The team’s already packed by the time Brock gets down to the loading dock, which is good because they might leave ahead of schedule, and bad because it means he doesn’t have much left to prep. He goes over the full inventory twice, cleans his best scope and his backup, and signs out the van before he finally can’t put off stalling any longer and goes to check out the Asset.
See, the process could be cool. Go up to a bank teller, show her your “special” key, get taken round the back to the safety deposit room. And your key opens up the janitorial closet, which is itself a full functional elevator. That part’s not bad. What’s jacked is they keep going, until hiding in plain sight is some sort of fetish. The base level is fucking Disney on acid, men in button ups and bow ties and slicked back hair, like a pedo cartoon of the banker from Mary Poppins. They come asking for his ID and one of them is even wearing white gloves, like a fucking mime.
Christ. No wonder the Soldier is a crazy son of a bitch. Which isn’t to say he’s not good at what he does. Brock once watched him drop a guy at nearly two thousand meters, with an active breeze. Didn’t even protest, just framed the shot and took it.
The problem is, the guy’s also been known to drop handlers with equal indifference - and disproportionate violence, depending on who’s telling it. One of the guys from S.T.R.I.K.E. Three said he heard the Asset randomly took out somebody’s kneecap last week. Got hold of a screwdriver and drove it straight through, no warning. Another rumor has it he pulled a dude’s heart out, Indiana Jones style.
It could all be bullshit, but Brock hasn’t lived this long to get his throat cut now. He keeps it professional, keeps to the Soldier’s right, and so far, knock on wood, he’s lived to tell about it.
Another banker-mime appears to take his retinal scan. They look over his credentials for the eighty-billionth time, and now they’re in the truly fucked up part of the vault. For whatever reason, the techs like to work smack in the middle of all the empty deposit boxes, which isn’t at all Frankenstein as fuck. The chair’s out in full effect today, complete with restraints that look thick enough to hold a horse.It’s also conspicuously empty.
“Where’s the Asset? He’s supposed to be prepped.”
“He is. Round the corner,” a mousy chick says.
She’s got a sweet rack, but unfortunately he’s on a timetable. Brock follows her direction into one of the alcoves and -
“What the fuck,” he says, because seriously. What the fuck.
The Soldier is combat ready, all done up in his mask and that kevlar fetish suit the techs think is appropriate -- and curled up at the bottom of what looks like a large wire dog cage. He’s laying on his left side, slumped up against the slats, knees drawn halfway up to his chest.
Aside from the slight rise and fall of his shoulders, there’s no indication he’s even alive.
“What the fuck,” Brock says again, because he has walked in on all types of shit down here, but this is a whole new level of Twilight Zone.
“Agent Rumlow.”
Jesus, Pierce is lucky he knows his voice. He already has a hand on one baton out of sheer adrenaline. No one sane hangs around the Soldier unless they’re prepared to move.
“Sir?”
The Secretary appears from a corner Brock hadn’t even noticed, both hands up in a mocking surrender. He lowers them to adjust his tie - something seasonal, Brock registers faintly. As if this weren’t surreal enough.
“At ease, Agent,” Pierce says, smile a mile wide. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
Yes you fucking did, Brock thinks, but doesn’t say, because he likes his balls attached, thank you very much. Alexander Pierce, on paper, isn’t supposed to have stealth training. Alexander Pierce, in real life, hangs out with Director Fury, and there’s a lot of things Fury isn’t supposed to have. They both rank high on Brock’s personal freak-o-meter.
Pierce offers his hand. It feels like shaking an old leather wallet.
“Good to see you again, Brock,” the Secretary says.
That’s the other way you know the guy’s a dick. He likes to put on this ‘aren’t we all friends’ act, call you by your first name. Like Brock could ever get away with calling him ‘Alex’.
“Sir,” Brock says. He keeps his expression very carefully neutral.
Pierce glances over at the cage.
“We’re testing out some new protocols to make the Asset easier to handle.”
Fill: Pedigree (1/?)
See, the process could be cool. Go up to a bank teller, show her your “special” key, get taken round the back to the safety deposit room. And your key opens up the janitorial closet, which is itself a full functional elevator. That part’s not bad. What’s jacked is they keep going, until hiding in plain sight is some sort of fetish. The base level is fucking Disney on acid, men in button ups and bow ties and slicked back hair, like a pedo cartoon of the banker from Mary Poppins. They come asking for his ID and one of them is even wearing white gloves, like a fucking mime.
Christ. No wonder the Soldier is a crazy son of a bitch. Which isn’t to say he’s not good at what he does. Brock once watched him drop a guy at nearly two thousand meters, with an active breeze. Didn’t even protest, just framed the shot and took it.
The problem is, the guy’s also been known to drop handlers with equal indifference - and disproportionate violence, depending on who’s telling it. One of the guys from S.T.R.I.K.E. Three said he heard the Asset randomly took out somebody’s kneecap last week. Got hold of a screwdriver and drove it straight through, no warning. Another rumor has it he pulled a dude’s heart out, Indiana Jones style.
It could all be bullshit, but Brock hasn’t lived this long to get his throat cut now. He keeps it professional, keeps to the Soldier’s right, and so far, knock on wood, he’s lived to tell about it.
Another banker-mime appears to take his retinal scan. They look over his credentials for the eighty-billionth time, and now they’re in the truly fucked up part of the vault. For whatever reason, the techs like to work smack in the middle of all the empty deposit boxes, which isn’t at all Frankenstein as fuck. The chair’s out in full effect today, complete with restraints that look thick enough to hold a horse.It’s also conspicuously empty.
“Where’s the Asset? He’s supposed to be prepped.”
“He is. Round the corner,” a mousy chick says.
She’s got a sweet rack, but unfortunately he’s on a timetable. Brock follows her direction into one of the alcoves and -
“What the fuck,” he says, because seriously. What the fuck.
The Soldier is combat ready, all done up in his mask and that kevlar fetish suit the techs think is appropriate -- and curled up at the bottom of what looks like a large wire dog cage. He’s laying on his left side, slumped up against the slats, knees drawn halfway up to his chest.
Aside from the slight rise and fall of his shoulders, there’s no indication he’s even alive.
“What the fuck,” Brock says again, because he has walked in on all types of shit down here, but this is a whole new level of Twilight Zone.
“Agent Rumlow.”
Jesus, Pierce is lucky he knows his voice. He already has a hand on one baton out of sheer adrenaline. No one sane hangs around the Soldier unless they’re prepared to move.
“Sir?”
The Secretary appears from a corner Brock hadn’t even noticed, both hands up in a mocking surrender. He lowers them to adjust his tie - something seasonal, Brock registers faintly. As if this weren’t surreal enough.
“At ease, Agent,” Pierce says, smile a mile wide. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
Yes you fucking did, Brock thinks, but doesn’t say, because he likes his balls attached, thank you very much. Alexander Pierce, on paper, isn’t supposed to have stealth training. Alexander Pierce, in real life, hangs out with Director Fury, and there’s a lot of things Fury isn’t supposed to have. They both rank high on Brock’s personal freak-o-meter.
Pierce offers his hand. It feels like shaking an old leather wallet.
“Good to see you again, Brock,” the Secretary says.
That’s the other way you know the guy’s a dick. He likes to put on this ‘aren’t we all friends’ act, call you by your first name. Like Brock could ever get away with calling him ‘Alex’.
“Sir,” Brock says. He keeps his expression very carefully neutral.
Pierce glances over at the cage.
“We’re testing out some new protocols to make the Asset easier to handle.”