Chapter Text
He was trembling. Not mission compliant. The pen slipped a little bit in his fingers, and he grasped it tighter and pressed it to the paper. The splotch of ink grew unsteadily. The Asset's hands never shook.
Someone else's hands did. Not him, not the Asset.
THINGS TO REMEMBER
He could not remember. He put the pen down gently and took another swig of his drink, blinking stonily at the empty page. You must remember something, the Asset told himself. Clink of glass all around him, civilians murmuring comforting sounds at each other. Laughter, people-sounds, civilian-sounds. Irrelevant noise. He couldn't remember anything.
The paper stared back at him.
"You doing okay, man?" The bartender slid easily to the end where he sat.
He ran a hand self-consciously through his mane of hair. Too long. He'd have to remember to get it cut soon. Remember. Cut. He snatched the pen up and scrawled hurriedly, as if the thought would vanish the next instant, like a bolt of lightning passing through his brain.
THINGS TO REMEMBER
CUT HAIR
He set his pen down in satisfaction, then looked up. The bartender was looking at him expectantly, his eyebrows raised. The Asset cleared his throat. He hadn't spoken in days. The back of his throat tasted of cheap bourbon and seawater.
"Sorry. Yes." He tried to look sorry and okay. "I'm okay."
The bartender flashed a quick smile and nodded at the book on the table. "You a writer or something? What 'cha working on there?"
"No, just trying to." He paused, then worked his mouth hesitantly. The muscles of his face were stiff from disuse. He tilted the book away from the bartender, ashamed of its lack of content. "You ever feel like. There's something you really need to remember."
"Mostly when I'm on the job," the bartender shook his head and huffed out a laugh, then leveled him a concerned gaze. "You look like you're having a rough night."
"Actually. I haven't felt. This great. In a long time."
"That's... good," the bartender drawled, frowning slightly, as if he didn't believe what the Asset was saying. "Well, if you need a little pick-me-up, you know what they say - "
"Who." He cut in, a little sharply. Was it HYDRA? They had to be looking for him. He was supposed to report in after the mission. Even if it was mission failure. But he hadn't, and he didn't want to. He tried not to think about how badly they would punish him if they caught him. He tried not to think of THE CHAIR. He did, however, think about what Rumlow must be doing now. He wouldn't be happy with the Asset for not coming in.
The bartender raised his palms as if surrendering, leaning backwards a bit. " - I mean, it's kinda just what I like to say. Like, when I'm feeling down in the fucking dumps. You know where I go?"
"Where."
A toothy grin spread across the bartender's face. "Disneyland, motherfucker."
It was clear that he was expected to laugh in response, though he didn't get the joke. The Asset let loose a low chuckle anyway, nodded an affirmative, and downed the rest of his glass like a salute. The man didn't move away.
"I'm Oliver." His face was young and bright, and he had a gap between his front teeth. His eyes were not blue. Narrow, sloping shoulders. Small wrists. Not everyone is a threat.
"Noted." He picked up his pen again.
THINGS TO REMEMBER
CUT HAIR
OLIVER THREAT NEGATIVE
DISNEYLAND MOTHERFUCKER
Oliver's gaze was open and expectant. He was waiting for a response. Exchange pleasantries. What is your name?
Asset, you have no name.
Fuck you too, HYDRA. "Nikolai." The name pushed past the Asset's reluctant lips before he could stop it, but he hid his cringe well. It was a name. It would serve.
"Wow, exotic! Cool, cool." he added hurriedly. "Nice to meet you, Nikolai. Well, if you need anything else, you know where to find me." Sloppy wink, then he slid away.
The Asset let out a slow, controlled breath, and rolled the pen once between his flesh fingers.
Ivan? The red woman. She lay in red red sand.
Your name is James Buchanan Barnes. The man on the bridge. His eyes were blue.
He blinked rapidly and scrubbed distractedly at his face. It didn't matter anymore. Names were trivial, could be changed. Nikolai would serve.
THINGS TO REMEMBER
CUT HAIR
OLIVER THREAT NEGATIVE
DISNEYLAND MOTHERFUCKER
CALL YOURSELF NIKOLAI
He surveyed the short list, then nodded to himself. It's a start.
---
"I've heard stories about you."
That was the first thing Nikolai had said to him, after he had sat down and gazed calculatingly at him for a minute. His voice was a gentle murmur.
"What do I call you?"
"I am the Asset." Then, out of habit, "Ready to comply."
"Thank you, Asset," Nikolai's lips curved upwards slightly. His shoulders were relaxed and stooped with age, and his eyes seemed to be permanently crinkled. It was not a young face. It was a pleasant face. The Asset gazed straight ahead. Some handlers did not like direct eye contact.
"I'm Nikolai, and I'm your new tutor."
"Request permission to speak."
"Yes, of course."
"Where is the other tutor."
"I'm... not at liberty to disclose," Nikolai admitted. He looked sad. There was a deep line in the middle of his forehead that deepened a little more. "I hope that doesn't upset you."
It wasn't a question. The Asset gazed straight ahead.
"Were you fond of your old tutor?"
The Asset was confused. It was an odd question to ask, and he could not see the relevance it had to his learning.
"He taught me how to speak Russian, and Mathematics. He fulfilled his purpose." He did not mention the other things the tutor had fulfilled. The things that made bile rise in his throat, the things he had to do when the tutor felt he was not learning quickly enough. Unimportant. Remember your mission.
"I see," Nikolai said softly. "I've been tasked to ease you into the new century, for your upcoming mission in London. From what I've heard, you haven't been briefed about current affairs since 1989."
"Request permission to speak."
"Yes, of course."
"What year is it now."
"2002."
The Asset nodded. "Cultural update would be necessary."
"It would," Nikolai agreed.
Nikolai turned out to be his favourite tutor, though he would never admit that to anyone in any circumstance. The Asset wasn't allowed to have favourites, but Nikolai was different. In the little room, Nikolai wasn't just a tutor or a handler. In the little room, Nikolai made him tea and hid poems and books for the Asset to find.
The Asset called it the little room in his head because it was small, and because there was nothing else in it. It made sense.
The Asset devoured these books as if they would disappear if he didn't read them quickly enough. Sometimes they did disappear before he could finish them, in between learning sessions. The first time it happened, he was almost surprised. Then he wasn't. He was no stranger to surprises by then, pleasant or no.
He had been reading a play called Macbeth, by a man called William Shakespeare. He enjoyed it. Macbeth had to kill a fair few people, just like him. He didn't really want to do it, just like him. He did it anyway, just like him. They would have made good comrades. He secretly looked forward to finishing it the following day. Was it worth it, Macbeth? Did you achieve your goal?
When he came into the little room the next day, a new book had replaced it. It had a German title.
"Nikolai." By then, the Asset had already learned that this tutor was receptive to being called by name, and got upset when he requested permission to speak. Nikolai must not have been briefed about protocol, or maybe he just chose not to follow it. Rumlow had sneered and threatened to report Nikolai a fair few times, but the Asset knew it was pointless. Nikolai was just a tutor, not a handler. Strict orders with the Asset were unnecessary, especially when the Asset was already well-trained and compliant.
"Asset." Nikolai nodded in response, but didn't raise his head from the report he was writing.
"The book. Macbeth. I haven't completed it."
Nikolai raised his eyebrows slightly, and his head shook so fractionally that the Asset almost didn't notice it. But the Asset noticed it, because he'd been trained to notice everything. "There is no such book, Asset. You may commence your lesson."
The Asset was confused, but he understood well enough. The book did not exist because it was not supposed to exist, not to him. He understood perfectly. He picked up the German book and began to read it out mechanically, and Nikolai gently corrected his pronunciation and answered his questions if he didn't understand the words.
Weeks later, the Asset found Macbeth hidden inside a book called The Internet for Dummies. Some pages had been cut into the inside to make a small niche. The Asset looked at the book, then looked at Nikolai. Instructions unclear. What is the mission?
"You have 30 minutes to study this book, Asset. Make it quick." Nikolai's voice was clipped, and gave nothing away. He tapped at his teacup serenely, clink clink clink.
The Asset finished both books in 24.
That night, the Asset dreamed.
He didn't usually dream, because they made sure he wouldn't. He'd stopped dreaming years ago. Or maybe he'd just stopped remembering them, because some nights he woke with a snarl on his lips and the ghost of electric currents running through his brain, as though automatically trying to wipe the fresh memories all on its own. He would let it happen and lie in the cold dark, shuddering and twitching through the discomfort, because his brain pretending to be THE CHAIR was better than THE CHAIR itself.
He dreamed he had only his flesh arm, and he was climbing a wall with no end. His weak fingers scrabbled at the flinty handholds built of bone, with rotting flesh sliding off it in slick slabs as he clung on and tried not to scream for help. Above him, the sound of a train grew distant, and he cried because it was the only train that mattered that he was supposed to catch. He looked down, and the three witches laughed back at him. They spoke to him, and their mouths were impossibly wide, but he heard no sound.
They made sure he wouldn't hear anything in his dreams, either.
He woke up and his face was wet, his brain crackling between his ears. He'd been thrashing, and the tech crew had come into his cell. He stilled immediately in his cot, but it was too late.
THE CHAIR. Always THE CHAIR.
---
Nikolai ended up in Disneyland, motherfucker. It was a good suggestion, since he didn't have any more HYDRA missions to do. Never again.
He'd worked his way to the West Coast slowly from Washington, sometimes hotwiring old cars, sometimes hitchhiking and sometimes stealing the right bus tickets. It was coming to midsummer and the days were long and hot, so he stole a few supplies from a small town hospital to make a cast. It was his favourite form of disguise; the sling supported the weight of his metal arm, and he could go without a thick jacket and the odd glove if he was meticulous about it.
He was always meticulous about it.
He had also decided against cutting his hair because he had not been trained to do it, and he didn't trust any barber with his hair. He guessed that he used to be a vain person, several lifetimes ago. Instead, he made sure it was well-washed and tied away from his face, for optimal functionality. He kept his face clean-shaven. Nothing like what the Winter Soldier had looked like. It was too easy to blend in.
"Diggin' the hipster look, buddy," a sniggering teen had called out, when he was exploring the streets of San Francisco. That's when he found out the name of his hairstyle. He was an average man, with a hipster look and a broken left arm, and he was going to Disneyland, motherfucker.
It was a Sunday. He’d spent the whole morning walking to Lombard Street from his motel, and felt confused and upset when he finally saw it. It was not what he had expected. Somehow, he thought it'd be bigger. He followed a tour group to Alcatraz, and concluded that it was not so impossible to escape. The swim wasn't difficult, even factoring in the weight of his arm. The only challenge was the cold water, but cold water he could handle, it wasn’t as cold as Serbia, or when -
Monday. He'd managed to steal a motorcycle and cruised down the coast towards Los Angeles, cool wind wicking away the tears streaming out of his eyes. The tears were from the wind, biting sharp into his eye sockets. It was a good feeling, and it reminded him of freedom. On the way, he rested on the curb outside a gas station, chain-smoking a pack of cigarettes. They didn’t taste the same as they used to. What used to? What did cigarettes used to taste like?
Tuesday. Grocery shopping at a Walmart in the middle of nowhere. A little girl in the line had pointed to his arm, and asked shyly if it hurt when he broke it. “Yes. But they put metal in it,” he said quietly, seriously. “Now I’ll never break it again.” She smiled and seemed satisfied with his answer, turning to her mother excitedly and exclaiming loudly:
“Mommy! If I hurted my arm, would you put metal inside it too? Please?”
He’d dropped his groceries and walked out of the store empty-handed, his mouth tasting strangely of rust.
Wednesday. He'd bought ice cream by the pier and stood barefoot in the sand, watching the sun go down over the horizon as it dribbled over his fingers, forgotten. By the time it was dark, his face itched and his hand was a sticky mess. It was the best sunset he could remember. He wondered when he'd last seen a sun set at all.
Thursday. He’d found a place called the Los Angeles County Museum of Art in the early evening. It was crowded, but he endured it. There was a square patch of lights arranged in an orderly pattern. It was a pleasant sight. He’d settled down against one of the poles, cross-legged, head tilted back and eyes half-closed. His vision blurred, sharpened, blurred again. This is the meaning of rapture. He felt drunk from the beauty of it, and stared until his eyes watered. They tended to do that more and more these days. Frozen in time, he’d stayed until dawn came and the sky got too bright to stare at. Then he closed his eyes as they watered some more, but the water was warm and his heart was full.
Friday. He’d made it to Disneyland. It was easy blending in with the crowd outside, nicking a ticket, going in. It was another bright and hot day, and his face itched even more. He ignored it, and stole a pair of sunglasses off a rack. They were strangely-shaped: three circles, two smaller and one bigger, intersecting one another. They served. He wore them the whole day.
He queued for every ride, and found that he liked the Peter Pan one the most. Space Mountain was unpleasant. It was dark and children were screaming. He’d experienced this before, but it was not at a place called Space Mountain. Space Mountain did not have any fire. He came out sweating and shaking. Never again. He'd have to remember that, too.
He stayed until the light show, which had fireworks. It surprised him a little to see them, because he thought fireworks were only used on birthdays. Birthday? Whose birthday?
A dull throb radiated from his left shoulder joint and travelled down his spine. It passed as a wave of numbness all through his body, and the drink he was clutching in his right hand fell to the ground as his grip slackened involuntarily.
When it passed and he was able to feel again, he was on his knees in a puddle of cola, breathless and stunned. If he’d paid more attention, he would have realised that his face had twisted into a mask of pain, but his mind was preoccupied. He was thinking to himself, quickly and urgently and desperately. You forgot about the serum. Asset is compromised.
He was on his feet again, weaving through the small crowd of concerned civilians who had gathered around him. Are you okay, man? Hey, this guy spilled his drink. Is he here alone? God, that’s kind of sad. He smiled the almost-real smile he knew, breaking free from the small circle and melting into the sea of people.
There was one thing he knew for certain then: he was never going to be free.
---
THINGS TO REMEMBER
CUT HAIR
OLIVER THREAT NEGATIVE
DISNEYLAND MOTHERFUCKER
CALL YOURSELF NIKOLAI
WHAT DID CIGARETTES TASTE LIKE??? DID YOU SMOKE?
WEDNESDAY GOOD SUNSET
MUSEUM LIGHTS. YES
SPACE MOUNTAIN NOOO
FIREWORKS?? BIRTHDAY?? LINK
FIND THE THE THING HYDRA
---
His earliest memories were of snow.
When he opened his eyes, all he saw was white: he was up to his eyeballs in it, choking on tufts and inhaling clumps of ice through his nose. His entire body jerked uncontrollably from the cold of it, and blood dribbled over his bottom lip as he gasped for air. His jaw chattered violently, but he was numb. He had bitten through his tongue, but he was too numb to know it. He wondered distantly at the the thickness in his mouth, viscous and choking.
His body gradually succumbed to the cold around him. The erratic movements slowed. His consciousness narrowed down to struggling for each breath as his blood and spittle spilled down his chin and froze, as his eyes lolled madly in the throes of a long-suffering death. White, everything was white. He must have gone blind. There was no white as white as the snow what was squeezing him in its death grip. He had to be dreaming, he had to be blind. It was too cold. End it.
In his panic, his mind was blank. He had no memory of how he came to be lying there fighting for his life. Was he thrown, had he fallen? Was this the beginning of his existence, and the end? Who would have dug him, birthed him wet and gasping in the ice, and left him there to die?
It didn't matter. The end was coming. He knew, somehow, that in the end, he would be sleepy and warm. Not a bad way to die. Still, he wished he could see something else other than the blinding white. He was sure that more colours existed, somewhere in the world, even though he could not confirm if he had ever known anything other than his tomb of snow.
Fleetingly, his mind threw up an image of a boy. Who was he supposed to be? His mind desperately grasped at the fading image: pale skin stretched over birdlike bones, tight scowl on a face, a tiny raised fist. A soft glowing head of flaxen hair. A smile like the sun, and blue, blue eyes.
Blue. It was a good colour. He'd like to see that shade of blue again, before the end.
--
He opened his eyes and it was dark, and not so cold anymore. Someone hovered over him before his eyes slid shut again.
He opened his eyes and his body was on fire: every nerve burning right to his fingertips. His jaw ached from screaming.
He opened his eyes and he was drowning. There were hands all over him, and voices shouting in alarm. He did not understand.
He opened his eyes and tasted blood in his mouth. Smelt blood in the air, too, thick and stale. Someone was snapping tree branches out of his sight. Snap, snap. The shadow on his left loomed closer and the branch was bleach-white, dripping with blood and flesh. Flesh?
He opened his eyes and could not move. Pain radiated from his spine to his very core, a pain like he had never felt before. He managed to turn his head to the side and moaned uncontrollably. End it. Please.
"What do you mean, unforeseen? Your orders were to fix the arm, not - not destroy - "
"I assure you, my idea was not to disable but to reinforce..."
"How can he function with that!"
"Functionality is guaranteed, only - "
"What kind of functionality would a butchered spine -!"
He opened his eyes and the room was quiet. A small face, glistening with sweat, came into view.
The pain had subsided slightly, and he wiggled his fingers experimentally. His tongue was a bundle of cloth in his mouth, but he tried to speak anyway.
"Where..." he tried to whisper, but there was no sound, only a small exhale of breath.
The small face broke into a watery smile. "It worked... by God. It worked." The man's face trembled and broke, and his shoulders shook with relieved sobs. After several long moments, he scrubbed his face and straightened up. "You have been rescued from the jaws of death. What do you remember?"
What does he remember? Snow, and pain. His lips split as he answered. "Nothing." He could not bring himself to ask more.
"It does not matter that you don't remember. All you need to know is that you are our Asset. You are to be the Fist of HYDRA. You will shape the future. You will save millions of lives." His face gleamed in triumph. There were tears in his eyes. "Hail HYDRA."
They assumed that bringing the Asset to their side would not be an easy task. They knew who he was, even if he didn't know it himself.
In Austria, Sergeant Barnes did not break on the table. In Austria, they had peeled off his skin and plucked his fingernails from their beds. They gave him everything they had, and he continued to live, continued to recite his name and designation back at them. Sergeant Barnes was the lethal, uncompromising all-American nightmare, all salt and smoke and fire as he laughed through the heat of battle. They had to break him this time, and properly.
The Asset was not like Sergeant Barnes at all. He was quiet and afraid. When they first strung him up to beat him into submission, he was shocked and confused. Please, he said. Please stop. I didn't do anything. Who are you. Who am I.
It wasn't long before they realised that the Asset didn't need to be broken. There was nothing to break. Sergeant Barnes had died that day in the icy ravine. The Asset was already a blank slate: a blank state with no memories except for how to kill a man, a blank slate with no opinions, emotions or allegiance. A blank slate with a childlike eagerness to do right by his guardians. A perfect soldier, born of snow.