Dumpster #3: The Great Pacific Garbage Patch

[trashmod]

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.

[Round 1] [Round 2] [Fill post] [Chatter post] [hydratrashmeme Pinboard archive (maintained by greenkirtle)] [Round 3 in flat view (comments in non-threaded chronological order, most recent last)]

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

Comments

FILL: [Humans as Gods]

[(Anonymous)]

***

HYDRA's scientists had been delighted to find their serum-reversal procedure had worked. Well, mostly worked. Partially worked. Worked to a biologically and statistically significant degree, pending further analysis and peer review. Enough for a publication in the online Mad Sciences annual supplemental issue of Experimental Physiology and maybe some conference travel, if they made a good enough pitch to the funding review board.

Their jubilation was dampened by the discovery that Steve's smaller self might no longer be Captain America-sized but was still 100% Steve Rogers, and Steve Rogers was now mad enough to spit nails. A minor oversight in the design of the containment area meant that smaller-Steve had simply wriggled out of the now ridiculously-oversized restraints like an angry ferret escaping a paper bag, and punched the nearest technician in the nuts.

Chaos ensued.

Smaller-Steve decimated the ranks of HYDRA's front-line laboratory technicians. The supervising scientists hastily retreated behind locked doors to regroup and figure out what the hell went wrong. Either his strength and speed had only been partially reduced by the serum-reversal, or Steve Rogers had always had the agility of a greased weasel and a surprising willingness to fight dirty.

It took six guards to drag Steve down a hallway and toss him into the most secure holding cell in the building.

They chained Steve to a wall by one leg. One of the guards went for Steve’s other foot, and Steve dislocated his shoulder with some kind of twisty wrestling move. Another one left for the infirmary with vicious purple-red bite marks running up one arm.

The guards gave up on the other leg.

Steve shouted a stream of inventive curses at the survivors as they regrouped. They looked deflated. Their comms crackled, demanding an update.

Spurred on by the imminent arrival of their boss, three of the guards managed to pin Steve for a second while the fourth risked his fingers to jam a metal object into his mouth. Mechanized metal straps burst out of the mouthpiece, and wrapped around Steve’s skull. There was an ominous click as it locked behind his head.

Enraged, Steve made a noise that sounded like "Mmargh!" and kicked the fourth guy in the kneecap before clawing at another guard’s eyes. The chain kept him from reaching too far, but if they were dumb enough to get close to him again ...

The guards must have come to the same conclusion, because they collected what remained of their pride and backed out the door. The biggest of the four risked kicking Steve in the ribs one final time. He got a solid fist to the nose for his trouble, and slammed the cell door shut behind him with a trail of blood.

Steve glared at them through the bars, fuming to himself in gag-imposed silence and trying to figure out the mechanism that would release the lock.

Steve had got one guy in the eyes real good. He was still screaming, and a couple of medics showed up to take him away. His three buddies stayed behind to pace back and forth in front of the door to Steve’s cell, trying their hardest to look menacing. Steve watched them, unimpressed. It was B-minus menacing at best. Steve had been more effectively menaced lining up for brunch in Park Slope.

Ignoring their posturing, Steve spent a few minutes taking in his new surroundings. It wasn’t the worst cell he’d ever been locked in. He was sitting on a thin mattress shoved up against the wall, and there was a toilet and sink crammed into the corner. The walls were the institutional puke-green that the prison wardens of the world must have gotten a bulk discount on. It was utterly forgettable, impersonal and cold -- except for the little stack of beat-up paperbacks piled next to the head of the bed. That, and the toothbrush in a cup by the sink, suggested this cell was already occupied.

Huh.

Steve picked up one of the paperbacks, more to rile up the remaining guards than out of any real interest. The cover showed a short-haired girl in scaled armour riding what appeared to be a giant green grasshopper while waving a laser rifle. Baffled, Steve flipped the book over, but he couldn't read the Cyrillic text. The book underneath it had a plain black cover with a white line drawing of a satellite or spacecraft of some kind, also in Cyrillic.

The toothbrush, at least, was a straightforward plain blue.

Neither the books nor the toothbrush were particularly useful weapons, and a quick search under the mattress revealed only a chessboard and a battered cardboard box full of chessmen. Maybe he could jab someone with the pointy end of a bishop, but -- Steve frowned. The door was heavy, with a barred window too small to squeeze even his skinny frame through. He had a sinking feeling about the kind of HYDRA prisoners who read Russian science fiction novels and needed to be locked behind four inches of solid steel.

As if Steve had summoned him with his thoughts, he heard the tread of heavy boots down the hallway. Steve swallowed. Just through the bars was the person he wanted the most, here in the place he least wanted to be.

Bucky was deep in conversation with a grizzled, tired-looking man. Steve couldn't hear everything they were saying but their heads were tipped close together, Bucky nodding every so often. What Steve could catch sounded Russian.

Another grim-looking commando came up to them carrying a styrofoam cup of something steaming hot -- coffee? tea? -- and the tired-faced man patted him on the shoulder in thanks. Their nondescript HYDRA blacks were nearly grey from cement dust.

Steve might not recognize them, but their body language suggested military. Actual military, not the rent-a-cops Steve had been terrorizing. Winter Soldier's field team, maybe? They looked like they’d had a hell of a day. Fighting the Avengers was no cakewalk.

The tired-faced man said something to Bucky with emphasis and pointed at the guards, who did their motley best to look official under the commandos’ attention. Bucky inclined his head in what must have been acquiescence because the commandos turned and left, leaving Bucky behind with the guards.

And Steve.

After watching his team walk away, Bucky turned to walk into the cell -- and froze. His eyes flickered rapidly from his stack of books to Steve to the chess set and back to Steve. Steve dropped the book he was holding back onto the stack, shoving his hands under his knees in mute apology. He belatedly realized he was sitting buck-ass nude on what must be Bucky's bed, and leapt to his feet. Always so fucking awkward, he cursed internally.

Bucky was right there. And thanks to HYDRA’s finest, Steve couldn’t so much as say his name.

Bucky looked over to the guards with a flat stare, clearly inquiring about what the fuck was going on with his accommodations. The shortest of the remaining trio hesitated, then puffed up like a rooster.

“Look, we brought you a present. You never get to have any fun, right? So you better fuck him good or I’ll come in there and do it myself. And -- that’s an order, Soldier.” The guard growled in a voice he clearly thought was intimidating. The intimidation factor was significantly reduced when he pulled out his phone and typed something in. “Um. Byer-eech. Take care of him. Or else!”