hydratrashmeme | Dumpster #3: The Great Pacific Garbage Patch

Dumpster #3: The Great Pacific Garbage Patch

Holy shitballs, look at us go. Welcome to Captain America fandom's resident wretched hive of scum and villainy: ROUND THREE. AKA Bad Guys Do Dirtybadwrong Things To Your Faves, AKA the Hydra Trash Party kinkmeme. As usual, BLANKET NON-CON AND NSFW WARNINGS apply: just assume going in that everything in this landfill is unfit for human consumption.

Rules in brief: don't be a jerk except to fictional characters, warnings for particularly fucked-up garbage are nice but not required, thou shalt not judge the trashiness of thy neighbor's kinks unless thy neighbor is trying to pass off their rotting banana peels and half-eaten pizza crusts as a healthy romantic dinner for two, off-topic comments may be chucked out of the dumpster at management's discretion, management's discretion decrees that omegaverse, soulbond AUs, D/s-verse, non-superpowered AUs, and dark!good guys AUs are off-topic.

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Round 3 is closed; comments and fills in existing threads are still welcome, but all new prompts go to Round 4.

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The masks are new.

Rumlow glances over the marionettes. The costumes are all wrong, but that’s to be expected. Combat gear’s too heavy for the puppeteers to work with, and under the harsh stage lights it’d look dull and boring. He has to admit, the costumers have done a decent job of recreating the Avengers’ outfits in the sort of shit figure skaters wear, albeit with added frills and sequins.

The Iron Man armor is the most amusing. It’s so bright and reflective that Rumlow can’t imagine it’ll be anything but blinding at the performance. It’s gaudy enough that even Stark would protest if Stark were still alive to run his mouth.

But that’s the point, isn’t it? To take America’s once beloved heroes and turn them into fools in the public eye. That’s why the masks, otherwise perfect recreations of their faces, are painted with flaming pink blush and blood red lips. It’s not just stage makeup. It’s clownface.

And Rumlow can’t hold back a chuckle.

The choreographer—Claudel, she’d called herself—turns to face him. “Something amusing?”

“You didn’t wear a mask.”

That’s where Pierce got the idea for this little freak show. Some Cirque du Soleil-esque performance that must have been three or four years back. There had been some complication and Brock ended up hauled along as extra security. Even he’d had to marvel at some of the feats on stage. Sure, these guys were in enough makeup to make a whore blush and wearing fucking tights that left nothing to the imagination, but the physicality necessary to pull off this shit was undeniably impressive. Acrobats, contortionists, gymnasts, swimmers, all manner of acts on display.

Claudel, he supposed, was a contortionist. Even now, her act was fresh in his mind. She’d hung from cables like a puppet, dancing in a limp, weightless fashion that straddled the line between engaging and eerie. She’d made it look as though she had no control over her movements, and their box had been close enough to see that her expression was as lifeless as her motions.

She looks exhausted now, circles under her eyes and lines framing her mouth. Rumlow can’t blame her. Everyone’s either sleep-deprived or dead these days. It’s only been a month since Insight launched and Pierce brought about his new world order.

“You could wait,” Rumlow had suggested, standing in the Oval Office. It felt wrong to stand, and he had to fight off the ridiculous compulsion to kneel. But that was what subjects did before a king. And Pierce could call himself President all he wanted, but they all knew democracy was dead. “Let things get a little more settled.”

It seems distasteful to start up the parades before all the dead were in the ground.

Pierce had smiled. “I appreciate your concern, Brock,” he’d replied, but his tone said You stupid child, I’ll humor you. “But it’s important that we project the correct image to the public right away. There’s so much fear and disinformation circulating now. They need to understand that we are here for their benefit, that we don’t want to turn the world into some dismal wasteland.”

He always kept up that better world crap even when no one was around to hear it. Sure, it is a better world with the people on Insight’s list out of the way, but why pretend that this little puppet show is about bettering society? Pierce can talk about bread and circuses all he wants, but this isn’t about soothing the public. It’s gloating, pure and simple.

Rumlow’s not too proud to gloat.

“I’ve been on the stage since I was a child,” Claudel says. “With only a month, we couldn’t teach the new performers to keep the exertion from their faces.”

Behind them, the Winter Soldier’s arms lift, almost floating up to stretch out toward the ceiling. The rest of him follows after, gently rising. The puppeteers must be rehearsing.

He doesn’t miss the irritation in Claudel’s voice. Stupid bitch, he thinks, but without anger. Of course she’s pissed. He’s pissed, running around as Pierce’s errand boy because it turns out that Assistant Secretary of Defense is as meaningless a title as every other position Pierce has handed out. They don’t need plans for defense; just point the helicarriers at anyone acting up.

Though Rumlow has to admit, glancing at Captain America sprawled on the stage, that this particular bit of busywork is worth it.

“We must all be willing to make sacrifices for the good of the new world,” Rumlow says. The standard party line.

“I am glad to do what is necessary,” Claudel answers. The standard response.

“Have there been any other complications?” Rumlow asks. They’re stopped before the Black Widow, and he stares down at her, watching the rise and fall of her chest. The eyes behind her mask are darting wildly. Her breathing quickens, though she’s got to be too drugged to recognize him. Maybe that’s her instinctive response to any approach now: a mindless expectation of pain.

“Everything has been sorted, Mr. Secretary,” Claudel says at once. Pierce had made it clear when he commissioned this company that failure would be severely punished. “We’ve found puppeteers capable of maneuvering the weight of Captain America and the Winter Soldier. And now the Black Widow’s forearm is splinted, so we won’t have any more problems with it bending unnaturally during the performance. We’re able to keep them silent on the stage, and we’ve adjusted the choreography so none of our dancers will be hurt if the audience tries throwing things at the war criminals.”

Rumlow nudges the tip of his boot against Romanoff’s ribs. Her sigh is almost inaudible, but it makes his mouth quirk into a smile anyway. It’s the closest she can come to a scream right now.

He can feel Claudel’s eyes on him, seeking his approval. He turns to meet her gaze. “Why are some of them bolted to the wires when the others are strapped in?”

The answer, of course, is that most of the Avengers are dead, and no one cares about the comfort of corpses. Rogers and Romanoff would have been bolted up as well if Pierce didn’t have plans for them once he’s had his fun. It’ll take them long enough to recover from all their dislocated joints as is.

But Rumlow just wants to see if horror crosses the choreographer’s features when he shoves her face in the fact that she’s working with corpses. Wants to see if she’s as numb to the carnage around her as she acts.

Claudel keeps her face still, but she can’t keep the discomfort from her eyes. “We were not sure, when the materials arrived, if the preservatives keeping them limber and intact would also prevent the loss of muscle mass. That’s why we decided on permanent bolts.”

Materials. Rumlow can’t help but snort. That’s cute.

“We’ll be beginning the rehearsal in half an hour, Mr. Secretary, if you’d—” Claudel is saying, but he ignores her, stepping around the marionettes and toward where the Winter Soldier hangs in the air. His limbs are as loose as the corpses’, but his eyes are clear behind his mask, watching Rumlow’s approach. The majority of his weight is held by the harness around his shoulders now, which gives the man the look of an angel with invisible wings.

“You been behaving?” he asks. The Soldier’s the only one who isn’t drugged and injured to make him limp as a ragdoll. This is just another mission for him, that’s all. It’s a piss poor one, going from assassin to sideshow, but this isn’t a world for soldiers anymore. The Winter Soldier will spend the rest of his life as an object of beauty or comfort, on display unless Pierce has need of him again. There are worse fates.

The Soldier hovers there, staring down at him. His nod is small and hesitant. He doesn’t want to disturb his performance with unnecessary movements.

The cables shift and he drifts to the floor, landing lightly as a snowflake. “I am performing within parameters.” His voice is almost inaudible behind the mask’s static lips. The cables are going slack, and he sinks to a sitting position, not seeming to care that his legs are sprawled gracelessly. Painfully, from the look of it.

“He’s very quick to learn,” Claudel says. “Very flexible.”

Like Rumlow doesn’t know that firsthand. He grins at the Soldier. They’re all puppets now. He and the Soldier are just among the privileged ones. “It’s gonna be a full house,” Rumlow tells him. “The whole world is going learn about how you stopped the Avengers and saved everybody. And when they take off that mask at the curtain call, I want you to smile at the audience, got it?”

The Soldier’s nod is stronger now, curt. He’s the only one who doesn’t need silk around his throat to keep his head up. “Understood.”

Still smiling, Rumlow steps back. “Everything’s in order here,” he tells Claudel. “I’ll tell the President that you’re making excellent progress. He’ll be here on opening night, of course.”

The Soldier’s no longer looking at him. Or anything, judging from how blank his eyes are. He’s still, lifeless yet poised, ready to be pulled into motion. To perform any act he’s tugged into. A mindless doll. Really, it’s not that different from what he’s used to.

Rumlow has to kneel down beside Rogers before he goes. He never did get to thank him that little scuffle in the SHIELD elevator. There’s bruising around Rogers’s wrists, just peeking out from under his sleeves. Rumlow assumes that’ll be hidden away with gloves during the performance proper. “Hey, big guy.”

He tugs the mask away. Rogers is pale, his eyes so dark they look bruised as well. His lips are cracked with dehydration, but flecked with spittle nonetheless. Whatever they’re shooting into his body to keep him quiet and docile, it must also make him drool all over himself. Another reason for the masks. Rumlow’s smirking.

“Never thought I’d get to see you back in tights,” he says, running a thumb down Rogers’s cheek. The skin’s still a little yellow, the bruises from his last fight with the Winter Soldier not fully faded.

Rogers, his pupils blown so wide that his eyes seem black, leans toward the touch. His lips move, but there’s no noise.

“It’s a good look for you,” Rumlow says. He strokes Rogers’s face again. There are little pockmarks down his cheeks, where the makeup artists had tried to stitch a smile before they decided on the masks.

“Rumlow?” His voice is raspy, both from thirst and disuse. Rogers is so high right now that he must think Rumlow’s an ally, trying to shift toward him and grimacing when all he manages is to torture himself. “Help me.”

“Just think.” Rumlow leans down, muttering in his ear. “If you’d just stayed in show biz in the first place, you could have been long dead instead of HYDRA’s plaything. And now? As soon as you’re off tour, we’ll be making your mind ours just like your body.”

He grabs the cable connected to Rogers’s wrist, jerking it back and forth to make Rogers wave goodbye. The groan that slips from Rogers’s lips before the mask is snapped back into place? Fuck the performance. That’s true art.

OH MY GOD LAURALOT TALK ABOUT DEAD DOVES

I felt physically ill while reading this. SO UTTERLY DISTURBING in every way. Well done!

Sometimes I question what the hell I'm doing.

And then I do it anyway.

that's the spirit!

slow clap oh my god. I'm always here for Hydra wins but this is a new depth of horrifically wonderful.

You know, when got the idea for this fic, I thought "Maybe I shouldn't." But then when I was actually writing it, I felt it turned out relatively tame. Which I guess is a sign that I have warped my brain with all this trash.

Whenever I get really uncomfortable (and also whenever I get scared tbh) I start giggling and like... oh man there was so much uncomfortable giggling. I don't know what to do with this. Like props for making me realize I can still be phased by fanfic? I am not a soulless human being and some things still genuinely disturb me. But in a good way? Cause like... it was well-written?
Tbh THIS is the kind of content I like to see here. Or not like to see but you know... appreciate seeing.
You know between all the kinky Bucky prompts like, good old fashioned actual "this is disturbing af" fic is great.

When I have nightmares tonight though, that's on you.
(... but like also I want a sequel because Hydra Wins AUs are my angst jam and they're all slightly different and I can never get enough)

And here I thought I was the only one who did the nervous giggle thing.

I'm glad you appreciated this!

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Dumpster #3: The Great Pacific Garbage Patch

Re: Unprompted Fill: No Strings at All to Make Me Sad [Gen, human marionettes] [1/1]

Re: Unprompted Fill: No Strings at All to Make Me Sad [Gen, human marionettes] [1/1]

Re: Unprompted Fill: No Strings at All to Make Me Sad [Gen, human marionettes] [1/1]

Re: Unprompted Fill: No Strings at All to Make Me Sad [Gen, human marionettes] [1/1]

Re: Unprompted Fill: No Strings at All to Make Me Sad [Gen, human marionettes] [1/1]

Re: Unprompted Fill: No Strings at All to Make Me Sad [Gen, human marionettes] [1/1]

Re: Unprompted Fill: No Strings at All to Make Me Sad [Gen, human marionettes] [1/1]

Re: Unprompted Fill: No Strings at All to Make Me Sad [Gen, human marionettes] [1/1]