How They Make You a Weapon (9/?)
written for this prompt :
Lovingly detailed dark!fic about the process by which Hydra turned Bucky into the Winter Soldier.
warnings: violence, canon character death, second person POV
characters: The Winter Soldier, Alexander Pierce
word-count: ~1,100 words this chapter
read on AO3 | read from beginning on LJ
chapter 8
"Go wait for him inside," you're told.
The Secretary of Defense lives in a large house surrounded by an even larger, manicured lawn. The outer wall of the estate is covered in cameras, slow-moving and easy to evade. There's a latticework of motion detection sensors covering the grounds. Your multi-spectrum goggles show you exactly where they are. It takes you less than five seconds to determine the pattern and adjust your approach accordingly.
Entering the house itself poses no problem. The security system inside is already disengaged, and the only two occupants are the Secretary himself, second floor, fourth window on the right, putting on a robe, and a woman with a feather duster in the dining room.
The sliding glass door that leads to the living room is locked; your silver fingers break through the hard plastic to the metal latch underneath. The lock snicks open and you step inside.
You take a left, heading towards the darkened kitchen, and pause when the woman walks past. She stops by a large closet in the hallway, opens the door and arches her back, yawning softly, before she hangs the feather duster above a pail. You make your way to the kitchen where you sit and wait.
Mr. Pierce doesn't keep you waiting long. You hear his padded footsteps as he comes down the curving staircase, watch him as he walks into the room. He heads straight for the refrigerator and grabs a container of milk. It's only then, when he turns to face the table, that he notices you and your gun.
Unless on guard duty, always disarm in Secretary Pierce's presence. The rule was replayed for you twenty-nine times on the trip here, along with other safety precautions.
"I'm going to go, Mr. Pierce," says the woman's voice from the hall.
Pierce flinches.
"Do you need anything before I leave?" she asks.
"No. It's fine, Renata, you can go home." He's nervous, uneasy. Unusual for him, you think, but then you only remember what they want you to.
"Okay, night-night." Her keys rustle and her soft footsteps are nearly silent on the marble floor of the foyer.
"Good night." Pierce swallows again, shifts his weight. "Want some milk?" He turns his back to you, grabs a glass from the cabinet
You were fed before they sent you out. Two bottles of protein, sugar and vitamins, everything you need to sustain you.
Pierce pours himself milk, but keeps his eyes on you. "The timetable has moved. Our window is limited." He takes a sip, never taking his eyes off of you, and walks around the counter until he's across the table. "Two targets, level six. They already cost me Zola."
The name Zola means nothing to you.
"I want confirmed death in ten hours," Pierce says. He doesn't notice the muted sound of rubber-soled shoes behind him.
You look over his shoulder as Renata comes back into view.
"Sorry, Mr. Pierce, I…" she catches sight of you and stops walking. Swallows. "I forgot my phone."
Pierce turns around to look at her. "Oh Renata," he reaches for your gun. "I wish you would've knocked." He turns in his seat, aims the gun and shoots her twice in the chest. She staggers back with her hands raised, terrified, and falls near the glass wall, just across from the large black, grand piano.
Her hand claws ineffectively against the polished floor as blood seeps out of the bullet holes in her middle. It takes less than a minute for her to stop moving. The bullets are both stuck in the living room walls. One in the paneled, white wood next to the bookshelf, the other just to the side of the sliding door. A snapped neck would have been cleaner.
Pierce turns his attention back to you. "The targets: Steve Rogers and Natasha Romanoff. Both formerly loyal to S.H.I.E.L.D."
The names skitter to the back of your mind and scratch at the lid of the lockbox. You leave it closed.
"They're well trained, highly skilled. They've eliminated dozens of our operatives over the years."
You wonder if you're supposed to react to that. You don't.
"Discretion is not a priority. Their deaths are."
You note the slight twitch in his jaw, the sheen of sweat on his brow. He's agitated. Looks at you like he's expecting something. A question maybe, or a response.
"Yes, sir," you say, recalling that as the best answer.
"You'll receive the data file upload at your next maintenance session." Pierce stands up and grabs the phone from the cradle on the kitchen counter. He dials a number, says, "Get in here."
The proximity monitor in your arm vibrates as your escort team approaches the house. There's a sharp beep from the alarm system mounted to the wall in the living room. Pierce scoffs and pushes a button on the control panel, then opens the sliding door. Four Hydra soldiers jog across the lawn, file inside, and form a neat little row.
Pierce nods down at the woman's corpse, at the widening pool of blood on the floor. "Clean that up."
"Yes, sir," says Rumlow.
The rest of the team gets to work, and Pierce walks back into the kitchen. "We're done here," he says before turning to head back up the stairs.
You retrieve your gun, holster it, and walk to the sliding door. Rumlow looks up briefly as you pass, meets your eyes, but doesn't say a word. The others don't acknowledge you.
***
The transport van waits for you behind Secretary Pierce's estate. At your approach, the rear door opens.
You climb in and sit on the thin metal bench. Guards close shackles around your ankles and arms -- two-tiered hexagonal cylinders of adamantium spanning from wrists to elbows that keep even your left arm locked down. Safety precaution, better than a seatbelt, Rumlow had said earlier on the way over.
The soldiers move to the far end of the opposite bench, close to the door. Directly across from you, at eye-level, is a small screen. It turns on, and plays the same footage you watched on the ride here, with new data mixed in: Hydra's credo, its senior personnel and their rankings, blueprints of the next facility they're bringing you to. The blueprints show you the rooms you have access to, highlighted in green. The rest of the compound is greyed out. Four green squares on a crooked checkerboard.
Concealed base NAC12. First National Bank, basement level. Enter and exit via the following sectors only: Utility Stairwell D, Parking Garage Level B -- Security Access Corridor. Deep cover Hydra operatives stationed at this base are as follows...
***
chapter 10
Lovingly detailed dark!fic about the process by which Hydra turned Bucky into the Winter Soldier.
warnings: violence, canon character death, second person POV
characters: The Winter Soldier, Alexander Pierce
word-count: ~1,100 words this chapter
read on AO3 | read from beginning on LJ
chapter 8
"Go wait for him inside," you're told.
The Secretary of Defense lives in a large house surrounded by an even larger, manicured lawn. The outer wall of the estate is covered in cameras, slow-moving and easy to evade. There's a latticework of motion detection sensors covering the grounds. Your multi-spectrum goggles show you exactly where they are. It takes you less than five seconds to determine the pattern and adjust your approach accordingly.
Entering the house itself poses no problem. The security system inside is already disengaged, and the only two occupants are the Secretary himself, second floor, fourth window on the right, putting on a robe, and a woman with a feather duster in the dining room.
The sliding glass door that leads to the living room is locked; your silver fingers break through the hard plastic to the metal latch underneath. The lock snicks open and you step inside.
You take a left, heading towards the darkened kitchen, and pause when the woman walks past. She stops by a large closet in the hallway, opens the door and arches her back, yawning softly, before she hangs the feather duster above a pail. You make your way to the kitchen where you sit and wait.
Mr. Pierce doesn't keep you waiting long. You hear his padded footsteps as he comes down the curving staircase, watch him as he walks into the room. He heads straight for the refrigerator and grabs a container of milk. It's only then, when he turns to face the table, that he notices you and your gun.
Unless on guard duty, always disarm in Secretary Pierce's presence. The rule was replayed for you twenty-nine times on the trip here, along with other safety precautions.
"I'm going to go, Mr. Pierce," says the woman's voice from the hall.
Pierce flinches.
"Do you need anything before I leave?" she asks.
"No. It's fine, Renata, you can go home." He's nervous, uneasy. Unusual for him, you think, but then you only remember what they want you to.
"Okay, night-night." Her keys rustle and her soft footsteps are nearly silent on the marble floor of the foyer.
"Good night." Pierce swallows again, shifts his weight. "Want some milk?" He turns his back to you, grabs a glass from the cabinet
You were fed before they sent you out. Two bottles of protein, sugar and vitamins, everything you need to sustain you.
Pierce pours himself milk, but keeps his eyes on you. "The timetable has moved. Our window is limited." He takes a sip, never taking his eyes off of you, and walks around the counter until he's across the table. "Two targets, level six. They already cost me Zola."
The name Zola means nothing to you.
"I want confirmed death in ten hours," Pierce says. He doesn't notice the muted sound of rubber-soled shoes behind him.
You look over his shoulder as Renata comes back into view.
"Sorry, Mr. Pierce, I…" she catches sight of you and stops walking. Swallows. "I forgot my phone."
Pierce turns around to look at her. "Oh Renata," he reaches for your gun. "I wish you would've knocked." He turns in his seat, aims the gun and shoots her twice in the chest. She staggers back with her hands raised, terrified, and falls near the glass wall, just across from the large black, grand piano.
Her hand claws ineffectively against the polished floor as blood seeps out of the bullet holes in her middle. It takes less than a minute for her to stop moving. The bullets are both stuck in the living room walls. One in the paneled, white wood next to the bookshelf, the other just to the side of the sliding door. A snapped neck would have been cleaner.
Pierce turns his attention back to you. "The targets: Steve Rogers and Natasha Romanoff. Both formerly loyal to S.H.I.E.L.D."
The names skitter to the back of your mind and scratch at the lid of the lockbox. You leave it closed.
"They're well trained, highly skilled. They've eliminated dozens of our operatives over the years."
You wonder if you're supposed to react to that. You don't.
"Discretion is not a priority. Their deaths are."
You note the slight twitch in his jaw, the sheen of sweat on his brow. He's agitated. Looks at you like he's expecting something. A question maybe, or a response.
"Yes, sir," you say, recalling that as the best answer.
"You'll receive the data file upload at your next maintenance session." Pierce stands up and grabs the phone from the cradle on the kitchen counter. He dials a number, says, "Get in here."
The proximity monitor in your arm vibrates as your escort team approaches the house. There's a sharp beep from the alarm system mounted to the wall in the living room. Pierce scoffs and pushes a button on the control panel, then opens the sliding door. Four Hydra soldiers jog across the lawn, file inside, and form a neat little row.
Pierce nods down at the woman's corpse, at the widening pool of blood on the floor. "Clean that up."
"Yes, sir," says Rumlow.
The rest of the team gets to work, and Pierce walks back into the kitchen. "We're done here," he says before turning to head back up the stairs.
You retrieve your gun, holster it, and walk to the sliding door. Rumlow looks up briefly as you pass, meets your eyes, but doesn't say a word. The others don't acknowledge you.
***
The transport van waits for you behind Secretary Pierce's estate. At your approach, the rear door opens.
You climb in and sit on the thin metal bench. Guards close shackles around your ankles and arms -- two-tiered hexagonal cylinders of adamantium spanning from wrists to elbows that keep even your left arm locked down. Safety precaution, better than a seatbelt, Rumlow had said earlier on the way over.
The soldiers move to the far end of the opposite bench, close to the door. Directly across from you, at eye-level, is a small screen. It turns on, and plays the same footage you watched on the ride here, with new data mixed in: Hydra's credo, its senior personnel and their rankings, blueprints of the next facility they're bringing you to. The blueprints show you the rooms you have access to, highlighted in green. The rest of the compound is greyed out. Four green squares on a crooked checkerboard.
Concealed base NAC12. First National Bank, basement level. Enter and exit via the following sectors only: Utility Stairwell D, Parking Garage Level B -- Security Access Corridor. Deep cover Hydra operatives stationed at this base are as follows...
***
chapter 10