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?