The Asset is awake now, it seems. He’s not saying anything, but he’s lifted his head to track Pierce’s movement.
“Yeah, I noticed,” Brock says, opting for slightly informal. Pierce likes it when people play along with the buddy-buddy at least a little bit. “No one briefed me.”
Pierce makes a very long-suffering face.
“I’ll have a word with Charlene,” he sighs. “She should have booked some time on your calendar.”
Training sessions to learn how to...stuff the Asset in a cage. All right.
“It seems pretty self-explanatory,” he says before he can stop himself.
And see, he knew that schtick was bullshit. The Secretary’s gaze is momentarily withering, before he plasters on another smile.
“You ever use a bird dog, Agent Rumlow?”
Pierce takes a few steps closer to the cage. The Asset pulls his limbs in tighter, scrunching up away from the bars.
“No sir,” Brock says.
Pierce lays a hand down on top of the cage.
“When I was a little boy, my father had English Setters. Beautiful dogs. Excellent bird sense. We used to skip school sometimes and hunt quail.”
Oh Christ, this is going to spin into one of his creepy Grandpa stories. Brock bites down on the inside of his cheek.
“The dogs would go out into the brush and track the birds down for us. They flush them out so my brothers and I could take the shot.”
He gives Brock a little nod. Like they’re supposed to understand each other. Brock wonders if this good ol’ boy routine works on his constituents. Maybe city people think hunting is a quaint country tradition that unites all blue-collar kids; well, Brock grew up with a mechanic for a Daddy, and he’s willing to bet Alexander Pierce didn’t get the shit beat out of him in a trailer.
“The thing about a bird dog is, you have a responsibility. It’s not enough that the dog has what it takes. You have to set rules, so they know. how. to. mind.”
He punctuates each word with a light tap on the bars. Inside, the Asset trembles.
“My dad kept his dogs kenneled so they wouldn’t charge at pigeons. You let them run too wild, they start to lose their focus.”
“So we keep the Asset kenneled.”
Pierce nods.
“The Asset is also a highly skilled, specially trained piece of equipment. We need to give him structure so he can focus on what’s important. We’ve been refining the process over the past few iterations, and we think it’s fairly easy to replicate.”
The Asset is barely breathing. Brock has seen headless bodies with more color to them.
“So, we’re going to send him out for a field test. This is a collapsible kennel. It should fit in the back of the van.”
“All right...” Brock licks his lips, considering. Sure, if they rearranged the gun racks...they could probably wedge the cage up next to the jump seats. “What’s the protocol?”
Pierce’s eyes harden. “When the Asset is in his kennel, nobody can touch him. If he doesn’t come out right away when he’s ordered you can drag him out and punish him, but no punishment occurs inside the crate. He should also take his meals there. If you give him a shake, just put it in a Camelbak. And leave the door open every two to three hours. You don’t want him pissing himself inside the kennel.”
“And this will keep him calm.”
“As quiet as a dormouse,” Pierce promises.
Brock has never seen a dormouse, but from the way the Asset is trying to shrink into the kennel floor, he suspects it’s stealthy as fuck.
Fill: Pedigree (2/?)
“Yeah, I noticed,” Brock says, opting for slightly informal. Pierce likes it when people play along with the buddy-buddy at least a little bit. “No one briefed me.”
Pierce makes a very long-suffering face.
“I’ll have a word with Charlene,” he sighs. “She should have booked some time on your calendar.”
Training sessions to learn how to...stuff the Asset in a cage. All right.
“It seems pretty self-explanatory,” he says before he can stop himself.
And see, he knew that schtick was bullshit. The Secretary’s gaze is momentarily withering, before he plasters on another smile.
“You ever use a bird dog, Agent Rumlow?”
Pierce takes a few steps closer to the cage. The Asset pulls his limbs in tighter, scrunching up away from the bars.
“No sir,” Brock says.
Pierce lays a hand down on top of the cage.
“When I was a little boy, my father had English Setters. Beautiful dogs. Excellent bird sense. We used to skip school sometimes and hunt quail.”
Oh Christ, this is going to spin into one of his creepy Grandpa stories. Brock bites down on the inside of his cheek.
“The dogs would go out into the brush and track the birds down for us. They flush them out so my brothers and I could take the shot.”
He gives Brock a little nod. Like they’re supposed to understand each other. Brock wonders if this good ol’ boy routine works on his constituents. Maybe city people think hunting is a quaint country tradition that unites all blue-collar kids; well, Brock grew up with a mechanic for a Daddy, and he’s willing to bet Alexander Pierce didn’t get the shit beat out of him in a trailer.
“The thing about a bird dog is, you have a responsibility. It’s not enough that the dog has what it takes. You have to set rules, so they know. how. to. mind.”
He punctuates each word with a light tap on the bars. Inside, the Asset trembles.
“My dad kept his dogs kenneled so they wouldn’t charge at pigeons. You let them run too wild, they start to lose their focus.”
“So we keep the Asset kenneled.”
Pierce nods.
“The Asset is also a highly skilled, specially trained piece of equipment. We need to give him structure so he can focus on what’s important. We’ve been refining the process over the past few iterations, and we think it’s fairly easy to replicate.”
The Asset is barely breathing. Brock has seen headless bodies with more color to them.
“So, we’re going to send him out for a field test. This is a collapsible kennel. It should fit in the back of the van.”
“All right...” Brock licks his lips, considering. Sure, if they rearranged the gun racks...they could probably wedge the cage up next to the jump seats. “What’s the protocol?”
Pierce’s eyes harden. “When the Asset is in his kennel, nobody can touch him. If he doesn’t come out right away when he’s ordered you can drag him out and punish him, but no punishment occurs inside the crate. He should also take his meals there. If you give him a shake, just put it in a Camelbak. And leave the door open every two to three hours. You don’t want him pissing himself inside the kennel.”
“And this will keep him calm.”
“As quiet as a dormouse,” Pierce promises.
Brock has never seen a dormouse, but from the way the Asset is trying to shrink into the kennel floor, he suspects it’s stealthy as fuck.