shining through the stained-glass windows paints a mosaic of colors across the wooden pews. An image flashes through the Asset’s mind of a similar building, this one filled with people; the men wearing small caps and the women donning shawls over their heads, small children running about, a man in a suit and strange scarf preaching to the congregation. The Asset deems the image to be irrelevant to the mission, and brushes it aside.
The Asset pokes around the building until it finds a room containing what appears to be a priest. The Asset assumes this must be Father Mike. The man is deeply engrossed in a book, his lips moving as he reads, and the Asset hovers by the door uncertainly. Would it be rude to interrupt? The Asset does not want to risk angering the man by breaking his concentration. Doing so might make him less inclined to give the Asset the resources it needs. With this thought in mind, the Asset decides the best option is to wait until the man is done. It easily shifts into protocol, keeping perfectly still and quiet until acknowledged. The action is familiar—almost calming in the wake of all the uncertainty the Asset has experienced throughout the day.
The Asset remains in position for exactly nine minutes before being noticed. When the priest finally glances up and catches sight of it, he immediately startles. “Dear Lord!” he exclaims, dropping the book to clutch at his chest.
The Asset is alarmed by the reaction. Perhaps he has miscalculated in his approach. Scaring the man had not been the impression the Asset is intending to make.
Before the Asset can formulate a plan to remedy the situation, the man begins to stand. “How long have you been—you know what, never mind.” He offers the Asset a friendly smile, waving a hand dismissively. “Sorry about that, you just gave me a bit of a scare there, son.” The Asset begins to apologize, but the man shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it. I’m Father Mike. What can I do for you?”
The Asset shifts uncertainly, still worried that the man may be angry with it. “I was told you might be able to help me? My bag was stolen, and it had all my clothing and money in it.”
Father Mike accepts the lie easily, his expression taking on a more compassionate note. “I’m sorry to hear that. You came to the right place, though. We’re always willing to help those who need it—more than willing, even.”
As he speaks, he leaves the room, gesturing for the Asset to follow. The Asset diligently does so, and is led to a small storage room. The priest grabs one of the many backpacks piled onto the shelves and hands it to the Asset.
“That there contains some hygiene products, a rain poncho, sunscreen, and other stuff you may be in need of. If there’s something in there you aren’t gonna use, do me a favor and pass it along to someone else in need. There’s also a list of shelters, as well as our contact information.”
He then pulls down a cardboard box, “ large men’s ” scrawled across the side. “Feel free to dig around until you find something you like. Take as much as you need. Now, I have to get back to preparing for mass, but I’ll be in my office if you have any questions. You can stay for mass, if you’d like. If not, well, I wish you luck.”
The Asset thanks him, but the man only smiles and shakes his head. “Like I said, we’re happy to help,” he demurs.
Once the man is gone, the Asset turns its attention to the clothing. It quickly picks out the most practical items—a pack of socks and briefs, a pair of jeans, two grey shirts, and a pair of gloves. It hesitates when it reaches the soft red zip-up fleece jacket.
It is a comfort item. The Asset has no need for another jacket, and the flimsy material would offer little protection from the elements. Not to mention the color—the bright red is certain to draw attention. It is impractical in every way. And yet… the Asset likes it.
(Assets do not have likes .)
It pauses, rooted to the spot in indecision, until it finally breaks and shoves the jacket into the bottom of its bag, along with the rest of the clothing.
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The Asset opts to take a zig-zag route along its journey to the Smithsonian, hoping to throw off any potential tails. It ducks and weaves down different streets and between buildings as it goes, keeping up an unpredictable pattern. It had changed into its new clothes soon after leaving the church, and had spent twenty minutes attempting to tame its hair using the comb it had found in the backpack before giving up. If it is pretending to be homeless, it supposes the state of its hair doesn’t really matter, anyway.
Then again, is the Asset really just pretending? Without Hydra, the Asset has no home. Therefore, technically, the Asset really is homeless, isn’t it?
The thought is disconcerting.
Along the way, the Asset stops by various cafes and bars—anywhere with a television. By now the news outlets are finally reporting some concrete news on today’s disaster, and most local businesses are playing the broadcasts, eager for information. Some patrons watch the footage keenly, expressions of concern on their faces, while others simply carry on about their business, used to calamities that come with living in a world full of superheroes. The Asset pretends to act somewhere in between—curious, but not overly worried about the happenings.
The Asset is only able to stay in each establishment for a limited period of time. It seems that most staff members do not take kindly to a homeless man loitering on their property. This makes it difficult for the Asset to watch full segments of the broadcasts, but it is able to glean some information from what it sees.
As the Asset ducks out of yet another bar, it mentally compiles a list of what it has learned, and what the ramifications are.
One: Pierce is dead. The Asset, used to the coming and going of handlers, feels no remorse. This does, however, leave Hydra without a leader, albeit temporarily.
Two: Captain America is alive. He had reportedly been airlifted to a classified location, presumably to receive treatment. No news yet on the extent of his injuries. The Asset is not sure why it feels relief upon learning this information.
Three: The public knows little about the Winter Soldier, and reporters speculate about its identity, its origin, its whereabouts. Reports have come in from people claiming to have seen a man with a metal arm walking away from the Triskelion, but there is no confirmation of its survival as of yet. The Asset hopes its change in attire will be enough to prevent people from connecting it to the blurry image of a man shown on the screens.
Four: And, perhaps most importantly-- the data dump. An anonymous source has released countless classified files to the public. A great deal of this information is related to Hydra, meaning that by now any active members were likely in hiding, in custody, or dead.
If the Asset had feelings, it would feel disappointed. The intel it has gathered only succeeds in raising more questions. At least now the Asset knows that it needs to stay low, and that attempting to contact Hydra would be pointless at the moment.
The Asset decides to carry on with its plan. It is within blocks of the Smithsonian anyway, there is no reason to turn back now.
⭑ ⭑ ⍟ ⭑ ⭑
Infiltrating the Smithsonian is easier than the Asset had expected. It had thoroughly scoped out the building the night before, and had then spent thirty minutes after the doors had opened for the day observing the comings and goings of the visitors. There is no entrance fee, so once the Asset ensures the situation is safe, it’s able to simply walk right in — though it does have to sneak past the metal detectors.
The Asset takes its time prowling the displays, soaking in all the information it can. It has already learned a lot from the reading it had done yesterday, but the visuals are helpful. When it reaches the memorial display for James Buchanan Barnes, it pauses. An image of the man stares back at it.
The Asset stares at the image, then shifts the focus of its eyes to instead take in its own reflection on the shiny black surface. It repeats the process several times, cataloguing key details and features. The resemblance is uncanny. The Asset’s face is remarkably similar to that of James Buchanan Barnes, but at the same time, also remarkably different. James Buchanan Barnes’ face holds life. There are crinkles around his eyes that hold a sort of vibrance. There is a hint of a smile tugging on soft lips. There is color, visible even in black and white, lingering underneath smooth cheeks. There is a sense of life within the man.
The Asset, in comparison, looks dead.
And why wouldn’t it? The Asset isn’t truly a living thing, not really. It’s a machine. Yes, it bleeds and breathes and bruises, but it is not human, it is not alive. It just is.
It tears its eyes away from its reflection, instead focusing on the writing. The focus seems to be more on this man’s friendship with Captain America than on the man himself. Again, none of the information listed is new, so the Asset turns its attention back to the rest of the room.
It can’t help but notice the fact that the suit the Captain is wearing in the pictures matches what the Captain had been wearing on the Helicarrier, and that the display meant to hold the original suit is missing the mannequin, a small sign in its place apologizing for the inconvenience. Had the Captain taken the suit? Why? Surely there are other, better-made suits available to him.
The Asset shakes its head. It rarely ever understands the motivation behind humans’ actions.
It isn’t long after that the Asset finds the small section dedicated to the Captain’s life before the war. A screen shows the drastic difference in size between the Captain before and after the serum, and next to it is a picture from his recruitment file, his face small but his expression defiant, a cut on his lower lip, blond hair flopping into his eyes. The Asset stares at the image, captivated, and is struck by a sharp throbbing in its head. Outwardly, the Asset shows no sign of the pain other than a small wince. It brushes the occurrence off as the lingering aftermath from the fight the previous day, and shifts its attention to the rest of the display.
The text on the walls talks about the Captain’s early life; the struggle of growing up during the Depression, the constant scuffles and fights, the pain of losing his mother at a young age. There is a list chronicling the many health issues that Captain had endured before the serum, emphasizing that it was a miracle that the man had ever survived twenty years, let alone seventy. Various podiums hold belongings that had reportedly belonged to the Captain. A small pair of shoes, worn down with holes in the bottom. A leather satchel, cracked and faded in places, but obviously well cared for. A beat-up sketchbook, open to show a lifelike charcoal rendition of a collection of vases.
As the Asset looks at the drawing, an image flashes before its eyes. A bathtub with a piece of plywood over it, holding that same collection of vases, a small man with black smudges on his fingers and face perched in a chair, studiously recreating each and every detail.
The Asset blinks, startled, but before it can dwell on the implications the throbbing pain in its head returns.
And the pain keeps returning. The longer the Asset lingers in the building, taking in the displays and information, the worse and more frequent the pain becomes.
The worst of it comes while the Asset is watching a film reel, the screen replaying a clip of the Captain and James Buchanan Barnes leaning against each other, laughing, huge smiles stretched across their faces. This time the pain is so intense that the Asset bends over for a moment, clutching its head as nausea rushes through its body.
It regains control of itself quickly, straightening as its eyes scan the room for threats. It spots none. No one is even looking its way.
Dread begins to swell in the Asset’s stomach. There is no reason for its body to be reacting this way. Any head injury it had sustained the previous day should be healed by now, and the Asset would have noticed it before. Had it been poisoned? Impossible—it hadn’t consumed anything since it had been deployed on its doomed mission. Unless, of course, someone is releasing a toxin into the air…
The Asset’s shoulders tense. It makes its way outside as quickly as it dares without raising attention, then immediately ducks into a nearby alleyway. It scales the wall and moves swiftly and silently, jumping from rooftop to rooftop until it feels it’s an adequate distance away, then takes back to the streets, making unpredictable turns as it goes, continually checking for pursuers.
It gets over a mile away before it finally collapses against the wall next to a dumpster, its breaths coming in fast and ragged with panic. It is then that it suddenly realizes how foolish it is being, how stupid. There are no pursuers. There had never been a threat in the first place. The Asset had been in a building full of people, if the air had been poisoned then everyone around it would have been affected as well. To overlook such a key detail was inexcusable.
It is possible the Asset is malfunctioning.
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The Asset is definitely experiencing some type of malfunction.
Early on in the week the Asset had experienced other issues: rapid heartbeat, stomach cramps, nausea, fatigue. It had been worried at first, but about four days ago it had realized that it should try drinking something. Previously, the Asset had only been allowed water on special, long-term solo missions—typically it received all the fluid it needed intravenously. But considering its lack of access to those, drinking water would have to suffice.
And it does. Almost all of its symptoms have either lessened significantly or disappeared entirely. They are not the reason the Asset is currently concerned.
It is the headaches.
It had been an entire week since the fight on the Helicarrier, and the headaches show no sign of diminishing, no matter how much water the Asset drinks. If anything, they are becoming more frequent. The severity and timing vary, but the Asset notices they only seem to occur when it is researching the Captain.
The Asset brushes this off as a coincidence. Yes, it is true that Hydra may have implanted a code that will invoke pain in response to the Asset learning about the man. Similar coding had been enforced in the past to prevent the Asset from considering defiance. But there is no reason the Asset can think of for them to have done so. Why prevent it from gaining intel on one of its targets? To do so seems counterproductive.
No, the pain must be a result of something else. A more likely explanation is that the pain is wired to occur when the Asset has been away from Hydra for too long, as is the case currently, in order to encourage the Asset to return. But the Asset can’t return, not now, not with Hydra in shambles. Granted, it hasn’t actually put much effort, or even thought, into the possibility of returning, but still… Something in the Asset just knows that it can’t go back. Not yet.
Besides, it has a mission to complete.
The Asset has spent the previous days honing its intel gathering skills. It had returned to the Smithsonian once more, but the information provided there is lacking, and the Asset instead finds itself using a more broad—albeit less reliable—resource: the Internet.
The Internet contains more data than the Asset could ever hope to memorize, and proves to be a valuable tool when it comes to searching specifics. It has taken the Asset several hours to become adept at navigating such a resource, but it is remarkably easier than it had feared. The fact it is easily accessed via most public libraries means the Asset has no problems finding a way to use it. That anyone can use such a tool for free is astounding to the Asset, but it is certainly to its benefit.
The Asset spends countless hours hunched in front of computer screens, jotting down any pertinent information in the notepad that it has found included in its bag.
Still, there is only so much that can be learned through reading. The Smithsonian had at least offered visuals, something concrete rather than just abstract words, but the Asset has learned all it can from there. The Asset doubts there is another such museum with up-to-date information on Hydra—not when the public has only just rediscovered its existence. The closest the Asset can hope to get to that is by visiting Hydra bases, but doing so would be too large a risk. All the bases it can locate online are likely to be monitored by government forces, and the Asset can’t be certain the few bases it knows from memory haven’t been sieged as well. Not to mention the fact that the most established bases are overseas, and the Asset currently has no means of traveling there.
The Asset is at an impasse, unsure where to go next, when it spots the headline: Captain America Released from Hospital; Spotted Jogging in Brooklyn Bridge Park. It had been posted three hours ago.
The Asset clicks on the link.
The article includes a blurry image, obviously taken by a sharp-eyed fan, of Captain Rogers decked out in running gear mid-jog. Another shows him guzzling from a water bottle. The images don’t hold much substance, but they are enough to serve as proof that the Captain has recovered and is currently in Brooklyn.
Further investigation reveals no further sightings as of yet, but more are sure to come with the Captain being out and about. Considering the public’s current interest in all things relating to the Triskelion attack, it is unlikely that the Captain will be able to go anywhere for the next week or so without being photographed.
The Asset chews on its lower lip, an idea forming in its mind. If it wants solid intel on the Captain, what better way to gain it than straight from the source?
Not wanting to waste even a minute, the Asset turns off the computer and gets to its feet, scooping up its backpack before exiting the library for the last time.
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