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trash post trash possst
[ The deeper he goes into this, the more he feels like he might not be making the correct decision. The world needs shaped, HYDRA is right about that much, but he'd spent much of his younger years, hell, even his childhood thinking that the world could be shaped not with force, with weapons, but with people. It was, of course, true, just not in the way he'd anticipated. The world was shaped by fear, by cowards too afraid to take a step, to do something that they needed to.
He didn't need HYDRA to rise up in the ranks, didn't need them to supplement him or to pull strings to get him to where he needed to go; he could do that all on his own. It was what brought him here, he thinks, it's what he's being called down to the meeting for. Zola's work is known, of course, whispered about by those who care for idle gossip. Pierce doesn't care much for it, but he filters it away, because people tend to talk when they think you aren't listening and there's valid, useful information to have there.
Pierce takes the elevator down, steps into the meeting room. Of all the things he expects, this is not one of them. There's a certain amount to be said for being rewarded for performing well. HYDRA doesn't do rewards in the typical sense, but proving your worth has its merits and HYDRA doesn't forget that. When it's all said and done, he withholds his disbelief; HYDRA has no reason to lie to him and after everything he's seen, well, it's not unreasonable to expect that this might be accurate.
They give him free reign with the asset; he'll follow orders, Russian, German or English, with a few more mixed in. It's a test, when Zola offers him the gun, eyebrows raised, a mean little twist to his lips. Is he so insecure that he believes he needs a weapon to deal with the weapon? Fear is worthless here; Pierce sees it for what it is, and tilts his head, murmuring I'm quite sure I can handle myself, Doctor and straightens his shoulders, heading in the room.
He'd always had dogs when he was younger - big ones, floppy ears, eager to please. He has one now, barely two years old, trained with the slightest gestures. If this is really as HYDRA says, he's inclined to believe that getting the asset to follow his orders won't be unlike training a dog. He's no fool; he recognizes the use of it, even if there's a small part of him that objects (he's a hero, a national goddamn hero) but when Pierce looks at him on the lab table, skin visibly chilled from cryo, he realizes there likely isn't much left. He doesn't look like James Buchanan Barnes, gaunt and pale, hair stringy with the left over liquid inside the tube.
Pierce takes three more steps over and stands just shy of arm's length, watching the other man - no, the asset, quietly, posture non-threatening, but still directly over him, in his line of sight. ]
Do you know where you are?
He didn't need HYDRA to rise up in the ranks, didn't need them to supplement him or to pull strings to get him to where he needed to go; he could do that all on his own. It was what brought him here, he thinks, it's what he's being called down to the meeting for. Zola's work is known, of course, whispered about by those who care for idle gossip. Pierce doesn't care much for it, but he filters it away, because people tend to talk when they think you aren't listening and there's valid, useful information to have there.
Pierce takes the elevator down, steps into the meeting room. Of all the things he expects, this is not one of them. There's a certain amount to be said for being rewarded for performing well. HYDRA doesn't do rewards in the typical sense, but proving your worth has its merits and HYDRA doesn't forget that. When it's all said and done, he withholds his disbelief; HYDRA has no reason to lie to him and after everything he's seen, well, it's not unreasonable to expect that this might be accurate.
They give him free reign with the asset; he'll follow orders, Russian, German or English, with a few more mixed in. It's a test, when Zola offers him the gun, eyebrows raised, a mean little twist to his lips. Is he so insecure that he believes he needs a weapon to deal with the weapon? Fear is worthless here; Pierce sees it for what it is, and tilts his head, murmuring I'm quite sure I can handle myself, Doctor and straightens his shoulders, heading in the room.
He'd always had dogs when he was younger - big ones, floppy ears, eager to please. He has one now, barely two years old, trained with the slightest gestures. If this is really as HYDRA says, he's inclined to believe that getting the asset to follow his orders won't be unlike training a dog. He's no fool; he recognizes the use of it, even if there's a small part of him that objects (he's a hero, a national goddamn hero) but when Pierce looks at him on the lab table, skin visibly chilled from cryo, he realizes there likely isn't much left. He doesn't look like James Buchanan Barnes, gaunt and pale, hair stringy with the left over liquid inside the tube.
Pierce takes three more steps over and stands just shy of arm's length, watching the other man - no, the asset, quietly, posture non-threatening, but still directly over him, in his line of sight. ]
Do you know where you are?
no subject
The gradual warmth seeped through his skin into his muscles which began to twitch and tremble and further still into his bones. This gradual change to his core temperature was also something that he intrinsically recognized as part of his preparation to be either trained with new weapons, techniques and people or he would be dispatched on a new objective. Shaping the world they told him, but words were meaningless to him because words were stolen when the hot pain came. He still knew the words, knew the language, but he put so little stock in them that it was almost ignoring them. He was a weapon forged for action.
While he heard the door open to his right, his blue eyes still stared with unerring focus on the ceiling, his muscles causing him to shiver violently against the cold table. It was only when a man came into his vision at the corner of his eye that slowly his gaze shifted to take the man in, noting the distance between them, the stance, the appearance, the bearing. He didn't recognize this man, but then, he didn't recognize anyone though a slight shiver of familiarity had his eyebrows drawing slightly together.
This was not a man who stood in weakness. The position of the head, the set of the shoulder, the casual stance and the eyes that watched him... none of it spoke of weakness and so he was not to eliminate the man. He flicked over the appearance before turning his head to stare at the ceiling again.]
Yes. A table in a room with my sleeping quarters in the top left corner. [His cryo chamber. He didn't know where he was, but it didn't matter. He would be taken to where he needed to go.]
no subject
Well, you're not wrong.
[ It's a bare bones explaintion but again, not an incorrect one. His hands slide into his pockets, watching the asset carefully. This is the difficult part; the asset is a tool, Zola had made that very, very clear. He's to be used, he's to take instructions, and he doesn't need coddling, but there's a certain level of trust that Pierce knows needs built.
They wipe him more often than not, which seems a waste. You don't train a pet and then wait until they forget to train them again; it's wasteful. Convenient in some aspects, here, but still wasteful.
Pierce surveys him a moment longer, decision made and gestures to the ground. They have plenty of time before the mission and the asset doesn't take long to debrief; better to do this now, to cement his trust in his handler. ]
Can you get up?
no subject
His eyes blinked slowly but readily, his body warming gradually as it had to right now. He had to do it himself to bring his flesh up to full speed, to be completely functional and adaptable to any temperature change that he was endure on his mission objective.
Could he get up? Of course. Was he ordered to get up? His eyes flicked to cast the motion of the hand before glancing up at the face. The words are not an order, but motion, action was. He was a weapon designed for action.
Slowly, he pushed himself up with his hands and swung his trembling legs off the table so he could settle his feet. He flexed his toes as any normal human would but only to test his balance before he pushed off the table complete and came to stand upright, trembling but functional.]
no subject
Pierce's lips purse a moment, looking him over. He's not fit for battle or anything of the sort and while he hardly cuts an imposing figure like this, he knows looks are deceiving. ]
How much time does it take for you to become fully operational after being woken?
[ Pierce's eyes flick back to the scientists who aren't paying him any mind, too busy scurrying, whispering among themselves over this and that. There's likely a process to being woken up, but it doesn't matter much if they wipe him every time before that. He'll have to change that; routine, clear boundaries, to make sure the asset understands where this goes. ]
no subject
Thirty minutes.
[He was fully operational now regardless of the imagine that he set. He could kill with an order and his mind was sharp and having quickly shaken off the effects of cryo, faster than his body anyway.
The scientists didn't speak to him in such a way save one. Only handlers spoke to him, though there was nothing in the way of the usual familiar sensation of knowing a handler in this man. He paid little mind to it; there was no weakness in this man and so he would listen to the authority. Scientists were weak; he had no time to waste on weakness.]
no subject
Rinse and report back when you're finished.
[ Perception is important - with HYDRA, with politicians, with everyone he meets. It's why he turns his back on the soldier, dares to expose himself like that, like the asset isn't capable of taking him down if he wants to. There's a certain amount of invulnerability that he knows he has, here. The assets needs to know that there's only so much power he has, that Pierce isn't afraid of him, when it's clear in the faces of the scientists that they are.
He makes his way back, murmuring to one of them that he needs the asset's outfit, and once it's fetched, it's left waiting on the table for him to dress in. ]
no subject
He shifted away, his bare feet moving silently on the floor as he entered the showers and the deluge of water - it was cold for him, a comfort - poured over him, forcing the rest of the chemicals and lingering effects of cryo off of his skin. The water heats just a bit at the end to encourage his body temperature to equalize. He simply stood in the water until the flow was cut off, releasing him from the timed wash down.
He padded as soundlessly from the shower as he had entered it, dripping wet and making a puddle where he stopped by the towel. The scientists insisted on wiping him down to create some sense of helplessness in him, to affirm the idea that he needed them to perform even the most menial of tasks. He looked slowly to the new handler as he was approached with a towel.]
no subject
There is some quick conversation about maintaining him, about ensuring they have a well kept tool, and Pierce comes back with a towel in hand, the nudity not phasing him. ]
Right arm.
[ It doesn't take a genius to see the appeal of keeping him dependent; if it doesn't think for itself, then it doesn't get ideas about leaving, about doing anything, about deviating from its instructions. ]
no subject
He held out his right arm silently, watching the man in front of him, taking the man's measure again. Again, no weakness, not in gaze, not in bearing, not in appearance. He held himself on the equivalent of stand-by mode, waiting for a debriefing or an order that would require his input or action.]
LMAO WHOOPS
He works through drying the rest of him and once he reaches the last leg, he wonders if they dress him, too. It seems a touch ridiculous; he's dependent on them for so much already, and if he's injured in the field or sustains some sort of damage, they don't want him waiting for some sort of permission to change.
The towel gets tossed aside for the moment and Pierce glances over. ]
I assume you're able to dress yourself?
:|
He blinked his eyes as affirmative to the question. He could do anything that he was ordered, and he would.
When permission was indicated, he moved and slid effectively into the uniform that had been provided, not wasting any motion in doing so. His metal fingers worked as easily as his flesh ones on buckles, buttons and zippers as he suited himself up, his holsters and knife sheathes empty for the time being. He was no provided weapons in the lab; his metal arm was enough of a danger to the scientists as it was when he was provoked to use it.
His half mask, so much like a muzzle, was slipped on the lower half of his face and his goggles settled through a beltloop for the time being.]
no subject
Pierce watches him move, watches him dress efficiently, and rolls all of this over in his mind. This is wrong; that much he knows. Barnes is a soldier and Pierce recognizes that, but there's little chance that he would even respond to the name, now. Morals wouldn't do much good here, they won't get the mission completed.
The uniform is a little ridiculous, perhaps. He doesn't think it's entirely unnecessary, but still, a little overkill given the tasks in front of him, but perhaps it's necessary. He doesn't question it for the time being, simply leading the asset up and out of the room and into a debriefing room. He wouldn't operate like normal operatives, of that much Pierce was certain. Instead, he provides him with the full scope of the mission - the location, the coordinates, travel, and exact parameters with which he's supposed to operate. If this is a test for both of them, well, he fully intends the asset to pass. ]
no subject
He followed at the man's elbow, his steps silent despite his boots on the cement. The debriefing room registered in a similar way as the training room did, catching his attention in a certain way as his focus sharpened to draw in the details of the mission, drinking the information provided and easily memorizing it to go over as it was needed. His blue eyes were the only thing that moved as he took in the maps and the time frame and the set objective for this.
It was an assassination mission, generally the most common that he was sent on. Thugs and mercenaries could poison wells, beat up innocents and place car bombs. His specialty would always be slipping in and out, though this, like so many others, had to appear as a natural death. A man and his wife. Beyond that, the details of their identities were meaningless to him.]